Last Sunday I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I bought my mum flowers.
On Mother’s Day.
Usually I forget.
A couple of years ago, I nearly forgot my brithday.
My oldest sibling brother and I went the whole hog. Flowers. Massage voucher. Hand-made card.
The flowers for tradition.
The massage for de-stressing. They tell me it’s tough having six kids.
And the hand-made card, complete with accidental water smudge, just cos.
I like to think I rock at crafty things.
In my awesomely hand-made card, I wrote a birthday poem.
I like to think I rock at birthday poems.
To understand this poem I should make a few short statements:
1. My oldest brother lives four hours away from me.
2. My brother has a better memory than me.
3. My brother wouldn’t blink an eye if I told him I wrote an awesome birthday poem in my awesomely hand-made card.
He’d probably just say. ‘Ok. Talk to you later.’
I entitled the poem:
Text said: Hey, it’s Mother’s Day
Can you buy some flowers?
I said: Bro, no problemo
I’ll try to buy some wowers.
Text replied: And while you do
Get her something nice
I said: Mate, know just the thing
To give her day some spice
Text said: Cool, thanks a lot
I said: Bye old chap
And this is how a chat became
A card plopped in your lap.
May you remember important holidays,
xx The Girl In Trousers
P.S. By the way… If you’re wondering, my mum was pretty chuffed to get flowers from her forgetful daughter and is looking forward to her massage.
And my poem?
It rocked her world.