I am Not My House

 

I am not my house. So don't even think about buying me a blender or a washing machine for Mother's Day. I am not that woman...I salute those who are---power to you and all that. Meanwhile, dearest husband, kindly take yourself to the nearest jewellery store or department store (the vanity aisle) or leather goods maker (Brazilian leather to be sure) and stay clear of Miele, Panasonic, Van Bosch or whoever. Again, I am not the one.

This is the time of year I like to salute all my mommies. I grew up with my grandmother and aunts. I spent time with my mother but she died while I was in my teens. But I was not short of motherly guidance, love, straight talk and shoulders to cry on. Between my aunts, my teenage boyfriend's mom, the moms of my classmates, my teacher-moms and the many mothers I met at work and even now when I travel for work, I  think myself very fortunate.

 

I spent a grand total of 1 hour and 45 minutes between labour and delivery. She weighed 1.2 kilos. And I have decided that for all this hard work (yes, I am perfectly aware of the fact that my labour was a day at the spa in comparison to other women's...) I deserve all the glitter, bling and diamonds. O.K. fine, I'll settle for a leather band watch, a ticket to see Trevor Noah when he comes to Brussels, and all the pretentious chocolates Pierre Marcolini can spare. Good things come in small packages, right? Rebecca Minkoff, Marc Jacobs, Valentino, Tory Burch, Furla and Kate Spade. They'll do just as well too.