Making Mum’s Day...
There was always a friendly rivalry between my twin and me over our Mother’s Day gifts
There’s always been a certain rivalry between me and my twin sister, Shelley. Probably because we’re as different as chalk and cheese. Mum and Dad used to joke that one of us must have got mixed up at the hospital, though they never actually said which one.
Shelley excelled at everything: English, maths, sport and art. It was like she’d taken all the good things for herself.
I never really minded. She was my sister, after all.
But there was one day each year when her expertise did really bug me – when, just for once, I wanted to excel and make the best thing possible.
That was Mothering Sunday. “What are you making Mum this year, Jen?” she asked practically as soon as Christmas was over.
Mothering Sunday was a big day in our family. Gran and Grandpa lived with us. And, back in the days when Gran’s mum was around, Mothering Sunday consisted of a chain of gifts from one generation to the next, and a get- together as exciting as Christmas itself.
“I’ll knit something this year,” I remember stating confidently when I was 11.“Maybe a tea cosy.”
“Oh, good idea!” Shelley enthused. “I could embroider a little tray cloth and then we can take her breakfast in bed.”
As usual, my cheerful yellow tea cosy was more of a muddle than the marvel I’d hoped for.
Shelley’s neatly embroidered tray cloth put my offering to shame.
“Wonderful,” Mum enthused.“so useful to have plenty of holes to put the spout and handle through. I never can find them. And Shelley, absolutely beautiful.”
Later that afternoon, when we were having tea, Tim from next door called round to ask if his mum could borrow some sugar.
He spent some time gazing at my handiwork.
“Is it a yellow hedgehog?” he asked.“or a haystack? Because, if so, I’d quite like one for my toy farmyard.”
Mum was always delighted with whatever we made, praising us both.
Over the years my frustration that my efforts never came near Shelley’s gave way to a sort of tickle that started deep down inside, rising to a giggle and ending with us falling about laughing as we compared our end results.
It wasn’t a contest, but still, just once, I wished I could be the winner. “Never mind,” Grandpa would say.“shelley takes after your gran, able to turn her hand to anything. You’re like me, needing to work a bit harder.”
Then he would give a sigh as he surveyed the shelf which wasn’t quite straight, or the coffee table which wouldn’t stop rocking.
Time passed and Shelley left for university and a high-flying career, while I stayed at home and got married.
Suddenly it was Mothering Sunday again, but this time with a difference.
“I knew you could do it,”tim proclaimed after I’d been in labour for several hours.“i knew you had it in you to produce something perfect.”
We gazed at our tiny daughter, perfection on a plate, all of my creative energies coming together and producing the most marvellous thing in the world, with no need to ask anyone to help put my muddle right.“well done!” Grandpa exclaimed later.“i’ve made her a rocking-horse, but your dad might have to take a look at it.”
Gran produced a beautifully knitted set of baby clothes, and Shelley a delicately crocheted shawl.
“You’ve done it again,” she whispered.
“Done what?” I asked.
“Made the best thing.” She grinned. “You always made the best present. Oh, mine were textbook perfect, perhaps, but I envied yours because they were so unique.”
As her words started to sink in they all began waving goodbye. Then Tim popped out to the café, leaving me with Mum.
“Well done, love,” she said, holding little Emily and looking close to tears. She put Emily into her cot and began searching through her bag.
“I’ve brought you something,” she declared eventually, producing a crumpled-looking parcel.“i made it myself.”
As I unwrapped the parcel, it dawned on me that this was the first time I’d ever remembered Mum making anything. She always bought all her presents.
I pulled away the wrapping, to reveal…
“Um, it’s lovely, Mum,” I began hesitantly.“but if you don’t mind me asking, what is it?”
The toy was knitted in pale yellow wool and had what looked like five legs, although, at a guess, one of them must have been a tail.
It had ears, possibly cat-like, eyes sewn in black stitching and the wonkiest mouth ever, yet it seemed to be smiling.
Despite its distinctly odd appearance, I knew it was something Emily would love for ever.
“It’s a cat,” Mum began tentatively, “but the legs went all out of proportion to the body, and the tail looks more like a dog’s.”
Suddenly that tickle began deep down inside, erupting into a giggle, and Tim returned to find us laughing hysterically.
After one astonished look at what I was holding, he joined in.
“My goodness,” he spluttered eventually.“no offence, but it reminds me of that haystack tea cosy thing Jen made once.”
“Now you know why I always buy my presents,” Mum said eventually. “I didn’t want you to think you took after me and give up. You always tried so hard.
“I made Gran and Grandpa promise not to say anything.”
She sighed.“i wanted you and Shelley to think I was perfect, just like I’ve always thought you two were.”
“And meanwhile, all those years, it was my one and only ambition to make you the best Mother’s Day present ever,” I admitted as I wiped my eyes.
A thought struck me.
“It’s Mothering Sunday, and with all that’s been going on I haven’t had time to…”
“Haven’t you?” She turned to gaze at Emily.“i loved every single thing you made, just as much as Shelley’s, but this year I think you’ve achieved your ambition, without a doubt.” I squeezed her hand.
“And thanks for the cat-dog. She’s going to love it as much as I do.”
As I placed the toy at the bottom of Emily’s cot, I realised that, no matter how much of a muddle a gift might be, if it’s made with love it’s always a winner.
It’s a cat, but the legs went out of proportion and the tail looks more like a dog’s