Mother’s Day Madness

It was Mother’s Day, the annual celebration of all mums worldwide. Except the morning weather didn’t seem to agree. Big, fat raindrops fell on the ground in a rhythm that would make any drummer proud.

Timmy shut the windows. He wanted to do something for his mum. Something that would make her smile so bright the sun would feel inadequate. He tiptoed into the living room, only pausing to push open the door to his mum’s bedroom. Soft snores greeted him, in tune with the rising and sinking of her chest.

Timmy quietly slipped out of the house the same way he slipped on his raincoat. The ripples he made interrupted his reflection in the puddles. He could see a line of umbrellas from a distance. Children and husbands formed a long queue that ran along the length of the street. It was surprising to see nearly the entire suburb awake at six. Timmy joined them and counted red umbrellas to pass the time.

“One carnation per person !” The mayor boomed into a megaphone. Timmy beamed at the bag of flowers hanging on the city leader’s arm. The boy tried pronouncing ‘car-nay-shun’, he earned a pat on the head and a pink flower.

“Be sure to give it to your mother, kid,” the mayor bent down, “Lord knows she’s determined to raise you completely by herself. If anyone deserves a superb day, it’s her.” Timmy took a whiff, the flower smelled pleasant.

When Timmy got home, he put the carnation inside a plastic water bottle conveniently found lying around. He fetched the toaster and slid in two pieces of bread he bought on the way back. The boy grabbed a plate and positioned it at an angle from the toaster. Ping! The slices popped out from the appliance before they landed on the plate.

With that done, Timmy looked around the house. The clothes on the balcony caught his eye. He layered up, then pushed open the sliding door. In an instant, he shivered as the cold water splattered on his face and hands while the wind blew his hair into his eyes. Humming to himself, Timmy stripped the clothes off the hangers before he piled them onto the couch. The boy folded all the clothing items after he slid the balcony door shut. He wiped both hands on his sleeves as he sorted the clothes.

Timmy wondered what he should do next when he heard the tap run. The answer came to him in a heartbeat. He heard footsteps coming from the bathroom.

“Morning mama,” he greeted.

“Good morning, Timmy.” His mum glanced at the food, “Is that for me ?”

Timmy stood up straight like an artist presenting his work at a gallery. His mother slid into a high-backed chair. She bit into a piece of toast-

“Oh my god!” His mum spat. Her face twisted as she gargled her mouth with water, “Where d’you buy it from ?”

“The supermarket,” Timmy took a bite and grimaced. He immediately whipped out the packaging as he forced a swallow. The expiration date was yesterday.

“Uhh… the bread turned bad,” Timmy muttered.

“No worries,” his mum reached for the fridge, “we’ll have last night’s leftovers.”

Timmy whistled while he emptied the laundry basket into the machine. He recalled how his mum usually does it, then poured a spoonful of washing powder into the compartment drawer, twisted a dial, and punched a button. The washing machine did the rest.

“Hello ?” He heard his mother speak, “Boss, right, of course. I will send the documents right away…” His mother worked from home for as long as he could remember.

Timmy moved on to his next task – vacuuming. Surprisingly, he was good at it. All he had to do was walk around the house with the nozzle in his hand. He went from the living room to his mum’s bedroom to his own to the bathroom and back where he started.

His mother was rapidly writing an email on her laptop. She looked up and her jaw dropped, “Timmy … What is this?”

His mother pointed at the floor. At the trail of dust leading directly to the vacuum machine. The dust container was not installed properly.

“Alright,” his mother placed her hands over her face, “get me the broom and dustpan, won’t you? I’ll put the vacuum back.” Timmy did what he was told.

“And try not to make any more messes,” she added.

Timmy decided to stay put with Disney Plus. So he plopped on the couch and played the newest episode of his favourite show.

His mum joined him later. She sat down beside him. Her brows nudged towards each other as she expectantly glanced at him, “Why is the couch wet ?”

She ran her hand over the damp patch, “What did you spill-the clothes are soaked!”

Timmy couldn’t hide his cringe. He had forgotten to check if the clothes on the balcony were completely dry before he took them inside.

“I’ll just have to hang them outside again,” his mother pinched her brows.

“Sorry, mum,” Timmy fiddled with the hem of his shirt, “it won’t happen again.” He paused the episode.

“Did you do the laundry ?” She demanded. Her son nodded slowly in limited movements.

“I hope you did it right,” his mother sighed to the heavens.

The boy followed his mother as she trooped to the washing machine. All the clothes tumbled on the ground when she yanked open the door. Soapy liquid swept across the tiles. There was not a single white article to be seen.

“That is enough, Timothy!” She was shouting now, ticking off her fingers, “You mixed the whites with the colours, you left wet clothes on the couch, you bought stale bread, you left dust everywhere! I've had enough!”

“But …” Timmy’s lip wobbled, “… what about the flower I got ?” His eyes felt hot all of a sudden.

“What flower ?” His mother jabbed an index finger at the pink carnation, “You mean the plastic ones they distribute on the streets ?”

Timmy’s face fell. He had watered the blossom. He felt his eyes water. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say.

“You can’t do a single thing properly!” His mother continued yelling, “I don’t know what to do with you!”                                                                                                                                         

“Okay,” the boy turned around before tears could slip down his face. “I’m sorry,” he reiterated.

There was something about the birds that made him feel better. Watching them land on the balcony rail, walk up to the scattered bird speed, and peck at their meal. Not to mention the fascinating way their yellow crests rise and lower. There was something timeless about it. Timmy stroked their white feathers. It felt good.

‘Timmy ?” His mum scooped him into a hug, “I’m so sorry for being ungrateful. You’ve worked really hard to help me. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. Thank you.”

“No mama,” Timmy said into her embrace, “thank you for everything.” The white birds collectively scattered in all directions. Timmy thought they looked like angels disembarking after a holy intervention.

“I’m going to teach you how to do the chores tomorrow,” she whispered, “so you’ll be able to do them yourself.”

“Do I have to, mama ?”

“Yes, Timmy.”