Guest blogger the infamous NDM contemplates Mothers day. That's Not Drowning Mothering . . . for those not in the know. IT REALLY IS THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS Remember that age old saying “It’s the thought that counts”? Apparently, as mothers, we’re meant to apply that double. We’re meant to smile and drink the cold tea and eat the square of charcoal that the kids are passing off as toast and proclaim it to be “Delicious!” and “The Bestest Breakfast Ever!”. We’re expected to “ooh and aahhh” over the lipstick holder ‘Made in Chian’ (a neighbouring country to China, apparently) with the words ‘LOVELY MAKEUP JOY FUNTIME GIRL!” emblazoned across it in hot pink and give pride of place on the mantlepiece to the pasta shell-encrusted mirror made at kindergarten, along with that card lovingly hand-written by your child’s kindergarten teacher. I don’t know about you but the words ‘Dear Mummy’ written to me in another adult’s hand kind of gives me the creeps. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the thought. In fact, I’m absolutely crazy about the thought. It’s just that... well, it would be nice if that thought could occasionally be extended a little further than the $2 shop. One year, I actively encouraged such ‘thought extension’ by insisting my son, who had asked for $2 to spend at the Mother’s Day stall at school, take $5 “just in case”. Turns out the “just in case” was a “just in case you get a chance to spend the $3 change on icy poles for you and your friends”. Who knew? Still, the thought of my son being the Most Popular Boy in his class with his “Zooperdoopers on me, boys!” attitude, should have been enough for me, right? And yes, yes it was. But still... I guess I can’t really talk. As a child, I gave my father handkerchiefs every single birthday, Christmas and Father’s Day long after I was old enough To Know Better. And perhaps that’s where the thought comes into its own. The thought that one day my own daughter might get her own pair of electric blue feather earrings from her child which she’ll be forced to wear on special occasions. Or better still, the thought that early one Sunday morning in about 13 years’ time, I’ll drag my kids when they’re hungover like bastards out to a café and force them to buy me breakfast for mothers day . . . now thats a thought worth holding on to.