Not Mothers Day

I lay in bed thinking. The house was so quiet, my mind was at its most creative, as it always was when I was lying down. I would re-write the first part of my chapter to include a discussion of the term ‘settlement’ and how it first emerged in times when immigrants were expected to fit in and become so Australian as not to be noticeable. I got up to go to my computer. I had composed the paragraph in my head and it finished with the sentence ‘the concept of settlement is now free from the assumptions behind the notion of assimilation’ just when I walked in on my children making breakfast for me and wrapping up presents.

I had forgotten it was Mothers Day. They looked embarrassed and annoyed. I wanted to get to the computer to write but I told them I was tired and going back to bed. I was tired of motherhood and writing. I pretended to be asleep when they walked into the bedroom with a tray of coffee and porridge cooked with bananas and drizzled with Turkish honey. I unwrapped my presents, Isa Bella perfume, Ferrero Roche chocolates and a CD of the Ladies in Lavender soundtrack. I could play that while I write my chapter. Violin playing is very emotional and good brain food. They ate the chocolates.