The Dublin Pride Parade is on the 28th of June in Ireland. At the end of Pride Month, which now encompasses all of June.
This is – forgive me for being abrupt but it’s true – where all the gays get together and tell themselves how great and gay they are. Do they really need a parade and a whole month for this? We can tell you are gay by the fact you are wearing a feather boa and spend it like Elton John in a flower shop. Truly, please stop shutting down my capital city like an Orangeman in Belfast on the 12th of July.
Why do the gays get an entire parade? And more importantly where is my parade, for being Average Mother of the Year? And Mother’s Day does not count. I want a proper parade, telling me how great I am. I do not want a bank holiday – an extra day where my delightful children are off school. Whoever thought up that trick, which is what St Bridget’s Day is, is a fool. I believe it was one of the feminists. Thanks a bunch for that. What I would like is an extra day where the children are in school. They can do sports if they want. Listen, I never said I was mother of the year.
In fact, where is the Mothers of Ireland Pride Parade? The one that celebrates all of our amazing achievements? How we keep the entire show together and how fabulous we all are? We deserve one.
And don’t bother telling me that the gays must have their parade because of all the oppression they suffered in Evil Old Catholic Ireland. If we listen to the feminists over at the National Women’s Council of Ireland (which as a rule you should ignore) women and mothers in particular also suffered under Evil Old Catholic Ireland. Two can play at that game.
Also my new fandangled Mothers of Ireland Pride Parade has the added bonus of celebrating all seven deadly sins in one fantastic parade! Why limit yourself to just the sin of pride – the deadliest of them all might I add.
Take lust. This is the one that got us into the whole motherhood fandango in the first place. Then the bouncing baby comes along and soon enough pride stalks the land. As we know mothers cannot shut up about how great little Polly is at tennis and Holly at GAA, how fabulous Albert is at playing piano and Victoria is just a whizz at playing camogie, especially now they cleared up that dispute with the skorts. We all know my children are the most fabulous of the lot.
Then you have your sin of sloth. In reality, there is not much sloth down my way once the entire motherhood project took off. You’ve got the laundry, the cooking, the up in the middle of the night feeds, changing the nappies, cleaning up the many, many spills and the endless taxi service to the aforementioned hobbies to carry out. And that’s just on a Monday.
But what we mothers lack in sloth I for one certainly make up for in the form of wrath. In fact all the above mentioned jobs – especially the laundry – are often what triggers the wrath. Why, as I explained before, I have a Michael Douglas Falling Down moment nearly every single day. If I am asked one more time where such and such is I think I might explode. The jumper is wherever you left it.
As for gluttony and greed, I must say I do not commit these very often. Since I banned second helpings of dinner in this house all of my family are saved from the sin of gluttony, Praise be.
That leaves envy. In all seriousness I am blessed to be taking part in the Mothers of Ireland Pride Parade so I do not fall foul of the sin envy that much. That is not to say that now and again when 6pm hits and I am absolutely exhausted (or perhaps slothful) I do not think enviously of the ‘childfree’ and what they might be doing with their evening when I know I still have the dinner, clean up and bedtime to survive. Bedtime is still a long affair with the three year old.
In truth I don’t think I can face reading the Snail and the Whale or the Highway Rat for the 150th time which is why I outsource it to one of the other children. When I think that there are some people out there who are about to embark on anything up to two hours of TV time, can I get envious? Sure. Does it tip over into wrath – absolutely. Not that I would ever waste two hours of my time on planet earth watching TV if it is not with the children. I’d rather play the piano or read a book.
Anyway, usually someone does something cute or helpful or kind and that makes things better. That and a glass of wine. What also makes it better is when I am in my bed at 9:30pm falling asleep with the little one and one of the older children comes in to tuck me in. The irony is never lost on me.
But I will not be falling asleep at 9:30pm on the day of the Mothers of Ireland Pride Parade. No Sir, I will be at the front of the parade in my feather boa and perhaps some sexy apron preparing for a night on the tiles with my fellow mothers singing Rocketman all the way.
I’m thinking Bridesmaids on the way to Vegas or No Mum Left Behind in Motherland. I am Going Big. Pride will look like my children’s Easter Bonnet parade by comparison.