#KILLFATHERSDAY

I'm watching my children perform a touching and entirely spontaneous act of love and admiration for their mother, presenting her with an assortment of thoughtful gifts and cards. Only they didn’t buy them, I did. And I’m watching them through the sites of a sniper rifle trained at their pretty little heads, which was the only way I could persuade them to take five minutes out of their terribly busy schedules to do something for someone else for a change.

My wife expertly feigns both surprise and delight, pretending not to notice the little red dot that darts back and forth between their foreheads.  She comments on the fine workmanship of the hastily thrown together card they made him make in art class - probably at gunpoint too. Afterwards the cards, flowers and chocolates are arranged in a fetching display on the mantlepiece, where they remain as a tribute to the fact that we have once again negotiated our way through the emotional minefield that is Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day: a conflation of two antiquated and equally irrelevant traditions. The first, Mothering Sunday, dates back to the sixteenth century (yes, that recently) and involved returning to your ‘mother church’ (note: not ‘mother') on the fourth Sunday in Lent. It was a time of prayer, repentance, almsgiving, self denial, penance and atonement - and in that respect it has changed little. The present-day version is definitely being used by someone to punish us for something.

The second, Mother’s Day, was dreamt up by American Anna Jarvis in 1908 (relatively new then) on the death of her mother Anne Reeves Jarvis who selflessly and courageously nursed soldiers on both sides during the Civil War. One wonders who was looking after her kids at the time, but we’ll let that pass. Her daughter obviously didn’t feel aggrieved (but then she didn’t know anything else) and decided it was time for us all to put aside a day each year to honour our mother - ‘the person who has done more for you than anyone else in the world’. My God, imagine how good Mrs Jarvis would have been if she hadn’t been patching up squaddies as well. There would have been be no end to her maternal wonderfulness.

Anyway, dutiful daughter No 1 regretted it two decades later when companies like Hallmark Cards jumped on the bandwagon and started making huge amounts of money out of her invention. Perhaps it was the moment she received her first crappy card and extortionately priced bunch of wilting M&S daffodils that she realised she'd cocked up. But it was too late. This bandwagon - now a veritable juggernaut - was rolling, and future generations would adhere slavishly to her creation, paying out vast sums of cash every year lest anyone thought they didn’t like their mums.

But I don’t blame Anna entirely (although she was obviously a loathsome sycophantic do-gooder who should bloody well have minded her own business instead of dragging the rest of us into this brainless annual charade). But what does bother me is the underlying myth that our children owe us a debt of gratitude. That buying (or leaving Dad to buy) the aforementioned bunch of scrappy double-priced daffodils and cheesy card is the least they can do considering what us parents do for them, day in day out, in an otherwise entirely unrewarded and selfless fashion.

This is plainly nonsense. The truth is we put them here for our benefit, not theirs. It’s not as though we suddenly decided to sacrifice our social lives, leisure time and most of our disposable income to give a good home to some of those as yet unborn orphans who were suffering so terribly in the infinite ghetto of non-existence. No, they were equally happy not to have been born. It was all down to us. 

Because at some point, trundling round the model railway line of life, we came to the set of points leading into the siding of proliferation and found that mother nature had thrown the switch. It was the only way to go, and it felt natural, the right thing to do. It would rejuvenate our relationship, and enrich our lives with depth and meaning. So we took that route. The fact that it led to two decades of relentless tedium and anxiety is beside the point. We coupled, and now we have a train of our own making. It’s not the fault of the trucks (I get the feeling this metaphor’s going off the rails).

So why don’t we just ditch Mother’s Day and give ourselves a break? It’s not as though the mothers amongst us don’t see the artifice. But being artificial doesn’t make Mother’s Day any less potent, or the failure to recognise it any less dangerous. We can’t kick the habit because unless we all do it at once, it simply won’t work. It’s like kids and flu. Vaccinate the odd one and the virus will run rampant through the school. Get them all - or the vast majority - and you’ve a chance of stamping it out. So it is with Mother’s day, because the one thing even the most steely mother cannot tolerate is the idea of being the only mother in the school not to get a crappy card. The only mother in the street not to be treated to a mangy bunch of tulips and half-arsed breakfast in bed. That would hurt way too much. And if anyone found out, what conclusion would they draw? Either that the mother isn’t worthy of a crappy card and so must, therefore, be crappy herself.  Or the children are uncaring psychopaths raised without discipline, sensitivity, or any sense of responsibility. Neither would look good, and there’s one thing you can rely on with us parents. We care what other people think. Particularly other parents.

So I have a plan. It’s too late for Mother’s Day this year, but the runt of the dubious ‘Day’ festivals is yet to come and is ripe for the picking. Yes, Father’s Day - the perfect dry run. We could take it out easily. Think of it, skips of un-bought Father’s Day cards blocking the pavement outside Hallmark and Clintons. Rancid mountains of unwanted novelty socks, mugs and beer kits spilling out of Tesco and M&S carparks. And nobody would give a toss (except the accountants of aforementioned retailers, who can always help themselves to unsold socks, mugs and beer kits if it makes them feel better). Because Father’s Day means absolutely nothing and serves no purpose whatsoever. Other than getting back at mum for Mother’s Day. But that’s okay, because there won’t be any more Mother’s Days. Because once Father’s Day and Valentine’s Day* have fallen, that’ll be next. The big prize. Together we can ensure that Mother’s Day 2015 goes down in history as the last Mother’s Day. Ever.

So fathers of the world, it’s up to us to set the ball rolling. It may not be easy. You may at times be tempted off the straight and narrow by sentimentally institutionalised idiots who tell you it’s just a bit of fun and does no one any harm. But you must remain steadfast in your intent, and focussed on the ultimate goal. You must show the world that it is possible not to be celebrated for no apparent reason by people who don’t really want to celebrate you. That you are bigger and better than Father’s Day could ever give you credit for. 

To help you through I’ve provided a fool-proof, 100% compliant and legally binding Father’s Day Contract of Abstinence - as far as I know the only such contract in existence. So please take it, use it and share it. And when you’ve signed up, use the hashtag #killfathersday to tell the world what you’ve done, so that others may follow your example and take the first step along the road to freedom.

My friends, it’s time to put right what Anna Jarvis put wrong 100 years ago. It’s time to take the first step in freeing ourselves from the yoke of penance, self-denial and atonement that has burdened us this past century. It is time to send a new kind of message to crappy card retailers: we have had enough. To let novelty sock manufacturers know: we won’t wear this any longer. 

It’s time to show the red card to Hallmark.

*Note: rather than abolishing Valentine’s Day entirely I would recommend partitioning the occasion into two separate and distinct entities: ‘I-Want-To-Shag-You-Day' for the under twenties, and ‘Life-In-The-Old-Dog-Yet-Day’ for the over sixties. For the rest of us, forget it.


@jesoverthinksit