Why I Love Being a Mother - #1 in an Infinite Series

Mother's Day.

A Special Day. For Mothers. Because We Are Special.

It's good, isn't it?

It's one of the things that I like about being a mother. As my son is not with me permanently, there is inevitably a scuffle just before Mother's Day (or Mothering Sunday, as my own mum will insist), whilst said son tries to smuggle in random assorted gifts through the front door, under his dad's supervision.

'Mum, will you go & stand in the kitchen?'

I do. Strategically positioned, so that I can see the antics reflected in the kitchen window. There is rustling, whispering, a bit more rustling, and then thundering footsteps up the stairs. Son returns.

'You know the place where the shower switch is? Where the suitcases are?'

I do indeed. It is the place that I'm going to rent to a vertically & financially challenged person when I fall on hard times.

'Don't go in there'.

I wouldn't dream of it.

I was lucky enough to be woken with breakfast in bed. By a nine year old. This had taken quite a lot of preparation, on both our parts. I thought long & hard about it yesterday. Did I trust him with the toaster? Did I buggery. Could I trust him to get up the stairs with cereal, and more importantly, milk? No, I could not. So what then would be easily managed?

Pain au chocolat would, and stuff the diet. I gave brief instructions last night about how to use the microwave.

'Open the door. Put them in. On a plate. Close the door. Turn the timer thingy to in between 1 and 2 mins. Don't stand in front of it. (Old superstitions die hard) When the timer dings, take them out. Bring to lovely mummy.'

Child's play, you'd think.

I was greeted with his little smiling face, clutching a plate.

'Did you hear that bang?'

No. I did not hear a bang. I felt an earthquake in the week, but I did not hear a bang when my son was unsupervised in the kitchen. Dear God, the house is in ruins. I will need to call the fire brigade. I wonder if the cat has exploded too.

'I think it was when they got so hot that the cellophane exploded.'

Did I remember to tell him to take them out of the cellophane? Apparently not. I'm slightly perturbed that there wasn't molten plastic on them. At least none that I could taste.

Ah well.

Mother's Day. What's not to love?