Mothers Day Memories

This Mother's Day will be a little different to those in the past. Two of my children won't be here, at home with me, and already I feel that absence deeply.

One has already given me a gift and sent a card (the other one's a student at Uni so I will be amazed if he realises it's Sunday, never mind Mothering Sunday) and the other five I'm sure will make a fuss of me.  It gets almost embarrassing in church when they all present me with the little posies they make there - there are so many of them I end up with a decent sized bunch of flowers!

I know I am blessed with my larger than average brood and already dread the day when all my baby birds will have flown the nest.

People often think that with a big family you somehow can't love your children as strongly as someone with say, two children. They could not be more wrong. Love does not run out - it grows and I feel almost overwhelmed with love when they are all crowded round the dinner table, or crammed onto our sofas. I am a very proud mum!

Right, Sick bags away. Let me share one of my memories from one Mothering Sunday a few years ago.

 I was woken by much muttering and shuffling and giggling in the doorway where my husband stood with a small crowd of over-excited children who had asked him if they could make me breakfast in bed. Bless him he had only gone and let them.

I was served 2 Weetabix which had about 1fluid oz of milk poured over it about 20 minutes before. It had turned into a tepid gelatinous mound of wallpaper paste. Yum.  Also being served was a pint of orange juice and half a cup of VERY strong tea. With no sugar which renders it undrinkable in my book.

I thanked them profusely and as soon as they left the room I tipped half of the orange juice over the cereal which created a muddy pool of blobby lumps floating in juice which I forced down with the help of large gulps of nasty tea.

I heard them returning upstairs and showed them my empty bowl making a variety of appreciative noises as I tried to swallow the last glutinous lumps. Some of which might have sounded like me gagging but luckily they didn't seem to notice.

Then I notice they had another tray for me - with a mound of burnt toast, minus butter but with the addition of about an inch of jam. I glared at my husband who shrugged. He knows I like my toast lightly done with lashings of real butter and a teeny weeny scraping of jam. Just you wait til Father's Day I thought.

Luckily there was some of the tea left which helped wash down the toast. This time I was watched while I ate- I'm still waiting for my Oscar for "Best performance by a mother when forced to eat food made by her children."

Delighted by my enthusiasm for their lovely treat they enquired if I wanted anything else. I assured them I was full and they departed satisfied their duty was done. I lay quietly for a while pretending to snooze waiting for the nausea to pass while my stomach protested about the lovely meal I had just dumped in it.

It sounds like I am ungrateful but actually although I have had lots of lovely Mother's Day's this one stands out as I remember the pride on their faces as they presented me with breakfast in bed.

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