Mothers Day

How lucky was I to be snuggling under the covers of my super king bed?

This was no ordinary bed. I had spent the last four years in a single bed, in a ‘little girl’s room’. But my boys and I had finally moved into a ‘real’ house: three bedrooms, a little garden and, best of all, my super king bed, complete with a chandelier above. All I needed was the man to swing from it.

This was no ordinary day. It was Mothers’ Day, the one day a year when I am spoilt rotten.

Crispy bacon and poached eggs, with a glass of champagne and orange juice and freshly brewed coffee - in bed. What a treat! But there was more - a bouquet of blood-red roses, wrapped in bright yellow paper. Not the cheap kind you buy at the supermarket – but a real bouquet from a real florist . The smell was divine. And then there was gentle tap at my bedroom door. A woman stood carrying a table. ‘Your massage, Madame.’

About to drift off to sleep as warm oil flowed over my back, I heard them.

‘Mum, he stole the remote.’

‘It wasn’t me. GIVE IT BACK.’

Screaming, whining, squealing, crying.

‘Mum what are you still doing in bed?’

‘We want breakfast. ‘

‘Yeah, and it’s time for soccer.’

I opened my tired eyes and looked outside at the rain and wind battering the windows.

I threw on my sweatpants, grabbed three bananas, heated yesterday’s coffee in the microwave, put on my gumboots and jumped in the car with the boys.

Happy Mothers’ Day!