Can I just say right off, I love being a mother. I do. It’s not that I couldn't wait to grow up to have babies of my own or anything, but I always knew when the time was right, I wanted children. I thought maybe I would have two but we have three of them, all girls. My poor husband despairs of all the pink in the house.
My girls are all perfect, all three of them. I now feel what I hope my own mother felt when I brought home hand-drawn Mother’s Day cards proclaiming her the best mum in the world. I know I’m probably not the best mum in the world, but I know that for my girls there isn't anyone better. If they fall over, and let’s face it we usually have at least two grazed knees in our house at any time, it’s me they cry for. When I’ve told them off, they look eagerly for me to forgive them and make it all better.
I didn’t notice it happen at first, it was just little things. Taking their coats off to feel the warmth when they went back outside was just common sense. I didn't expect Rosie’s hair to curl but I did think leaving the sandwich crusts was wasteful. And who would want to see chomped up fish finger as Evie sang along to Barbie Girl?
I checked myself and didn’t say they would end up with piggy-snout faces if the wind blew and nor did I say starving children in any part of the world should be sent Liv’s dinner when she refused to eat it. I felt uncomfortable when I found myself licking a tissue to wipe chocolate ice cream from three cute faces, especially because I always hated how warm it felt, but not in a good way like a morning flannel.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I admitted to my husband after the girls had gone to bed. He looked at me and said, “Sometime when you open your mouth, your mother comes out.”
Shortly after that, my husband understood why Dad sometimes ate his meals in the garden shed.