They don’t warn you. They don’t say it will happen to you, but we cannot tell you when. They don’t say expect it, embrace it, for God’s Sake, treasure it.
They don’t tell you that slowly but surely there is an easing of the burden on her shoulders on to yours. A blurring of the roles we have assumed so long we know no other way.
Tell me this, is it a given that when we give birth to our own children we forsake the right to be a child ourselves? Do our new burgeoning, precious maternal feelings wrap their arms around everything we hold close, all those we hold most dear? Is it only right that one day we find ourselves gently mothering our Mothers?
I get a little scared. Without good reason probably. I look at her now and want to tumble back twenty seven years. To be seven years old again. Holding her hand as we walk back from school. Eating Marie
Today I want to wrap her up. Take care of her. Blow her troubles away. I want to make the whole world alright. To be the kind of Mother she is, for her, to her, because of her.
So this is a Thank You. For every scraped knee and broken heart you ever fixed for me Mum. For every roast dinner you ever cooked, ever tear you ever shed. For everytime you made me laugh through my sob’s.
For the certainty of home.
And more than that, this is a promise. That when you cry I will be there to tell you terrible jokes. That I will always worry whether you are warm enough: will remind you to wear a cardigan or take a coat. That there will always be a can of Coke in the fridge . That if your ears ache it is ok to ring me in the middle of the night. That should there ever come a day when there is only 20p in your purse I will be there with bags of Marks and Spencers food, a Maureen Lee
Happy Mothers Day.