The Mother's Day Reality

My Mother's Day last year ...

7am: "Can I have breakfast mum?"

7.10am: "MUM. Can I have breakfast?"

7.15am: Drag myself out of bed looking like wild wonga woman. Black mascara smudged under eye. Hair like a scarecrow.

7.20am: Make bacon butties for sons. Attack the mighty pile of washing. Start cleaning.

10.15am: Stop cleaning to take son number two to football training and son number one to football match. Both at opposite ends of town. Car is making funny noises again.

12-ish: Gather boys back from footie and stare in horror at two pairs of football boots caked with enough mud to keep a Turkish spa going for a year... not to mention the bedragled kits. More washing.

Just past 12-ish: Make lunch before attacking mud on boots.

12.45pm: Still cleaning boots...

1pm: Quick cuppa before the ironing, washing sorting. Endless trips with assorted soaks, trousers, boxer shorts and footies shirts to different rooms in house. Put away my one item in the washing, a single pair of knickers.

3pm: Still sorting washing and ironing...

4pm: Start making dinner and shout "have you got any homework lads?"

4.15pm: Start homework. Battle through French verbs and help son number two write a speech about his favourite hobby, football.

5pm: Start to feel ridiculously tired. Sort schoolbags and uniforms for the next day.

6pm: Finally sit down on sofa for a bit but notice everywhere needs dusting. Get cloth...

7pm: Friend (minus children) rings to tell me she's spent the day in Brum buying loadsa clobber. I stifle a yawn.

8pm: Bedtime for boys - and me. I can't wait!

8.30pm: Cuddle both my boys and chat for ever about nothing in patrticular. Love this time. Love them.

9pm: Nod off thinking that Mother's Day... is just another day.
But I wouldn't swap my kids for the world.