WHOSE DAY IS IT ANYWAY?

I could hear whispering and giggling outside the door. The children had clubbed together and were making a deputation to me in the bathroom. Before I could shout, “Can’t I even pee alone?” one of them said…

“Mum, what we want to know is – if you could have anything for Mother’s Day, what would it be?”

To answer it was fraught with problems. Say the wrong thing and they’d all be upset. Maybe they had already made me something and were testing to see if I wanted it. Not being a great believer in huge fusses over birthdays etc, I’m relatively easy to please. I knew it couldn’t cost money, as they don’t have any; occasional pocket money is spent the second it’s given. Homemade cards always go down well, a kiss and some flowers, but which should I say?

I told them I’d think about it and tell them later. After some consideration, I realised that if I could have anything at all on Mother’s Day it would be a day of complete peace and quiet. To be alone all Sunday in an empty house, with no meals to cook and something good to read, I could do the garden and wax my legs. Unfortunately, saying my best sort of day would be one “without any of you lot” is hardly entering into the spirit of the occasion. So I opted for the cheesy line – “anything you’ve made would be lovely.”

“It’s better than that,” they chorused. “We’re going to do all the housework and cooking on Mother’s Day. You can just lie in bed.”

Hmm, I thought, some TV programme has a lot to answer for here. I couldn’t think of anything worse than lying in bed listening to the house crumbling to pieces around me. The children gave me a full menu of the day’s culinary events; it began with breakfast in bed and ended in homemade muffins for tea. In my mind’s ear I could hear every saucepan being pulled from the cupboard, every fight over who would do what and taste every strange mouthful.

I didn’t want to hurt their feelings nor rain on their parade: rare are the moments when all three of them are bonded together in mutual excitement. Of course I am deeply touched by their sweetness but I decide to bite the bullet, saying…

“Breakfast in bed would be lovely, but let’s persuade Dad to take us to the pub for lunch, shall we?”

Bobby said, “Can we have Coca Cola?” Max said, “Could we still make muffins?” Flo said, “You never let us do anything.”

Keeping two out of three happy isn’t bad, and hopefully I’ll have plenty of time to potter about when I’m old and grey.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's previous diary