Mother’s Guilt Day

Mother’s day was a while ago but I still haven’t quite managed to recover.

It’s not that I was up late revelling in my motherhood and sharing a meal and a bottle of champagne – no for me it’s about guilt, pure guilt.

The thing is on the Saturday night I had been out for a friend’s birthday. First we went to the cinema (The King’s Speech, since you ask) then for a civilised and sober (relatively) meal at a posh restaurant in London.

I got back late, you see, so when the kids, unable to contain their excitement, charged into my room and 5:30am to “surprise me” with breakfast, you could say that I found it very easy to conceal my delight, even from myself.

The poor things. They’d put so much effort and energy into the surprise breakfast that they even woke a full three hours earlier than they do on a Sunday morning. And instead of facing up to a beaming and delighted mummy, all they got was the hag from hell being jump-started into an indignant rage.

“Out! Out!” I shouted, emerging from the punctured space of my dreams, where only moments before I’d been swooning in the arms of Colin Firth. “I need some sleep!” Needless to say, there were tears and by the time I was sentient enough to feel guilt, I felt it alright. I was awash with it.

It’s even gone so far that last weekend was spent making it up to the kids. Saturday encompassed both a visit to Peppa Pig World and a trip to see Rio 3D. From Mothers’ Day to Mother’s Guilt Day, all in the space of less than a week.