Last night, I got woken up three times before dawn. Because I’m lucky.
This morning, I spent a significant portion of my time trying to get green marker off my white walls. Because I’m lucky.
I repeated the phrase, ‘put your shoes on’ approximately 25 times in the space of half an hour. Because I’m lucky.
I was pushed to the edge of patience by two tiny dictators who want everything five minutes ago. Because I’m incredibly, mind-bogglingly, odds-defyingly lucky.
Today is a day when mothers are celebrated. Venerated. Held aloft for all to admire. Aren’t we wonderful? Aren’t we selfless? Aren’t we deserving of flowers, and breakfast in bed, and shiny gifts and lunches with views and pampering sessions and compliments?
Yes. Yes, we are. But today, while everyone is telling me I am special, what I’m going to try to remember is that I am fortunate.
Today is difficult for many, many people. It’s difficult for people whose mothers are gone. It’s difficult for people who desperately want to be parents but who aren’t. It’s difficult for people whose own mothers are far from the sainted, supportive stereotype that will be everywhere you look today. And it’s difficult for people who have lost children. Who are mothers, but are missing a person who should be there today.
There’s no holiday for the woman who’s 35 and her partner has just left her. There’s no card for the unspoken misery of miscarriage. There’s no balloon inscribed with the right words for the couple who have just endured another unsuccessful IVF cycle.
And I, like all the lucky mothers, need to remember that, as I talk about how I need a break, how tired I am, what a tough life I have, how much I need today’s lie-in.