My teenage sons don’t want to hang out with me anymore.
For 17 years, I’ve been a single mum, so the three of us have been Team Z. As their dad was not emotionally or financially reliable, I was always the main character in their lives.
But it seems that overnight, I’ve been demoted to support character and will continue falling down the credit listing.
Yet they will be forever the stars in The Days of My Life.
Watch: Mother's and sons. Post continues below.
Of course, this is natural and if it was any other way, it would be weird because we raise our sons to be independent adults who want to go into the world without their mummy tagging along.
But, bloody hell, it still hurts my heart.
The other day, I sold our ageing camper van because my youngest son, aged 16, kindly patted my hand and told me that our days crammed into the van together were now gone and, fun though our memories were, if we were ever to road trip and camp again, they would be in their own vans.
It seems to have happened so fast.
We celebrate all the firsts in our children’s lives: when they learnt to sit, crawl, walk and talk, ride a bike without training wheels, or the first day at school.
Yet how many of us remember the last time we picked our growing child up out of the bath and snuggled into his damp warm skin? What about the last time your child fell asleep, and you carried him to bed? Do you recall the final time your child crawled onto your lap to cuddle? And what was the last bedtime story book you read to your child?
Already I’ve forgotten the last time I rocked my children to sleep in my arms or swooped them up onto my shoulders to dance around the lounge.
I cried when I noticed they had both grown taller than me.
I cried even more when my eldest son jumped into my arms a few years ago, and I fell over because he was heavy.