The Mother


It would be doing a disservice to my mum if I adhered to the clichés of that umbilical bond and called her my best friend. That she is, however, she is also otherwise known as “Superwoman”.

By day, she is a five foot short, inoffensive little lady.  By night, she is a fearless little pocket rocket with the ability to give Nikki Minaj a run for her money on the dance floor. She is, quite simply, one of a kind.

I know for a fact that she will organise my entire wedding to military precision the way that she wants it. She’ll drive me crazy fussing over my first-born. She frowns when I recall exciting tales from traveling that involve too much tequila and she will forever believe that even the longest of maxi skirts are too provocative.

But she’s not all bad. We spend hours dancing around the kitchen to music that she really shouldn’t know. We can spend an unheard of amount of time nursing two skinny cappuccinos on sunny afternoons. I talk to her about everything from dates and break-ups to uni and make-ups. And for everything that I censor orally, she finds out on here anyway. So to love me despite knowing everything about me, she has to be pretty special.

So mother, marge, rhino or mum…

I know I owe you thousands of pounds, I am aware that I leave wet towels on the floor, my room is a mess and I moan constantly about not having my dream job.

But all I can say is that when I finally grow up and you’re all old and wrinkly, I’ll show you how grateful I am whilst changing your bed pan. For the fifth time that day.

Thanks for being the best.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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