This week the girls and myself have been visiting my mum. Mostly because I’ve still got stuff at her place but also because she cooks us food that would make Paul Hollywood say “I think that’s too much butter, don’t you?”
(Well breakfast IS the most important meal of the day)
You got to love being spoiled a little bit. As an adult with kids it’s rare that someone makes food for you while you read a good book. It’s rarer still that they don’t expect payment and slip you a tenner as you leave.
(Usually there’s a happy ending)
It’s good to visit your old family home but it’s also a bit stressful. Old criticisms come up and no matter how old you get your parents will always see you as a child.
My mum constantly tries to tell me how to look after my own kids. I like to remind her they have reached 6 and 8 without any permanent physical or emotional scarring and their clothes are bought from a shop rather than a costume rental store. My favourite bits of advice always have “but it didn’t do you any harm” at the end of them. I’m 20 stone, I was 23. I’m not suggesting that it was all mum’s fault but she was the woman that buttered my Yorkshire puddings.
(It’s just puppy fat. I ate three great danes, four golden retrievers, a saint Bernard and a French poodle)
I know she does it all through love and now I’m a parent I can empathise with our mother/son relationship. I have realised we are more similar than I could have ever appreciated.
(She loves a good lemur)