Its never a good thing to share your dirty laundry with the general public.  At one time this meant not talking to the village gossip at the pump, today it means social media, even if you keep your clothes on.  Be calm, gentle readers, I swear this is still a Trump free zone; read on.

On Mothers’ Day there was an irate post on Facebook from someone complaining very bitterly that they had no cards, or flowers, or chocolates to boast about as their children hadn’t bothered.  Now at the risk of seeming uncharitable – not a line I favour – there are two very negative conclusions that could be drawn.  One – you children haven’t bothered because they don’t like you or they are very selfish people or two – that you are someone who  measures love in material terms.  Doesn’t show you in a very good light, either way.  Certainly not to anyone who couldn’t have children at all.

I may have mentioned before that motherhood is a long, hard road but it does involve a lot of thanks.  Not from your children obviously – they didn’t ask to be here and, during the troublesome teenage years,  will remind you out that given a choice beforehand, you wouldn’t have been their first choice.  Or second.   I recall that the singer from the Pretenders was once used to illustrate a more acceptable alternative.  Whoever she is.

The thanks will come from you, if you’ve got time and you remember.  Thank God the baby’s here safely,  thank God the measles jab didn’t have terrible side effects, thank God they passed their A levels.  It goes on ad infinitum.  And so it should, given the unending list of things there are to worry yourself into a sweat about.  Thank God she didn’t get pregnant as a teenager, he didn’t get hepatitis in Thailand, they didn’t die in some awful road crash.

Now I might not be so sanguine if my sons had forgotten but I had different reasons to be grateful this week.  Elder son bought his girlfriend a book and a really pretty scarf which he used as wrapping paper.  Thank you for my son who has such lovely ideas and is a nice person.  Someone who may not get me chocolates but who never passes a beggar in the street without stopping,

Number two son has been in the Far East but sent a text.  He hated Hong Kong – full of FILTH (Failed in London, Try Hong Kong), the type of dreadful ex-pats that make the 13 hour flight home in economy seem like a tempting idea. And unbreathable dirty air.  However, he loved Tokyo because it was so ‘considered’ and he liked the fonts. No, Smith Minor, not the christening paraphernalia for goodness sake. Graphics, boy, graphics.  Thank you that he has such solid values and a good eye for design.

Mothers Day is a tear jerker when they are five and bring home a crumpled card from school covered in glue and glitter.  At this stage it’s about looking at what they’ve become and perhaps allowing yourself a moment to think that just possibly you haven’t done such a bad job.  Just don’t expect them to say so.