It’s Mother’s Day – a time to remember my own mum, and wonder how I’ll be remembered by my own children. My mother was the centre of our family, of my world, and when she died aged 54 of cancer in 1987 I behaved rather like a chicken with its head cut off. I ran around in ever decreasing circles, until reality caught up with me. She was an amazing woman, and on the 20th anniversary of her death, I got a few people together who knew her over the years to meet and reminisce over a cup of National Trust tea in Devon, where we used to live, and where she’s buried. I was astounded at how many turned up, or at least sent their apologies.

She was common sense, and love, and great cooking, and warm arms to run to, and tough love when you needed it and praise when you deserved it. I always meant to try to be like her, but somehow never quite managed it. I’m not the mother I meant to be – are any of us as a good a parent as we’d like? This is going to sound horribly trite, but one of my favourite songs of all time is ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ by Abba, of all people. A pop song about the guilt of not doing enough – of wishing time back to make a better fist of it. All with great chords!

Still my children are what they are, and they’re stuck with it, the poor bastards. Douglas is the most like me. He’s inherited my weird sense of humour and love of music (the title of every blog post I do is a song or a lyric), and the reddish hair from my mother’s side of the family, along with the liver. Jo is me on a good day – self-controlled, organised, funny and caring. I could beat myself up about what I have and haven’t done for them, but am just going to have to settle for the fact that neither of them’s in therapy. (Yet.) I’ve been ill with cancer for nearly half their lives, which rather puts a crimp in many plans. But I’ve been allowed the time to see them through the argumentative, selfish teenage years, and hey, which parent would want to have missed that, eh?

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