When you have young children, Mother’s Day is much like any other day. There were sloppy kisses and heart-swelling smiles, declarations of grand, eternal love, and handmade gifts galore (this year I received a bath bomb and a cucumber in a painted pot). There was the screaming fit that lasted the 45-minute walk to lunch, the veal shop that never got eaten, the wrestling match with the stroller as I tried to shove it in a taxi to flee a downpour, constant bickering, whining, and through it all, aches and chills from the cold I am fighting. My mum, who I never get to spend Mother’s Day with, and who is here for a week while Jason travels for work, was Florence Nightingale meets Tina Fey. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t the loveliest day for you,” I said to her while scraping dog poo off the sole of Antimo’s shoe. She barely blinked, she was too focused on building Antimo’s Ninja lego castle. After I put them all to bed, and told them I loved them 347 times, (because the chaos and mess of the day always evaporates when you see them asleep) I came downstairs and sat next to my Mum and we watched a film and ate yogurt for dinner. It was just like any other day –– forgettable, regrettable, memorable and amazing.