By Molly Lynch

Last updated at 15:09, Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Molly Lynch

MY poor mother has put up with a lot from me over the years.

Whether it was being faced with a permanent scowl from me during my turbulent teens, or more recently being woken up at 3am on a Sunday morning and answering the door to a drunken mess because I had forgotten my key.

Her unconditional love knows no bounds.

Words cannot begin to describe how wonderful she is. She always knows where the hairdryer is, and always has my favourite pyjamas freshly washed and ironed when I’ve worked the weekend.

No matter how many times I’ve fallen out with friends, or despaired at the state of my love life, she has always offered a reassuring shoulder to cry on.

While most daughters would never let their mothers buy them clothes, I can actually admit that my mother has far better taste than my own.

And even though Mother’s Day was a complete let-down on Sunday, my mum didn’t let it show. What a trooper.

This year, I hit a new low. My hedonistic, devil-may-care lifestyle often means that, less than two weeks after payday, I am, to put it delicately, on the bones of my backside.

And this month was no different. By the time Mother’s Day came around on Sunday, I literally had a couple of quid to my name. Last week I actually celebrated after finding 23p in one of my coat pockets.

I did manage to club together enough money to buy her a nice box of chocolates and a card, but it was nowhere near enough. I felt like a useless daughter.

She managed to eat the whole box in a day, and insisted she didn’t need anything more, yet I still felt a sharp pang of guilt as I watched her scoff the chocolates.

I toyed with the idea of penning a poem for her, but couldn’t think of enough words to rhyme with ‘mam’ (having already used ham, jam and Spam).

I suppose I could have made her something, but I lack basic domestic skills. I can’t cook, clean, sew, or anything along those lines. I blame my mother.

I could pretend that I am taking a stand against commercialism, but that’s just a word cheapskates use to attempt to justify their miserly ways.

Still, at least uni-boy (otherwise known as my hapless brother) made me look better by sending a measly Mother’s Day text.

After hearing hellish stories from my friend, who is a trainee midwife, and watching that hideous fly-on-the-wall delivery room documentary One Born Every Minute on Channel 4, I have more respect for my mother than ever.

Anyone who can endure what I can only describe as the sheer horror of giving birth and still look at their offspring lovingly when they’re 13-years-old, slamming the door in their face and shouting ‘I hate you!’ is worthy of more than a medal.

If I ever actually decided to put myself through the ‘miracle’ of childbirth (highly unlikely), I would want every day to be Mother’s Day – never mind once a year.

Even though my dear mother would never dream of playing the childbirth card, I have resolved to try to show her I love her each and every day, not just on Mother’s Day.

Maybe I could begin by starting to iron my own clothes.

First published at 13:15, Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Published by http://www.nwemail.co.uk