It’s my birthday. I, like many other knitting mums I’m sure, approach days like today with a day dream about a lie in, a relaxing breakfast, and a pile of lovely presents, (all indie dyed sock yarns and the like). Instead I’ve had standard morning – tea from a pot though – bonus! Presents which the kids took off me and started playing with straight away. I dropped my daughter off at nursery ( minus ten mumming points for putting her in wellies, now they’ll have to find shoes for her from the ones they keep there – who knew? She runs around in wellies all day at home more than happy. Does anyone else feel like nursery drop off is actually some kind of game you keep getting wrong cause no one’s written down the rules?) Drop off done though. Little man still with me but I thought I’d treat myself to a cup of tea and a bit of cake, that’ll make the day more birthdaylike. This is something I’ve been dreaming of doing since we’ve moved cause there’s a cafe in my way back home, I’ve resisted till now cause I’m trying not to eat too much cake. So I wheel my placid and well balanced son into the cafe and order. Well you can guess what’s about to happen. He has a meltdown the like of which I haven’t seen. Tea and cake arrive and I look at at it sadly, take two sips and a bite and then prepare to make a run for it. Then my six year old self starts whispering in my ear, ‘its your birthday, your day, it should be all about you. Let him cry he might stop (this never happens). Eat your cake, drink your tea.’ which I do. It wasn’t a pleasant experience and I’m rather sorry I used up the calories on it. Other tables of customers nearby sat staring unapologetically at me wondering why I wasn’t doing something to stop it, one lady actually craning round the counter to get a better look – it’s a kid crying, kids cry, what’s to bloody see? The cafe owner kept trying to catch eye, not sure why, possibly to shot me a look of understanding solidarity, but I suspect not. I sat and stared at the menu, trying to channel some of that nonchalace that people have when they’re dogs pooing and theyre obviously not going to pick it up. I (accidentally) slammed the door on the way out and standing outside the cafe, little man stopped crying. He’s asleep now. I’ve never felt so jangled in my life and I think I need a day off from this mumming lark, just one, but to be honest organising the logistics of that make me feel exhausted even thinking about it.