(From The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy, by Fiona Neill.)
Then I remember what it is I have forgotten. Sam's "Six Great Artists of the World" project has to be handed in this morning. Three down, three to go.
... Down in the kitchen I assess the situation while searching for paintbrushes and paint ...
I must be making more noise than I think, because during the course of this flurry of activity, Tom [the husband] wanders into the kitchen.
"I've got to do Van Gogh, Jackson Pollock and Matisse," I say, waving tissue paper in his face, "all by eight o'clock."
"What are you doing, Lucy? Go back to bed ... You're having some kind of nightmare about abstract painting," he says.
... "Sam has an art project. He's done half of it, but luckily I remembered that the rest has to be handed in today. And if Sam doesn't finish this, then it is me who will be held responsible."
"But Sam isn't finishing it, you are doing it for him."
"It's quicker and less messy this way. If he were involved it would never get done. Most importantly, if he doesn't hand it in, that means I have failed as a mother."
"Lucy, that is ridiculous, nobody judges you for something like this."
I put down the paints and take a deep breath.
"That is where you are wrong. If Sam fails, it is a reflection on me. It's just the nature of mothering in the new millenium," I say, jabbing a paintbrush in the air to illustrate my point.