This Mother’s Day, following hot on the heels of this International Women’s Day, I’ve decided I don’t particularly want to be a Strong Independent Woman anymore. International or otherwise.

Like many Mothers, I’m sick of being strong – of coping. Of carrying on. Of being congratulated for keeping lots of balls in the air or things on my plate, when what I’d really like isn’t flowers, or chocolates, or random toiletries (that’d probably give me a rash/thrush if I actually used them), but for someone to catch a few of the balls, or wipe a few things off my plate, instead.

I think, just for a bit, I’d quite like to be a Feeble, Heavily Supported, Local Puddle.

Or perhaps a Blancmange.

I feel like I could really put the Bleugh into Blancmange (said properly, not like it’s spelled).

First of all, it’s just a great, GREAT word. And I feel like it’s weirdly onomatopoeic for this point in my life. People who don’t enjoy the shape and feel in their mouths of saying the word Blancmange are frankly, Bleugh-wrong.

Plus, the Blancmange enjoyed its heyday in the 80s, a situation I very much identify with…

It’s also almost entirely made of sugar, and EXPECTED to be pink and jiggly, without judgement, which sounds like something I can really get behind, too.

Finally, it does not have to hold itself up and maintain its own structural integrity: it can flollop at will, and takes the form of whatever harder, firmer vessel is holding it – possibly a rabbit mould. (Surrounded by lime jelly grass, obvs).

Being passive and gelatinous and allowing someone else to shape my destiny and make my decisions sounds pretty damn good at the moment.

So today, Mothers, I hope you get to be a Blancmange. I hope you get to put down everything you hold up, just for a bit, and rest in a mould of some kind, resplendently wibbly.

Because all of us need to be able to wobble, sometimes, under the impossible pressure of being everything to everyone, keeping everything in mind, everything ticking over, everyone on an even keel. All of us melt down, sometimes, before we pull ourselves back together, try again, woman up. Re-form. Un-mange.

This Mother’s Day, rest, if you can, like an 80s dessert. Feel free to let it all slide. Gloop. Smell of strawberries. (An inevitable consequence of the crap smellies you will inevitably be gifted).

And if you CAN maintain your own structural integrity, go forth and be the rabbit mould for a Mum you know.

It’s what she really wants.

And deserves.

Xxx