This is a lightbulb moment for me. I just thought that I was exhausted by 23 years of motherhood and sheer hard work, both physical and emotional.
When someone upthread said they had lost interest in cake making, I laughed out loud. I used to love baking, I've got so many recipes covered in pen where I've made tweaks so the sponge is perfect for my little darlings. Now, I'm resentful that I'm stuck making dinners for six foot tall children. Sometimes, I don't even eat with them, last night I ate a ready meal in the kitchen, alone.
I don't regret the years I slavishly devoted to my children, I'm happy that I gave them as much as I physically had to give. But now, I do wonder what was the bloody point of it all? If I'd spent the school holidays on the sofa watching daytime TV and ignoring them, rather than making packed lunches and tearing off to a bleak, windy castle with a rounders set for the whole day - would the outcome really have been that different?
I love them, I'm proud of them. But so far, none of them have set the world on fire so why did I flog myself half to death with after school clubs, tutors and amazing birthday parties? What was it all for, what's the end result?
And now, I've got nothing left of myself to give to anyone. I feel empty and a bit conned but I can't blame anyone but myself.
How does this work when grandchildren come along, I wonder?