All this talk of Father’s Day is making this mummy feel rather left out. All those months ago, on a rainy March morning, Craig shoved a bunch of garage-bought flowers in my face along with a hastily-scribbled card (kids names omitted) for Mother’s Day. If I remember rightly, he then went to the pub with his mates to watch Manchester can Spurs, coming home some 5 hours later considerably less effectual then he left.

Any thoughts I had had of a lie-in and few hours watching Sunday Politics, were sadly put paid to by a teething baby and toddler trying (without success) to tell daddy that he wanted to watch Toy Story 3, not Toy Story 2 downstairs. The waft of bacon and eggs being cooked was the final straw. I knew he’d serve it to my two-year-old who would react violently and launch the plate at the wall in protestation (he doesn’t like eggs. Really doesn’t like eggs).

So I shrugged on a jumper over ‘yesterday’s’ bra and knickers and stomped downstairs to restore calm and order. I then proceeded to parent the kids the entire morning, afternoon and evening - sulking the whole way through. My cheeks didn’t see a single swipe of bronzer, and my hair was scraggy for the duration. Given Craig was rendered useless by the evening, we didn’t manage the quickest of quickys either.

So when Eve Mattress asked me this morning what my dream duvet day would look like, it got me thinking how hard done by I was. I was effectively cheated out of Mother’s Day, and by its very definition, I should get it back. I am a Mother after-all. Okay, I’m often a crap one. But a Mother none-the-less.

… So here’s what I intend to do on Sunday 7th June:

Absolutely no housework!

This includes making my own drinks, loading the dishwasher, de-pooing Heidi’s leggings ready for the washing machine, rescuing Rusk crumbs from the sides of the sofa, replacing batteries in toys, putting empty loo rolls out for recycling… everything. Let’s just forget the fact I rarely do these things anyway, on Sunday I definitely won’t be.

Reclaiming my bed / sofa

Oh okay… these two are cute. But I need a day where I don’t have to move sleeping children to get to the remote control. I’m simply fed up of little feet in my face, sharing my pillow with a dribbling baby, and Iggle Piggle and Spider-man prodding my bum whilst I sleep. The last one is resulting in dreams unsuitable for sharing publicly.

Substituting water for wine

Okay I do this most days, but on Sunday I’ll do it with style and absolutely no apologies! I intend to have forgotten my own name by 1pm, be incapable of standing at 3pm, and pregnant again by 7pm. I doubt I’ll eat. I’ll double my body weight in wine calories alone.

Watch all 3 seasons of American Horror Story on Netflix

I can’t get enough of this. It’s trashy, it’s dark, it’s saved the latex economy from certain death. For obvious reasons, I can’t watch it around the kiddies, and there’s too much sex in it for me to watch it with Craig without cringing. So I’d watch this on my own - all day. Which will inevitably lead to…

… A cuddle with this guy

I doubt it’ll be memorable, but then, it rarely is. Sorry Craig.

And that’s it. Considering all that is tantamount to doing nothing - it really shouldn’t be as hard to achieve as it undoubtedly will be!

* REVISION (added later) * - Craig has asked me to quickly clear up that he is actually a legend in the bedroom. Given I’m planning on a weekend of such extreme self-indulgence, it would be unwise of me to disagree.