I carried them in my womb. Once, I even carried two babies at a time. I fed them, and cleaned them, and rocked them, and walked them. I drove them to appointments, and rushed them to the hospital. I sang to them all the time. They got Gilbert and Sullivan, Dean Martin, and Hits from the Blitz.
I bought them their first pairs of shoes (okay, Sarah's first were hand-me-downs but they were originally purchased by moi). I taught them how to walk. I taught them how to swing. I taught them how to shovel the snow. I taught them how to work the remote control on the TV.
I taught them the names of all the flowers in my garden. I taught them the names of all the instruments in the marching bands. I taught them to look at the world around them and see colour, and beauty, and joy.
I cried when they cried. I felt their disappointments more keenly than they did. I cuddled them when they were sick. I held their hair out of the face when they were throwing up. When all else failed, I climbed into bed with them knowing that everything is a little better when Mummy's arms are wrapped around you.
Because they are wonderful little girls, because they aim to please, and because they want to show their thanks and appreciation, they decided to make breakfast in bed...for their father!
The last laugh is on him. First of all, most of the food is plastic. Secondly, the only real food brought to him was 2 bowls full of mussel shells...left over from the lunch made on the previous day. Oh look. One bowl is on his pillow. Ha!