Mums are invincible. Everyone knows that. They have to be. Because kids need us to be invincible. If we crumble when they tantrum, if we cry when they spill our wine, if we crack up when they fart, the whole fabric of the family disintegrates. Imagine what anarchy would ensue if they knew we were exactly like them. Just bigger.
The Speech Mums Will Never Make, from The Mummy of Venice
Wrylock: Hath not a mum bags under her eyes? Hath not a mum red-raw hands, stretchmarks, a slight drinking habit, battered senses, unsuitable affections for CBeebies presenters (a direct result of Stockholm syndrome), passions for Freddo frogs? Fed with the same piece of toast (after you’ve licked all the peanut butter off it), hurt with the same sharp fingernails (yours), subject to the same nits, healed by the same Hedrin, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a child is?
If you prick us mums, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not wee a little bit?
If you’re sick in our hair, do we not blench?