Express & Star

Mother's Day: What our mums mean to us

She's always there, sharing the good times and picking us up through the bad. Woman finds out what our mums really mean to us...

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She's my rock and my idol

Kirsten Rawlins

Kirsten Rawlins, aged 25

As a teenager, I was more than a little tough to look after hanging around the streets of Wolverhampton from the age of 14, rebelling at every turn and oh-so-keen to flee the nest.

Then the time came to grow up. I got my first job at the age of 19 and, more or less overnight, had to move to Milton Keynes, leaving behind all my family and home comforts.

And, as the office I worked in was nothing short of awful – the bosses and the colleagues – I quickly found myself on the phone to my parents every night, in streams of tears – begging for advice and wishing I was home.

Years later things are so much better, but life always has its ups and downs, and six months ago a beloved pet of mine died.

At the age of 24, I was distraught – and the only person I wanted to speak to was my mum. I knew there was nothing she could do, but I just needed to hear her voice.

From the outside I may look like an adult, but on the inside I need her more than ever.

It's a wonderful feeling being an adult, able to speak to your parents like fellow human beings. Or indeed, even have them call you for advice.

And, since getting together with my other half, I've been lucky enough to be welcomed into his family with open arms. And, while it's a very different relationship to that which I have with my mum, I feel like I now have another good friend in his mother, who is always there when we need her.

What I did to make her like me, however, I'll never know – not being hated by my partner's mum is certainly a turn up for the books. But one I'm very glad of.

And now, if I have a show to review and the other half isn't interested, my first port of call is always either my best friend or my parents – there's no real difference these days. (Apart from the array of embarrassing tales my friend could tell – stories I'd really rather my mum didn't know.)

Recently mum's not been too well. She's on the up – thank goodness – but I honestly can't begin to face the day she may not be there.

My rock, my friend, my idol – my mum.

It's a lifelong friendship

Emily Bridgewater

Emily Bridgewater, aged 36

It's September 15, 1980, and a woman with shiny, dark hair craddles her not-so-tiny newborn baby in Birmingham's Women's Hospital.

She can't take her eyes off her daughter, a gaze filled with wonder, trepidation and unconditional love.

That woman was my mum, the baby was me.

Thirty five years later, I occupied a bed in the same hospital, having just given birth to a daughter of my own. Cuddling my tightly-swaddled bundle I brimmed with the same astonishment, apprehension and love, responsibility weighing heavy on my weary shoulders.

My mum rushed to be by my side, to proffer unwavering support and meet her first-born granddaughter, Edie.

Over the last year in which I became a mum for the first time, she's been my linchpin; someone to rejoice in the wonderment of new life, and a shoulder to cry on when it all becomes too much. She's walked infinite laps of the local park with me and Edie, helped with the early morning wake-ups and supplied Cadbury's Wispas when chocolate was the only answer. I wouldn't have survived it without her.

When I was a baby, life was very different. Mum put her career as a teacher on hold for five years to raise me. We lived in a village, she didn't have a car, and there was little else to do than a fortnightly stay-and-play at the hall up the road.

I don't know how she did it. Taking one year's maternity sent me to the brink. And that's with the luxury of a car, mobile phone and money to cover cups of coffee with friends and baby-related activities.

She made a sacrifice only now I can start to appreciate.

As Edie grows up I can only hope we'll develop the same relationship as I have with my mum, together enjoying shopping, gossip and great girlie times. She's a best friend as well as my mum.

On March 26, the three of us will celebrate Mother's Day together; a day to celebrate motherhood, love and lifelong friendship.

She knows me inside out

Lisa Williams

Lisa Williams, aged 42

I don't know what I'd do without my mum. For a little more than four decades she is the one person, aside from my dad, who has always been there for me day or night.

From teenage troubles to more serious adult dilemmas she has talked things through with me, mopped up my tears, hugged the pain away and offered advice (which sometimes I've completely ignored to my own detriment).

We can fight like cat and dog, ranting and raving at each other being a little bit mean at times (me usually more so than mum) but that's because our love is unconditional and we both know whatever we say is heat of the moment nonsense and we can get away with it.

Despite the rows we've also enjoyed lots of silly times together with plenty of laughter and love which is lovely.

My mum is my best friend. She knows me inside out and back to front. She can tell how I'm feeling just by the look on my face or the sound of my voice, which can be both a godsend and mildly irritating in equal measure.

There have been times when we've drifted apart, I was living and working miles away down south and we only spoke a couple of times a week. But whatever happened, however much time passed things were always the same when we were together again.

Our relationship has changed quite a lot over the years. It's gone from only her dispensing of wise words, to me – very occasionally – being able to reassure her with any worries or fears. It feels nice to be able to give something back.

More recently the worst thing has been watching her age. Now she's in her 70s, she's still going strong, but the realisation has hit me: she is getting old and she's not immortal (as I once thought when I was little).

I can't bear to imagine a time when she is no longer here, it's incomprehensible. I'm happy just making the most of her for a few decades to come.

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