Being a wife and a mother can be a totally thankless calling:
Cooking, cleaning, scraping shit off the laminate flooring, ordering groceries, wiping urine from the toilet seat, folding pants, enduring soft play, spending your beer money on Matchbox cars and iPad apps, feasting on Fishfingers and Smiley Faces for every meal, hiding vegetables in the chocolate cake, going to bed at midnight and getting up at 5 am, having to wear clothes that are always soiled in chocolate, snot, dribble or a combo of the three.
And other than the occasional bunch of flowers (usually with twenty percent off as they're already half dead), or a trip to Pizza Express on a Wednesday '241' coupon day, my husband rarely makes a gesture of thanks.
My kids certainly don't. Bob recently left a Malteaser-sized warm poo on my side of the bed on the floor. I suppose that could be a gesture of thanks - much like when a cat delivers a half-dead mouse to your feet as a way of saying, 'I really love you, human'.
Other than that poo, and the flowers, no rewards or words of gratitude have come my way.
When I think of what I have given up: my freedom, my body, my youth, my sanity, my raw sexual magnitude and so on, I feel that I deserve at the very least to be thanked by those who have robbed me of these treasures.
My son Stan could say, 'Thanks Mummy, thanks for pushing me out of your once-size 10 body. I am sorry that you now have THREE tyres of excess skin circling your midriff and I am especially sorry that you can no longer laugh hysterically and jump freely on a trampoline without wetting yourself a tiny bit. I am ever so grateful, I love you. Here - have this box of genuine Maltesers, this Hugh Jackman calendar and a lifetime supply of Pinot Grigio to show my appreciation'.
That would be lush... in a perfect world.
I often fantasize that one day these boys will realise all that I have done for them and I shall be nominated for a lifetime achievement award. The red carpets will be rolled out. I shall glide effortlessly down them with my husband on my arm, wearing a sparkly Versace gown which elegantly disguises my tyres and designer perfume that eradicates the mild odour of piss and child vomit.
I shall get up on the stage to collect my Oscar, being presented to me by Hugh Jackman himself.
He will smile and kiss me on the cheek and whisper in my ear, 'My room number is 312, see you after the show?'
I shall whisper back, 'Not tonight Hugh, I've got to do the Tesco order and get the school lunches ready for tomorrow.'
Then, feeling special, sexy and elegant, I will deliver my acceptance speech.
Here it is:
"I would like to thank all of you who have voted for me.
I would like to thank my lush husband and two beautiful boys... without whom I would be three times as thin, five times as sane and four hundred times less sleep deprived.
I haven't got here by myself. Many folk have helped me on my way.
I would like to thank Captain Birdseye and Aunt Bessie who have helped keep my kids alive on the days where peeling a sweet potato was beyond me.
I would also like to thank Peppa Pig, Fireman Sam and Bob the Builder for holding my kid's attention long enough that I was free to defecate in peace.
I would like to thank the Tesco delivery man, who saved me the ordeal of having to drag two kids around a supermarket and the loveable Mr Dyson who invented a machine to suck all the crushed baked beans and petit pois from the floors of my treasured home.
I would like to thank Amazon who has saved my ass at Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries and Easter by allowing me to sit on the very same ass, with a glass of wine in one hand, a tablet in the other and perform pure miracles of shopping.
I would like to thank Wonderbra and Spanx for helping me to make the most of a bad situation and for Tenalady, for being on standby, should I need you in the future.
I would like to thank Red Bull, who has kept me conscious for long enough to ensure that my kids are always supervised. Without you, I am confident that I would have passed out into my Bran Flakes most mornings and my children would surely be dead.
I would like to thank the M25 for keeping me in gridlock traffic for hours at a time. Without you, I would have had no time to myself. Those jams have been my only peace and my only opportunity to eat a bag of Walkers' Cheese and Onion crisps without having to share.
But most of all, I would like to thank my favourite lady of all: Chardonnay. She has really got me through all of it. Without her support, I would probably be in rehab awaiting an appointment for electroshock therapy. Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels are also lovely fellas and worth a mention. Thanks boys, I love you."
After kissing Hugh on the cheek and possibly having a quick squeeze of his buttocks, I would elegantly slip off the stage and hit the aftershow party. Tactical chunder would ensue before bed and getting up at 6.30am for the 'Routine' to commence all over again.
The next day, it would all be the same. I wouldn't be thinner, or less tired, or smell any different. The Versace gown would go back in the wardrobe and the rubber gloves would go back on in it's place, ready to lift a poo out of the tub.
Maybe this award ceremony will never happen, maybe Hugh and I shall never meet, and if it doesn't, it's perfectly fine by me. Who needs Hugh Jackman and his wild sideburns when they have two lush little boys, a box of wine in the fridge and several trips to Pizza Express to look forward to?
And let's not forget another little brown nugget that I am sure to find on the floor yet again.
I am loved. It's written on my carpet.
And that's the award that I shall be collecting.