“Mummy, when you went to the hospital to be chopped up, did they have a party?”

It was a question I wasn’t expecting to hear from my youngest son. I knew what he was referring to – my surgery last week, but good Lord, what on earth did he think had happened? Some kind of ultimate mummy sacrifice?

On the day, they didn’t even know where I was going. I think they just thought I was at work a long time.

But, of course, when I got home, we had to explain why they couldn’t jump on me; why I had a ‘big ouch’ that hurt and why I couldn’t carry LB or even do bear hugs.

“A party?” I responded. “Erm, no, it wasn’t a party LB.”

“Oh.” [looks disappointed]. “But wasn’t there a wabbit? A white one?”

For my next trick, mum will pull a rabbit out of a hat

“There was no rabbit, just the doctors, and nurses – rabbits aren’t allowed. Sorry darling.”

“But they chopped you in half, didn’t they?” [makes sawing motion].

And the penny dropped: he thought I was the (glamorous? ha!) female assistant in a magic show, the lady who gets put in a box and apparently sawn in half.

The one who might just look like she’s playing a supporting role to the magician, but is, in fact, making the mechanics of the illusion work.

And, actually, come to think of it, that IS exactly how I feel in my role as mother much of the time. Thanks LB, you hit the nail on the head!