I bet she doesn't dance around the house with Tommy's pyjama trousers on her head

I have a friend - it's definitely not me I am speaking about here, as you will see if you read on - who, as a mother, is something of a marvel.

Where I feel like I've achieved something if on one of my days off with Tibbons I take him somewhere besides the supermarket, she will routinely take Tommy to the park, soft play, the library, and the seafront. And that's all before lunch. No lounging on the sofa in their house; no milk or food stains, either.

Where I feel like a heroine if the even-slightly-appealing aroma of a home-cooked dinner is wafting out into the hallway to greet Daddy-O when he gets home at 8pm, my friend thinks nothing of whipping up some homemade fish fingers with hand-shelled petits pois for Tommy's tea and then having an exquisite pizza made from scratch with hand-kneaded-not-even-from-a-breadmaker dough on the table for her and her husband a mere hour or two later.

Where I stick to declaring bath night just three times a week, she has Tommy floating on fluffy bubble bath clouds every time there's a 'y' in the day.

Where I lounge in bed for an extra half hour at the weekend, luxuriating in a little time to myself while Daddy-O takes care of Tibbons, she is out running around the streets of Brighton and Hove. Literally running. You know, as in working out, exercising. I wouldn't believe it, but Daddy-O bumped into her while he was out and about with Tibbons (I was busy having a lie in).

I expect you're wondering how I manage to stay friends with her.

But really, it's fine. Because I bet she doesn't dance around the house with Tommy's pyjama trousers on her head, the legs flapping about like bunny ears. That's a Mummy K special, thank you very much.

[box type="info"] Mummy K writes anonymously about motherhood and more: www.timewaitsfornomum.com