I wish I had a mom sometimes. I’m sorry, I think that sounds a little insensitive of me. I mean, I do have a mom, but at times I wish I had a real mom.

You know, one of those moms who you can call at 2 a.m. when the baby is screaming and you don’t know what to do. Or a mom who doesn’t hesitate to come over when you need a break.

I can count the times my mom has had my daughters overnight on one hand. And the number of times she has offered, without me having to ask? None.

I have a “when I can be bothered” mom. Or a “when it suits me” kind of mom. A mom who only bothers when she has to or when she feels the need to. Which I tell you, isn’t very often at all.

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I wish I didn’t have to beg my mom to come and see my children. I wish it was natural for her. I often don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to come and see your grandkids. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it is supposed to be like this. 

Is it?

Is it normal for a more than capable nana to not want to help, or visit, or do all the little things a nana is supposed to do?

I wish I had a mom who would make me a meal when I am run down or sick. Just so that, for one night, I didn’t have to do it. 

I wish I had a mom I could cry to when I have just had enough.

I wish she felt more like a mother than an acquaintance. 

I wish I felt the warmth in my mom’s hug. I wish I felt the love that mothers are supposed to give.

I understand, at times, my girls can be a lot—I live it, I’m sure we all do. But that shouldn’t matter when you’re a grandma. Should it?

When I’m exhausted and burnt out, there’s no mom to come and help me just for a little while. And when I am curled in a corner just trying to get a moment, there’s no mom to offer a helping hand. And I know she doesn’t hear the words “I just need my mom” when I’m just trying to keep myself together.

I can’t even remember the last time my partner and I went out for a meal together or just did something . . . for us. I get such heavy shoulders when I think about it.

There’s no nana to watch on the sidelines and cheer with me. There’s no extra proud, clapping, and cheerful grins at events when my children have won a prize.

There’s no such thing as “Grandma’s house,” which is supposed to sing with love and smell like freshly baked cookies.

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Of course, I am happy when I hear my friends on the phone with their moms. And I’m over the moon when my friends get a well-deserved break. I love it when I see grandmas in shops buying their beautiful little grandchildren their favorite chocolate bars or when I see their carts full of their favorite little things. And what I love even more is seeing the delightful looks of happiness on all of their faces as they feel the love grandbabies are so entitled to feel.

But I can’t help but feel a tingle of resentment and jealousy. Because I wish my mom did that.

I wish my mom saw what she misses out on. Maybe she does see it. Maybe she’s just too wrapped up in whatever she’s doing to actually give a caring moment. But maybe she doesn’t see.

Now please don’t get me wrong, I do love my mom. And I am so grateful she’s here. I just can’t help but wish I didn’t have to do this without the support of a mother.

Should my daughters have children of their own someday, I know—I just know what kind of grandma I’ll be.