I’ve had 17 Mother’s Days. They started with a tiny baby and a husband who bought me a new breastfeeding pillow, a “Best Mummy Ever” coffee mug that I adored, and a card with a teeny-tiny handprint in it.

My days moved on to breakfast in bed, with a gorgeous toddler helping Daddy make pancakes, and a present wrapped in Peppa Pig paper because my cute 1-year-old chose it.

I’ve had daycare macaroni necklaces, preschool crafts, and the occasional last-minute run to Big W because Hubby forgot. Then we moved onto primary school Mother’s Day stalls, with key rings, bubble bath, and scented candles. Sundays spent in bed as eager children presented me with toast. Brunches out with family. And the year we went to the gardens in Cowra and took photos on the boulder at the top.

One of my favourites was when Hubby had to work and I was at home with a Miss Seven and a Miss Two. They made me toast with Vegemite spread in a heart shape, poured me a cup of Coke Zero in their favourite green cup, then picked a single daisy from the garden and placed it in the Coke. It was their way of giving me all of my favourite things.

When I sat down to write this column, it was going to be a list of things I want this year — Bill’s Beans reopening, North Orange Woolies stopping their ridiculous rearrangement, and possibly a ticket to a rage room (Google it. I would actually want that). But this year I’m craving something else entirely.

I want to go shopping ten years ago, with a baby in the trolley and a little girl clutching her list that I drew bananas and apples on. I want to stroll to the coffee shop with a toddler in the pram and share a babyccino. On the way home, I’ll lay the seat back, tuck a blanket under their legs, and watch them be lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking as we walk home in the sun.

What would I really like this year? One more minute. One more minute with my mum, who I lost on my thirty-third birthday. Every time I think of her I smell freesias, camellias, and the ocean. She’s billy tea and marmalade on toast and reading the paper on Sundays in the sunroom that overlooked the pool. She’s curling up with a pile of books from our weekly trips to the library and doing the crossword in pencil in case we made mistakes.

I want to pull one more baby sock from the drawer and stretch it over a chubby little foot. To read ‘Where is the Green Sheep?’ one last time, and for my girls to be excited about visiting a friend in Nashdale because they get to find the Green Sheep somewhere near the school.

One more minute rocking a baby in my arms, feeling them relax into me as their milky scent drifts across the room.

One more time picking up a child from school who is desperate to hug Mummy and tell me all about their day and the exciting things they learned.

One more round of nursery rhymes that won’t ever be sung again, because my girls get all their music from Spotify these days.

But all these moments have passed, and that’s a good thing. My girls are competent, happy people who will lead amazing lives and go their own way without ever looking back, which is all you can hope for as a parent. It’s just that nobody warns you the hardest part of parenting is realising that you did everything right. Because you still have to let them go.

So this Mother’s Day, I will enjoy my last-ever present from the primary school stall. I will love the bath salts and candles, and I will read the cards over and over again. But this year I’ll ask for marmalade on toast, get my husband to take lots of photos, and appreciate every minute of my special day.