'Who's your friend?" I was asked, when - in my mid-thirties - I attended a social function at our local community centre.

Friend? I thought. What friend?

I'd come to the community centre with my mum. She'd moved nearer to us when my father became seriously ill. Now, picking up the pieces after his death, she'd begun to go out and about again. When our interests coincided, we went to things together.

I was about to give a jokey answer: "That's no friend, that's my mother!", when I hesitated.

It suddenly dawned on me that my questioner was absolutely right: my companion that evening was my friend. That she was also my mum was incidental. In the past years, without my realising it, there'd been a fundamental change in our relationship.

When you're a child your mum means lots of things to you: love, protection, support and encouragement, wisdom, a readiness always to listen. But if she's a good mum, she's not, ever, a friend.

That sounds harsh. But just think about it for a moment.

You go shopping with a friend. She spots something she'd really like, a dress perhaps, a pair of shoes. Depending on what you know about her, you might hint that it wouldn't suit her, or exclaim at the price; or you'd egg her on: "Go on, treat yourself". But in the end it's up to her what she does. She's an adult. She can make her own decisions. Friends are there to share experiences, celebrate or commiserate with us, sometimes to give friendly advice - but never to tell us what to do.

Walk through that same store with a toddler, and it's another matter. Your little darling - that sunny, happy, affectionate tot - spots a toy he'd really, really like. He wants it more than anything else in the world; and he wants it now, without question.

But you know you can't let him have it. Money's a bit tight at the moment. He's already got lots of toys. And in any case it's not good for children always to have what they want when they want. They need to learn that life isn't like that, otherwise they just won't be able to cope with the adult world when eventually they reach it.

So you say no, and all hell breaks loose. Your little darling becomes a red-faced, yelling fury, all heels and nails and noise. It's mortifying, it's deeply embarrassing. You wish the ground would open and swallow you both up. But it doesn't, and no amount of distraction seems to work either. You simply have to pick up that angry child and get out of the place as quickly as you can.

We've all been through it, we mothers (and grandmothers) who know you can't be a friend to your child as well as a mother.

We'd like to be friends. No mum wants to risk having her child turn on her with a furious: "You don't understand me!" No-one wants to hear stamped feet and slammed doors and "I hate you!". But there are times when - perhaps just because you understand only too well - you simply have to face up it and take that risk.

And if you do, then one day, years later, you'll suddenly realise you've become friends, two adults who love and respect one another; the very best of friends.

And then that Mothering Sunday card or gift will be all the more heartfelt.

Published: 23/03/2006