I recently read a description, of one of those moments. When your child is crying, and you know it is all your fault.

I have one of those memories, one of those moments. It's incredibly strong. I doubt I'll ever forget.

It was such a small thing, and I doubt my son shares the memory. I hope he doesn't. He'll have others of his own, no doubt. That he remembers, but I forget.

Like me and my mum. When I was a teenager, my sweet tooth was strong, just as it always had been, just as it still is. And I knew where my mum kept her secret chocolate stash. In a drawer, her drawer, that contained only her things, that I was not supposed to enter. I don't remember what else was in that drawer. I don't know how far I explored (I've always been nosy). But I know that now and then I would steal her chocolate. When the urge to binge was strong, and I had no money or couldn't be bothered to cycle the half mile to the corner shop.

I replaced it always, as soon as I was able. She was a hoarder, a nibbler, a saver, just as I am now. She didn't dip into her chocolate supplies as often as I did. I wasn't found out.

Until I was.

Maybe there were other things going on. Maybe I'd annoyed her already. I'm sure I was generally infuriating. That the parenting of me, as with all teenagers, was at times distressing and difficult. Not to mention my twin crimes of both theft and invasion of privacy. But anyway she found out, and confronted me. And slapped me across the face, six times. Left cheek, right cheek, fronthand, backhand, one, two, three, four, five, six. This was the only hand she laid on me, apart from the occasional slap on the back of my legs when I was little. It was shocking, arresting, I remember where I stood. In the hallway, my back to the front door, with the Forbidden Drawer in my sight.

And she has no memory of it.

And so to this other moment, my parental shame, the memory I hope is mine alone. Not shared.

It was bedtime, and my son was small. Two years old, I think. Maybe three. I was tired, grumpy, wanted to sit down and chill out. The bed needed making. Possibly I expected my partner to have done it and I was in a mood about that, I don't know. That's conjecture.

My son was mucking about. I'd asked him to take his clothes off, but instead he was jumping all over the bed I was trying to make, leaping on my back, being silly. I got stern, told him to take his clothes off. I let it be known that now was not playtime. He paid no attention. I lost my temper. I shouted at him to take his clothes off. I kept my back to him. I ignored him for some time.

Until I heard his little voice.

I took my clothes off, Mummy.

I looked round, and there he was. Shivering, crying, naked.

I took my clothes off, Mummy.