I SENT my husband a text last weekend. He didn’t reply. He told me later he found it too upsetting.

He was with 14-year-old Patrick at a rugby tournament in Darlington. I had taken our youngest, seven-year-old Albert, and his friend out for the day.

This is my text, word for word: “Newby Hall. Picnic. Albert and his mate kicking a ball around. Just like the old days. Except where are little William and toddler Charlie and baby Patrick in his buggy? Whatever happened to those boys of ours?”

The gardens at Newby Hall, near Ripon, had been like a second home to us during the summers when our oldest three, all now teenagers, were little. We had a season pass and would go there after school, most weekends and throughout the holidays.

This was the first time I’d returned in years.

As I laid out our sandwiches and drinks, I realised I was using the same picnic blanket as I had done all those years ago.

And when I looked up to watch Albert and his friend playing football, I got a sudden flashback of his older brothers when they were small.

There was little, turbo-charged William, aged about four or five, kicking his ball in the very same spot, with his younger brother Charlie toddling after him and baby Patrick crawling on the grass.

It was like watching little ghosts flitting about in front of me, for those children seem long gone. It’s as if they disappeared years ago, little more than distant memories now.

All three of them tower above me nowadays. On this particular morning, my husband and I had just had a couple of typical parent-teenage rows with two of them before we left the house. It was over the usual stuff: they’re lazy, they don’t pull their weight, they’re going out too much and they’re not working hard enough for their exams.

Unlike those little boys from years ago, they don’t always do as we say.

They question our reasoning. They talk back to us. They tell us we haven’t got a clue.

As the 18-year-old keeps pointing out, he’s an adult now. He voted for the first time last week. He’s passed his driving test. He’ll be leaving home and going to university in September (but only if he gets the grades, as I keep, irritatingly, reminding him).

His younger brother, 17 in July, is hot on his heels, planning to leave home the following September. And then there’ll just be three.

I couldn’t help feeling a bit sad about this for the rest of the weekend.

And then I went to pick up the dirty washing from William’s bedroom floor on Monday morning.

There was an extra mattress and a quilt on the ground next to his bed.

“What’s happened in here? Why was someone else sleeping in your room, William?” I asked. He and his 16-year-old brother looked a bit sheepish. I could tell they were pretending they hadn’t heard me.

“Charlie brought the mattress in there,” announced Patrick.

“But they haven’t slept in the same room together since they were little,”

I replied.

“They were downstairs watching that horror film Paranormal Activity last night. They said they didn’t want to sleep on their own. They even asked me to come in with them,” added the 14-year-old.

William looked a bit embarrassed: “But it was really scary Mum,” he said. “And I didn’t want to stay in my room on my own”, Charlie confessed.

We all started laughing.

I could have hugged them, although I knew they’d never let me.

It was a reminder that, deep down, those little boys are still very much inside my towering teenagers. And there are times when you don’t have to search too hard to find them.

ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD Roscoe and his friend, Lewis, have got a new money-making scheme: they’re growing organic vegetables in our garden. They spent all weekend on the computer making flyers and order sheets.

Complete with photographs and catchy slogans, it all looked very impressive.

They had even done research on supermarket prices, to make their business competitive.

People can tick what vegetables they want, from an impressive list which includes beetroot, cabbage, peas and a variety of lettuce, and Roscoe and Lewis will deliver it the following week. They asked for my opinion. While being as supportive as I could, I felt I had to point out one major flaw in their business plan, or they’d never get it past Duncan Bannantyne. “Don’t you think you should plant something first?” I said.