I’m always somehow surprised when I look back at old photos of my childhood and realise just how young my parents really were. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? When you are young, your parents are old by default, they are adults, and therefore they meet the only required qualification. To be clear, my parents were not young when they had me, as a matter of fact my mother was referred to as a geriatric maternity patient, when she was pregnant with my brother, and that was 6 years before I came along, before she was even 30! Oh how times have changed!
It’s sad, although interesting to reflect on, that as I was growing, I didn’t quite notice the subtle changes that my parents were also slowly growing older. That it was lost on me, until at least my mid twenties that their own journey was not over and that they too had their own lives and identities; that they too still had mistakes to make and lessons to learn. Essentially that their world was bigger than just me. (Ok me and my brother, I’ll allow him to share some attention! Haha)
Even as I learned I was expecting my own son, I leaned on my mother quite heavily. Ironically, it was lost on me that this baby I was bringing into the world would need me just as much. Probably because until I was thrust into motherhood myself, I couldn’t grasp the concept of exactly how much motherhood entailed, and how much of yourself you had to put into it by default. Now that son has grown into a teenager, who still sees me as old, shows very little interest in me as a person and basically takes me for granted (as teenagers are inclined to do) I am forced to reflect back on how negatively I impacted my own mother’s mental health at the same age!
It’s not that I don’t have fond memories of my mother, I do. The time she got into a fit of the giggles at hungry jacks, back in the days when families dined in, and she fell off her chair laughing. Shopping trips where she reluctantly bought me the unflattering clothes I demanded despite her best advice. (Photo’s prove I should have listened!) The day she relented and let me get a dog despite her better judgement. Washing my dolls clothes and hanging them up on a little washing line with baby pegs while she did the actual washing. Her lovingly holding my forehead when I was sick. Her teaching me to make pikelets and flip them on my own on the griddle. Her lovingly placing my pyjamas on the heater on cold nights or allowing me to go for a quick dip in the pool at night when it was too hot to sleep.
I am sure there are many more. But there are also many memories of me being painful, spoilt, entitled and ungrateful. Taking way more than I would give, unless of course you count giving attitude, of which I gave plenty! But if you count consideration, I gave none. True story. My mother worked fulltime. She got up early every day to peel and cut the potatoes and put them on the stove ready for dinner. She took the meat out to defrost. She made my lunch, and my brother’s and father’s, while she most likely went without (I don’t know for sure, because I was too self absorbed to notice.) She prepared breakfast for us all and ironed any uniforms or work clothes for the day. Then she quickly got herself dressed, applied moisturiser and a coat of lipstick before rushing out to catch the 7am bus. At the end of every afternoon, she would call home, and remind me to put the potatoes on to boil. They were already on the stove in water from this morning. All I had to do was turn it on, wait for the water to boil and reduce the flame when it did. Then she would come in and make the dinner. If she didn’t call me everyday then I didn’t do it. When she did call, I would remind her that I was not her slave and complain heavily to anyone who would listen about how unjust this was and how she treated my brother and I like slaves! HA! The irony! I complained we ate potato with every meal ( UK heritage) and that I disliked most of the meals. I refused to help wash up after dinner, always saying I would get to it later, not understanding my mother wanted to finally finish her day and sit down to relax! As I got older and started to drive, I refused to tell her where I was going with whom, or when or if I would be home for dinner.
I rebelled and rebuffed her efforts to connect with me, finding them intrusive rather than recognising that she was merely showing an interest in my life. I told myself that she had never shown much interest before, because she “chose” working over me, and therefore punished her by showing disinterest at the stage where my life perhaps actually became interesting.
I was a needy child. I wanted my mother’s attention all to myself. I resented the easy relationship she had with my brother and the lack of rapport between herself and I. Looking back, he was more grateful than I was, definitely more helpful, and he was an easier child. He required little attention, happy to slip into quiet imaginary worlds, read books and otherwise entertain himself. I lacked those qualities. I needed someone to talk to me, to play with me, to make a mess with me. (My mother doesn’t do well with mess!) I demanded more than she had to give and was wounded when it wasn’t given. I wasn’t neglected in any sense of the word, but yet I always felt overlooked, inconvenient, in the way and ignored.
It wasn’t until I had my own children that I began to revisit those early expectations. To know that a mother has so many responsibilities to juggle, that my expectation was impossible to meet. That her getting up early to do all those things was in fact her way of showing love. That she’d have loved to spend more time playing with me but as a working mother, time was the one resource she lacked. That of course she was human and wanted to connect with other mothers and form friendships for herself. That as I grew older and gained more independence, her load lessened and that is when she had time to connect and give me that attention I craved. That it didn’t have to be too little too late.
This Mother’s Day, many of you aren’t as fortunate to still have a mother to celebrate with. Perhaps many of you never reached this point in time to let her know you saw her sacrifices and you now recognise them as love. To love her back as fiercely as she loved you. I am lucky to still have my mother. I love watching her delight in my children and understanding she couldn’t delight in me in those ways, but that she did delight in me, and she still does. My own mother never got the chance to really experience this to it’s fullest with her own mother, as she was taken too soon. A pain I cannot and do not want to imagine, whilst raising babies of your own in the midst of that grief.
So I want this post to be a gift to my mother, and I hope those of you who still have the opportunity do the same. Let your mothers know that you see them. That you are interested in them as people. Their childhoods, their life before you were born. Their dreams and hopes. The things that made them who they are today. And most of all, how much you impacted their life, and how much you know they loved and did for you. Therapists like to talk a lot about the concept of parents “impacted our lives” however this post looks to acknowledge the impact I had on hers, and apologise for the wrongs I did. How hard I made her life. That feels equally important. I have written a post similar to this before, and with any luck I will get the opportunity to write many more. And I will say yes to every opportunity to show love the way she has done.
I am so lucky to have a mother today. Even luckier that it is you and I can finally call you my friend. Thank you for the years of patience and love, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself, for being there for me when I didn’t deserve it and for loving me at my worst. As I age, I slowly morph into you, and I couldn’t think of a better person to be.
I love you My Mumma; My friend. Happy Mother’s Day.
❤ Love you,
Your Best Friend ForEver
xx
