My mother, Janet, circa 1972
A metamorphosis that began some years back, slowly at first, and then with the speed of a pimped up mobility scooter, is now complete. I am no longer turning into my mother. I AM my mother.
Many moons ago I noticed that occasionally when I opened my mouth, my mother popped out. I found myself moaning about the things that, previously, would’ve had me rolling my eyes at her. The lines on my forehead, the cost of white goods, and the substandard coffee in particular café chains, are all examples.
However, a few weeks back, when I was 39 years, 5 days, 11 hours and 40 minutes old, the transition became complete. I was in Lakeland (a sign in itself), having just purchased thermal socks and vests from M&S. You may think that this is the key giveaway, but no. It gets worse.
The exact moment came with my gleeful exclamation, “I’ve just found this little beauty on the shelf! Non-drip limescale remover! NON-DRIP!” And I rest my case. There’s no doubt. There is no need for further debate. I am my mother.
Subsequently, all the things my mum does these days that leave me rolling my eyes, are only a step around the corner for me. Some fool (I will find you), recently sold her a smart phone. The hours that have been spent since in a hair-pulling frenzy of frustration, trying to explain this contraption to her, are innumerable.
I have also noticed, on a recent shopping trip, that my mum has transitioned into one of those drivers that may as well be in a Flintstones car pushing it with their bare feet. Even road-kill was overtaking. I was pawing at the windows urging the car forwards to 30 mph with sheer force of will by the time we reached Hilsea. I can only hope that one day, I too will be able to inflict little gems such as these on my own children.
Our mothers are so important in our lives, such a touchstone of safety and comfort, and I have to say, I am happy to have turned into mine, simply because I hold her in such high regard. My friend Jodi and I often look back at our childhoods, having grown-up in one another’s pockets, and laugh about the things that our mothers told us off for. I doubt we ever said it as teenagers, but our mothers meant, and do mean, the world to us. Here’s to you and yours.