I only recently decided to revive this blog after a long absence. The story of our emigration had been told to the extent that it needed to be.
No-one needed to read any more about our lack of furniture, friends or family back in those early days. Much less the tears and snot involved in me missing my family.
So I have made the decision that this blog will from now on have no direction whatsoever, rather like me. I will waffle on about whatever takes my fancy on any given day, and you are invited to share in my (hopefully) regular musings of whatever occurs to me to write.
If you don’t want to follow the often worrying contents of my mind, that’s okay too. I probably won’t notice anyway, I’ll be too busy talking utter rot either here or on here or Facebook, as usual.
You may as well, though. After all, JK Rowling has famously stated that Harry Potter ‘just strolled into my mind one day, fully formed’, so maybe I too will become a genius millionaire writer and philanthropist and go live in a Scottish castle sometime soon. That’d be ‘rad’, as the kids say nowadays. And you can say you read the first edition, too!
This post is in honour of mothers everywhere. Mothers are rather like idiots; if you’re not one yourself, you certainly know one.
And it has to be said that a large proportion of us turn into idiots only once we become a parent, where previously we have been well-adjusted and competent human beings capable of rational thought and a manageable laundry basket.
So mums are worthy of a post, bearing in mind that Mother’s Day is almost upon the UK population.
My own mother is what people describe as a ‘character.’ She is small in stature (like me) and openly opinionated (unlike me, at least in real life). She tans easily and has beautiful brown eyes.
These attributes are open sources of envy to me, having spent a lifetime cursing my pale complexion and hoping my freckles might eventually join up and give me an enviable tan if I sat in the sun long enough.
(And I don’t sit in the sun any more, by way of a disclaimer to the horrified Australians shaking their heads and tutting loudly at this shocking disclosure).
My mum is the original Mrs Malaprop, I’m certain that Charles Dickens must somehow have travelled in time and used her for his inspiration.
This is the woman who refers to ‘Bonsai Beach’ in Sydney and, when my older sister requested a compilation album one Christmas, boldly entered the record shop (it was the 80’s, darlings) and asked the horrified sales assistant if they sold ‘copulation records’. I imagine the poor man is still recovering from this ordeal today.
She often calls me to tell me what disaster has befallen her that day, from discovering she’s wearing one high heeled blue shoe and one flat black shoe. On that occasion, she only looked at her feet because she wondered why she kept tripping up.
As I get older, I open my mouth and my mother invariably comes out. While this would have caused me untold agony as a teenager, now I couldn’t be prouder.
Back when I was 13, I remember being genuinely disgusted that my mother had never held aspirations of being a pop star. Now, I see that she’s a superstar all in her own right.
My mum faces every challenge that life presents to her with her sleeves rolled up and a look in her eye that says ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ Life still hasn’t got the better of her.
I live my life every day with her as my benchmark, and hope I can be every bit the kick-ass awesome mother that she’s always been. She has been with me every step of the way of my own often calamitous journey through motherhood, and I suspect in the early days that I may have mislaid my children or forgotten to feed them at all at times if it wasn’t for her.
So yes, I may be an idiot, but I’m an idiot that loves my children unconditionally and I look forward to providing hours of unintentional entertainment to them in the same way as my mum still does to me.
If you have even only one parent in your life, treasure them. Yes, if you’re young you might think that they’re a source of unimaginable embarrassment and shame. You’re right, they are. But so are you.
It’s only as you get older that you begin to realise what a rare gem it is to have someone in your life who loves you unconditionally. Who will fight for you, cheer you on, put your happiness above their own, again and again and again.
Forgive you and start again, when they’d never do that for anyone else.
Be sure to tell your own idiots that you love them, as they love you – because after all, you’re their idiot too.