For every one of my failings as a daughter, she redeems me
My mother is a great woman. She is hilarious, extremely loving, and definitely due a cruise and 10 gallons of wine. That said, we’re not really close and I tend not to share more than what’s necessary with her; anything for an easy life.
Growing up, I had plenty of friends who were guilty of the over-share; telling their mothers every last data package of what we were up to. I remember thinking “Get it together ladies”. Too cool for school, me.
Her parenting style was tough (which posed a challenge for my doughy-soft father!). I’m glad of it now; she has instilled an incredible work ethic in me and taught me how to be capable. My mother would have been known among my friends as a bit of a tough cookie. Unfortunately, I was well able for her, so any chance we had at the lovey-dovey, mummy-and-me relationship was gone the day I learned to speak.
Some of my greatest memories are of times where she didn’t kill me. The surprise, confusion and relief provided for an altogether memorable mix of emotions. The kill ratio is enormously unbalanced however and therefore some tactical forgetting was necessary.
I wasn’t the easiest child to rear (I hear). I was a colicky baby and cried all the time, never ate anything, hated dinners, gave loads of cheek and did I mention crying? So being the youngest of three children, my mother had her fair share of hassle on her hands.
Fast forward x amount of years to where her three cherubs are adults, and to where I mainly feel sorry for her all the time. Not a nice place to be. Newly retired, my mother should be playing golf and getting fat and taking up various other pursuits, but she’s probably more stressed now than she was with a full-time job and three young children. Her mother, my Grandmother, is 96 years of age and requires full-time care. Definition model daughter. And easily a far better daughter than me.
For every one of my failings as a daughter, she redeems me. If I don’t call or text, she will call or text me. If we’re in an argument and I’ve got to go, I would probably let pride interfere with us saying a proper goodbye. Not my mother though, she’ll seek out the hug and tell me she loves me anyway.
My favourite thing about my mother is that she tells me she loves me, regularly. It’s not the most Irish thing, and I know plenty of people who will never experience it, so for that I am very thankful.
My mother deserves better than me. Its high-time I “got it together” and started treating her with the same love and devotion she treats her delicate, elderly mother. She has given my siblings and me everything, so now I declare it return-the-favour-time, and thanks to The Daughterhood, I might just deliver on that.