Hi Mum, I’m home!
However much you love your mother, it is the small things, the clash of routines, which can send you to the brink of insanity
DROPPING by to see our mother, and making sure to send a card and flowers this Sunday can, for many of us if we’re honest, be something of a chore. But actually going back to live with Mammy is a different kettle of fish entirely, as I recently — and with mixed, at times infuriating, results – was to discover.
Mrs Brown’s Boys might have become an international TV smash by depicting the warm-hearted, idiosyncrasies and eccentricities of Irish mammies, but in the last few weeks, that television comedy became a true-to-life, reality-show drama for me.
At the age of 46, and convalescing after a stint in hospital, surely there could be no better thing than going home for a bit? Ah, the endless mugs of tea, being spoilt rotten, back to the warm heart and hearth of the woman who gave birth to you. Nothing, surely, could go wrong?
Oh, believe me, a lot can, and did.
Because however much you love your mother, and with both of us now adults, it is the small, day-to-day things — the clash of routines when you’re living under the same roof — which can send you to the brink of insanity, or into the press for another bottle of wine.
Even driving to the shops, Mother behind-the-wheel, becomes a terrifying roller-coaster ride. Why, for instance, does she slow down when she sees pedestrians trying to cross the road, wave for them to cross, then just as they’re about to do so, slam her foot on the accelerator as she aims directly at them, sending them scattering back to safety, inches from certain death?
And, in a toe-curling, embarrassing manoeuvre, why does she park right outside Dunnes Stores in the ‘Parent and Child’ space allotted, when there’s plenty of parking behind you? I am an adult, Mammy.
Why does she have to shout and roar with a volume that would rival a U2 concert when talking to friends on the phone? Indeed, why the hell did I ever get her a new smartphone, with now endless queries every bloody minute of, ‘Paul, how do I send this message?’.
At times, living with mother is like walking on eggshells. Sneaking into the utility room for another bottle of beer like an errant teenager, hiding the evidence the next morning.
Suggesting that that night’s film on the telly might be good, only to get the lukewarm response: “If that’s what you’d like to watch.”
Serving up a delicious, home-cooked meal, only for her to hand back a completely clean plate with the half-hearted complaint, “That was far too much for me.”
And what, can you tell me, is wrong when watching the Six Nations rugby with calling Irish coach Declan Kidney “a fecking eejit”, only to hear a “tut-tut” from behind you?
Oh, the joys of having a mother. And yet as I boarded the train back home and waved her goodbye, there was a little tear in my eye.
So this Sunday, send a card or a bouquet ... and tell her “See you soon”, as if you almost mean it.
Then began his morning habit of floor-pacing, as he endlessly recited each item of news from far-flung places around the world
ON discharge from hospital recently my son, Paul, came to live with me for a while at my house near Roscommon town. It was lovely, I thought, having him home again. He wasn’t well and needed some TLC.
But gradually, I noticed the changes as my normal daily life and the routine I had nicely adopted were thrown out the door like full recycling bags.
Early one Thursday morning, I went into my little office in the house and found him comfortably immersed in my swivel chair, browsing through the daily newspapers. There he was, ensconced and ravaging my own personal little space. Then began his morning habit of floor-pacing, as he endlessly recited each item of news from far-flung places around the world.
Now who, and certainly not me, wants to hear what is happening in Beijing at 10am in the morning, when I am still endeavouring to open my eyelids and come to grips with the world in my own little comfy space?
I also suddenly found I was, more or less, banished from the kitchen, until the washing up was left there for me, of course. He enjoys doing the cooking, I know, and I was happy to let him do it for a few days. Quite a treat, I thought at first.
But, with all the lights blazing at 100watt full beam, you’d think he was lighting a city. As I sat in the living room enjoying my TV, I could hear him shouting: ‘Have you got a larger roasting tin, a bigger bowl, a proper whisk?’
‘No-no, not that one,’ he’d say, as I bent my ageing body into the kitchen cupboard. I made several trips to the utility room to search for something that I knew wasn’t there. After all, I am used to cooking for myself now and do well with my one wok.
Did we have larger dinner plates, he asked on one occasion? ‘How big do you want?’ I replied, grimacing.
When I saw the washing up that had to be done, I thought I’d have to call in an army of helpers. Every bowl, saucepan and pan had previously rested comfortably in their cupboards until this food-monster had clutched and pulled them out of their beds.
The upside of all of this was the meal that suddenly emerged. Paul tells me he is self taught and I can see that: through his travelling in his work, he has embellished most cuisines which he has embraced and made his own. So bacon and cabbage wasn’t quite good enough for him, or me, anymore.
But as a mother you bite your lip, literally. We both watch rugby but not often together, his usually seen in his local pub a hundred miles from me. But on one occasion a week or so ago, we watched it side-by-side at my house.
He was hysterical, bouncing off my living room floor, pounding, shouting and uttering dreadful obscenities that he obviously collected since he left his good Catholic home and school years ago.
When he did finally depart, of course it pulled at my heartstrings and I miss him dearly. But in future, my parting shot will be:
‘I’ll come and stay with you next time. I’m sure you’d prefer that!’
CONNECT WITH US TODAY
Be the first to know the latest news and updates
