Getting to terms with my mother on Whatsapp

Like I said, since my mother has got the hang of Whatsapp, frankly there’s no telling where she might surprise me with a call.

I’ve been startled in the bathroom, a flowerbed and up a Stira loft ladder. But this morning when she calls, it’s different: I don’t know where I am at all.

“How are you?” she says. “Just a sec while I find my bearings,” I say. I look around the room: first I need to remember where I lost them. “I’m fine,” I say, “I’m in bed.” “At this hour?” she says, “it’s 9am over here.” I remember now where I lost them. It was at a wedding I attended last night. But an Irish wedding requires Irish stamina. I’m from London: it’s a work in progress. I also remember where “over here” is. My mother is in Turkey, holidaying with my sister and her girlfriend. The infinity pool looked wicked on Whatsapp.

“Are you two hours ahead or behind?” I say. “Ahead,” she says, “so what have you been up to?” “I was at a wedding last night,” I say. I describe the ceremony at the same time as trying to work out what “ahead” means for me. “What was the reception like? Did you have a nice table? Weddings can be terrible if you’re put next to someone ghastly.” I look at the time. I have worked out what “ahead” means for me: exhaustion.

“I got talking to a woman sitting behind me,” I say, “an architect. She was delightful. About my age. She had eight children.”

“Easily done,” my mother says, “I mean six would have been the least of it if my womb hadn’t finally fallen out. But I thought women nowadays didn’t have to wait for their wombs to fall out in order to stop having children. I mean after all, these days there’s the pill.” “Moving on from wombs,” I say, “the woman was a grandmother three times over too. She was saying she enjoys her grandchildren but she’s so much more safety-conscious with them than she was with her own.” “All this consciousness,” Mum says, “it must be exhausting for parents and grandparents these days. I’m glad I had you all at a time when being unconscious was the norm.” I can hear my sister’s voice in the background. “Are you sure it wasn’t just the norm for you, Mum?” “All I know is that there was no consciousness of the things you’re all conscious of now,” Mum says, “you can’t open a paper without reading about the psychological impact of basically absolutely everything a parent does. Take nutrition, just for example. I mean giving a child beans on toast is tantamount to poisoning these days.”

“Safety consciousness isn’t exactly niche,” I say, “and I don’t think it’s something that’s particular to my generation.” “Well it certainly wasn’t particular to mine,” she says, “I mean we were reasonably vigilant but we weren’t hyper-vigilant. Hyper-vigilance is a modern-day tyranny.” “Tell her the story you told me yesterday,” my sister says. “What story?” Mum says, “I’ve told you lots of stories.” “Tell her any of them,” my sister says, “they’ve all got the same thrust.” “The one about you in the pram?” Mum says. “Where Mum came downstairs,” my sister shouts in the background, “and found me choking to death on the pram-reins. No, not that one, Mum. Tell her the one about Tom.” “Talking of your brother,” Mum says, “he recommended the book I’m reading. I meant to tell you about it. It’s called “The Hired Man.” You must read it.” “Never mind Tom and the book,” my sister says, “tell her about Tom and the cot.” “It’s not my fault he was too heavy for the cot,” Mum says.

“What happened to Tom in the cot?” I say. “Nothing he didn’t survive,” Mum says, “I mean look at him now. Talk about thriving. His foot wouldn’t fit in a cot now.” My sister takes the phone. “The base of the cot used to collapse,” she says, “Mum would go in in the mornings and find Tom on the floor. Regularly. In the house in Corran.”

“Like I said,” Mum says, “he survived.” “In spite of you,” my sister says. “In spite of being too heavy for the cot,” Mum says.

Giving a child beans on toast is tantamount to poisoning these days.