Becoming My Mother: The first nail in the coffin of my younger self.

Becoming mother header

I had one of the most horrible moments of my life this morning and it all happened hanging the washing out a few hours ago. One of those moments which I’ve fought against with gusto, in fact I’ve waged war with this for over 30 years when the realisation that there was actually a battle going on became apparent. We’ve all fought this war in our own ways- with tattoos, outrageous hair, lifestyle choices, gluten-free diets and the like. But you know what? I’m signing the truce; packing up my hair products, my high-end foodie magazines and succumbing to the inevitable.

I am morphing into my mother. My husband has said it (right before he gets a fry pan to the crotch) and whilst once this would have sent me into an Armageddon-esque rage, now I see that perhaps there may be an inkling of truth. Sure we look alike and have a penchant for bubbles I suppose… though Mum likes Moscato whereas I can only drink dry, French, expensive champagne. So you see the difference is really quite large.

Ebook banner

And my Mum is great. Hi Mum! She possesses lots of great qualities. but I don’t really want them.

For example.

I’m attending my brother’s wedding on the weekend and have a lovely pink lace shift dress I was hoping to get another wear out of at this event. Enter stage left my mother, who as mother of the groom has been on a mission to find a green dress for one of these rare moments in the spotlight. She found one. It’s a lovely green lace shift dress. Oh yes, she’s a snake in the grass.

I then sent a message to my brother bemoaning the fact that if I wear my dress I’ll be twinning with Mum for eternity in the compulsory wedding portraits. His reply? “Oh no… Disaster? Or the inevitable passing of time?” As you can see, my brother and I are cut from the same piece of bitchy cloth.

Then, at 6.30am this morning I was hanging out washing. Usually at this time I’m fumbling for the remote so I can plug my kids into the TV. This way I get 15 more minutes of ‘sleep’ (read: rage-inducing frustration as elbows and knees are poked into my back, head and ear to a Giggle and Hoot soundtrack). Before 7am in my world used to be a weird place where other people got up and did weird stuff. Like exercise or get ready for work in a timely fashion. Now 7am means breakfast is almost done, I’ve sweated my way through some awful boot camp style workout and the kids are starting on their ritualistic fight over toys. Now at 7am, the day has well and truly started.

So the act of running a load of washing through the machine just before I went to bed the night before, just so I could get a head start on the day by hanging it out before all hell and breakfast broke loose…? What the fuck is happening to me????

And you know what the worst part is? I stood in the morning sunshine and actually enjoyed the cool air and the quietness of it all before the manicness of the day started. Until I was hit in the crotch with a frying pan full of bitter realisation: this is exactly what my mother used to do.

Post Didyoulikethis

I’m pretty sure Mum never enjoyed putting the washing out every morning, but she probably did love not being hassled by four kids and a husband for the five minutes it took her to complete the task.

So I’m done with trying to find a better way, especially when it comes to my family’s filthy clothes. I’m not into sweet wine and Millers clothing just yet, but this particular battle has been lost. Well played Mum, well played.


One thought on “Becoming My Mother: The first nail in the coffin of my younger self.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s