Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Turning into my Mother

The  inevitable truth that I am slowly but surely turning into my Mother is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

I stare at my forty three year old face in the mirror taking in the lines and shadows illuminated by the harsh artificial light necessary on this dimly lit October morning.  Embarking on the process of applying rose coloured blusher to my cheeks and eyelids I am nonchalant in my use of the same brand and shade of blusher for many years now.   I am transported back to my eight year old self , watching intently as my mum - herself then at the age I am now - applied her make-up.  I recall how disappointed I was at the time to discover the limitations of her make-up supply and the knowledge that she had used the same brand and shade of blusher for the previous two decades.   Now I get it.

Further evidence in support of the 'I am turning into my mother' debate include:-
  • My apparent lack of sympathy when others have a cold/headache/feel 'off it'; "have you taken anything for it?"  I hear myself say before allowing even an ounce of understanding to seep out.
  • My need, as I move deeper into middle-age to try my hand at a wide and varied array of new hobbies.  These are largely craft focussed.  I remember my Mum going through a phase of making small rocking chairs from wooden clothes pegs.  I kid you not.  During one year in the late 1970's it was a challenge to find a surface in our home free from glued together pegs.  I see from today's Google search that this craft is now referred to as 'vintage folk art' but I don't mind sharing with you that at the time I thought she had lost her mind.  I wonder what my boys think of the soaking lengths of willow around the garden begging to be woven and the half finished macramé structures/Christmas decorations/paintings that are strewn throughout our house.
  • I have always fancied myself as a 'bit of a not bad writer' despite having nothing but my own possibly over inflated ego to go on.  And why either my Mum or I think we are potentially gifted poets who missed their true vocation is beyond me.
  • The fact that I am becoming a member of various community based committees at an alarming rate. 
  • I am now able to admit that I am, more often than not, 'right'.  And on the rare occasion when I am wrong, then you are probably wrong too.  And even though you may think you are right, then I will always know that you are not.  Except with my Mum.  Because we all know that she is ALWAYS right.
  • If you are a friend in need of help then me and my Mum are a relatively safe bet.  We don't suffer fools gladly though and once we've made our minds up there's no turning back.
  • I have inherited the ability to 'wait for no-one'...need to shift a wardrobe?  Do it yourself!  Ready to go out?  Stand on the doorstep with your coat on despairing as all other humans in the house look for their shoes....keys...phones....Have decided to do something?  GET ON WITH IT.
  • Stubborn as mules. The pair of us.
  • Panic sets in if either of us are less than a minimum of ten minutes early for an appointment.
  • A seemingly genetic passion for a denim skirt.
So there you have it. 

Thankfully, despite only very occasional evidence to the contrary, there are worse people to turn into. 


Thank you for taking the time to read this.  Sorry to rush off but I need to get my hands on some wooden pegs...