I have many flashback recollections of my earliest
years —the feel of my father’s baggy trousers as I clutched them, trying
desperately to keep up with his long strides; matching clothes my mother made
for me and Barbie, pink gingham with white trim; masses of purple flowers in my nana's garden that smelt bitter despite their allure; the unreachable height of
the wooden beds at my grandparents’ house and the almost brittle crispness of
their linen sheets; playing shop beneath the peppercorn tree that stood in the
vacant block of land behind our house; walking to kindergarten holding Mum’s
hand. In fact, walking almost anywhere holding Mum’s hand. Feeling safe. Being
certain that I was loved.
Never much of a hugger or kisser like most modern
mums, she was a classic 1950s-movie-style mum — great cook, fussy housekeeper.
She wore an apron, a ‘pinny’ she called it. Dad was the breadwinner and Mum the
homemaker. She went to work only
when we were at high school and she thought we were old enough to safely fend for
ourselves. It must have been difficult for her with Dad working long hours and
travelling for business but she never grumbled or made a fuss. They had a particular ritual whereby
Dad would kiss her on the lips and the nose every morning before leaving for
work and then repeat the process in reverse when he returned at night. And she
always slipped into the bathroom to freshen up her ‘lippy’ just before he
walked in the door.
For years I thought that the woman holding the
flaming torch for Columbia pictures, was my mother. She was as beautiful
as my mum.
I thought all mothers were like that, just as
I believed all dads read the paper when they got home from work and played
golf on Saturdays.
We were expected always to be polite and honest. Cleanliness and respect for people and
property had to be maintained. There were no rules about eating everything on
your plate or taking your shoes off at the door or only watching one hour of
television as there were at my friends’ houses. Reasonable limits were set and
we adhered to them. I don’t ever
remember her being angry. She never raised her voice. I was going to grow up to
be just like her.
Fuck was
I ever wrong.
There's a lot to be said for the 1950s style of mothering. Everything in the home seemed to run like clockwork. but of course that was due to the hard work and dedication of the mother (Bloody hard work as well I shouldn't wonder)!
ReplyDeleteyep...I'm not that selfless!
ReplyDelete