An Ode to my Mother CULTURE

An Ode to my Mother

E m m a H o l l y

SENIOR OPINION EDITOR

Sometimes, I think that I could go from point to point on the Earth and I would never meet anyone who compares to my mother.

I could swim through Mediterranean seas and walk along the Norwegian fjords, and I would still want to tell my Mum about the fact my feet are aching. She would undoubtedly reply with a swarm of emojis, each one with its own meaning. The owl means she is sending me wisdom. The cat, because she knows I miss my own. The day she discovered Memeojis should have gone down in history – no conversation is now complete without a sticker or two.

I should also mention that her character looks nothing like her, because she is horrific with technology. My mother finds email attachments baffling, keyboard shortcuts frightening and is allergic to typing quickly. She barely seasons her food beyond a shake of salt, and on a good day, pepper. She considers anything below fifteen degrees Celsius to be Antarctic conditions. She is squeamish and finds my Dad’s sense of humour a little crude. She has bitten her nails to the quick for over five decades. She can eat a 500ml pot of yoghurt in one go, and is entirely responsible for my bread addiction.

Her greatest flaw is that she started watching Gardener’s World in her late forties; she now follows Monty Don on Instagram. (She’s advancing.)

She also bought me a notebook upon which Paddington Bear was on the front, because she knows that when the going gets tough, I, as a twentyone-year-old woman, resort to the Paddington films. She will put my clothes in the tumble dryer if I accidentally forget and leave them dripping in the washing machine. She will make spaghetti Bolognese on Saturdays, and will sometimes serve it with garlic bread. She remembers that I don’t like liquorice and have a vendetta against caramel. Most of all, she gives wonderful hugs.

My mother doesn’t need to say I love you to say I love you. She says it about fifty times a day in her many ways; I’ve never known love as unwavering as hers. When I have experienced the very worst days of my life, she has always been the first responder at the scene. I have never known her to shy away from her family’s battles. When her own mother passed away, she still made sure that me and my brother still had our packed lunches with which to toddle to school.

The blogger Tim Urban was reflecting upon his childhood, and how he spent around 90% of his year with his parents before he turned eighteen. Once he left home, he realised he spent a grand total of 3% of his time with them. That statistic petrifies me. I’m in the limbo of flying the nest, whilst my brother has recently moved out. It’s a strange feeling. We’re growing up, and my mother is watching us do it. Crucially, to reduce my Mum to the title of “mother” is to take away her essence. She has collected a few name tags over the years; daughter, sister, friend. Girlfriend, then fiancé, then wife. Ultimately, mother. She wears them with pride and dusts them regularly.

I have previously expressed to her that, surely, becoming a mother is an act of self-sacrifice. You are waving goodbye to a degree of autonomy, time and money. She has always dismissed this idea with a tilt of the head, and told me that her children are her greatest achievement in her life.

I often wonder who she would have become if neither me nor my brother had joined the mix; would she have pursued her career in banking? Would she own a bakery? Perhaps her and Monty Don would be best friends.

I hope she knows she’s my greatest achievement too.