‘When you have kids of your own you’ll understand’ and other things your mother was right about

As the years go by and my children reach ages I remember myself being, I am beginning to sympathise more and more with my mother. The quote above says it all really. I remember her saying that so clearly and you know what? She was dead right.

Probably the scariest thing is how close I now feel to my own childhood, and how as a child I thought my mother’s childhood was something that had happened way way back in the dim and distant past, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. (She was 25 when she had me …) It is actually quite freaky that my daughters probably think the same thing about me and really have no comprehension that when I say I remember what it’s like to be five, I really do.

I must admit to feeling rather guilty now about all the times I told my mum she was pronouncing things wrong because she didn’t have Donegal Irish. Boy has that one come back to bite me in the bum. Now it’s me who’s the odd one out in the family and has to work hard to ensure the girls are waved off to bed with an Oíche Mhaith pronounced the correct Donegal way. It’s only a matter of time before they are telling me ‘It’s not dooh it’s dove’. Doh.

Sometimes I find it hard to believe that my two see me the same way I saw my mum, i.e. someone responsible and reliable who knows what they’re doing. I mean, I don’t even feel like I’m properly grown up yet. Do you ever, I wonder?

But I suspect I must be, with some of the things I’ve heard myself saying recently, with a voice straight out of the past. Like ‘it’ll end in a row’. My mother’s observations were always spot on. How she knew that a slightly boisterous but good-natured game was about to rapidly descend into a fist-fight is something that I could never understand. Now I do. The warning signs are oh so obvious from the other side. And it should of course be followed up with ‘I don’t care who started it’. And never was a truer word spoken. (I bet that’s what George Mitchell said to the unionists and nationalists too.)

One of her habits which I’ve been extremely happy to adopt is to respond to repeated pestering by singing. It goes as follows:

Child whines: Please …

Mother sings: Please, please, don’t eat the daisies …

Child whines: Can I …

Mother sings: Can I canoe you up the river …

Child whines: I don’t want to …

Mother sings: I don’t want to join the army, I don’t want to go to war …

Singing is a pleasant distraction from the whining, I find, and the added bonus is that I remember exactly how annoying this is from the other side.

Oh and how could I forget ‘Not enough sleep’. My mother’s diagnosis for every ache and pain and general moodiness. And you know what, I suspect she may have been right about that one too. And yes, I find myself diagnosing the same condition as the cause of evening grumps and bedtime tantrums. Luckily the next generation don’t seem to find this as annoying as we did. Actually I only found it mildly irritating, but my sister can still, at 29 years of age, be heard to mutter, ‘Not everything is not enough sleep you know …’

It’s like there’s a list that’s programmed into us of Things Mothers Say. You don’t even realise how much of it you’ve absorbed or how all these patterns of childhood and parenthood are repeating themselves.

All that’s left for me to say is, ‘And if [insert name of best friend] stuck their hand in the fire, would you stick your hand in the fire?’ Then it will be clear I have officially turned into my mother.

Mind you, I could do a whole lot worse.