Yes, you are quite right with your maths; it has actually been seven months since my last entry. In the spirit of feeling the imperfection and doing it anyway, I am going to pick up where I left off (albeit on completely different subjects). My excuse(s): a highly spirited toddler, a soul searching nine year old boy and about twenty different students whose experiences of life have kept me awake at night. Anyway, onward.
Today: Sisterhood
My mum is my new hero. Growing up, it was always my dad. He and I were both creative; loved a good debate, both always needed to go swimming if we'd had a bad day, pored over Dylan lyrics and howled our way through Fawlty Towers episodes. He was funny, cheeky, took charge, had a great memory, told stories, was late for everything, knew lots without ever seeming to read, would listen to my weird head until 3 in the morning, planned our holidays meticulously and expected very high standards from me and my brother. He was a great dad. Still is.
My mum was more backstage. She shopped and prepared the meal that dad and I would debate over. In fact, looking back, she was probably also doing the washing up as the debates stretched through the long evenings. She quietly taught us the life skills of the proper washing up protocol, how to put a duvet cover on without looking ridiculous, the importance of putting rice in our salt shaker (it absorbs the moisture - changed everything). Dad taught me the therapy of a good swim but mum took me to the endless lessons that earned me my neat strokes. Parenting is, obviously, a team sport; they were on the same team but I always saw my dad as the captain.
Is it because the man was still the head of the house in the eighties? Is it because we were more similar and I always place 'relatable' people on more of a pedestal? Is it because he was funny? Humour is a big draw for me. Was it that I was a child, so always too self centred to realise that I needed a lot of background maintenance that I took for granted? Or was it the old classic that dad was fun and mum did the discipline? I'm not sure.
I've just spent a Christmas week with my parents - their forty second as a married couple - and my mum blew me away. How have I never realised how selfless she is? Everything she does, and that's a lot of things, is in order to make someone else's life easier or a bit sweeter. When I asked her which cheese she'd like for the cheese board, she said, "Your dad likes St Agur." She got up at sunrise on Christmas Eve so she could get to the supermarket and back in time to not delay us all going out for the day. She prepared every meal while we were obliviously relaxing in the living room, enjoying our holiday rest.
Cups of tea were continuously brought out. My children had her 'climbing' the hallway with hiking sticks in a line when all she wanted to do was sit down and watch Doctor Who on iplayer. She didn't even flinch when yet another bowl of shreddies landed milk-side-down on her dining room carpet, courtesy of my two year old. Of course she knew a great tip on how to clear it up using just a kitchen towel and some baking ingredients.
I've always liked Edward Hopper's paintings because they seemed to celebrate the quiet characters in life; the peripherals you could call them. Standing looking at the figures he painted, I always imagined a Hollywood star or a suave Wall Street banker was being photographed flashily just a few feet away but that Hopper was more interested in the quiet lady leaving her house in the background. He put her in the centre of the frame and forced us to ask questions about her.
I don't think I am doing my lovely mum a disservice by comparing her to these peripherals. I'm sure she would be very happy in their company; just this morning she wouldn't let me take a close up photo of her in her new hat and mitten set. She ran to the other side of the field and told me I could take it from there.
My revelation is that, although I'd liked Hopper's peripherals, I'd always taken for granted that I should want to be the focus of the photographers a few feet away. That we should indulge the quiet mystery of these characters then get back to the business of starring brilliantly in our own lives. My revelation is that I would rather be with the quiet lady leaving her house in the background, I would rather be on the other side of the field with my mum's new hat and mittens because their quiet acts and clear words are world changing. Turns out, while my dad was busy being the captain, my mum was busy being the ship.
