Mother's Day Memoir: "So like your mother..."

"So like your mother …”

As a young, carefree teenager, I used to cringe when well-meaning relatives would pass the comment above. OK, the similarities in facial features were obvious, but I was my own person, right? I had dreams of travelling the world and carving out a unique career.

My mother had found her haven as a homemaker and was the best confidante a girl could have, but her lifestyle was not what I had in mind for myself.

As a child, I used to watch her making gingerbread for various neighbours on Christmas Eve. The list was endless – widows, elderly gentlemen living alone, people who had done “a turn” for us during the year. My sister and I had to wait until each cake was cool, then wrap greaseproof paper around them and print the appropriate name on each label. I liked to skip this step and would “lick the bowl” before the whole procedure started again. If I dropped the golden syrup tin on the floor, it was inevitable that the fervent Dunmanway prayer “Jesus, Mary and SAINT JOSEPH...GET OUT!” would ring out across the kitchen.

When the wooden spoon was rattled on the plate rack above the cooker, it was wise to vacate the room. I can remember being quite confused when I started school and the nun at the top of our classroom uttered the very same chant with great reverence, but rattled the long chain of rosary beads at her waist instead.

School days rolled quickly into college, some travel and then marriage. Like day follows night, a mortgage put paid to any flights of fancy I may have had, plus a few babies landed me firmly on the runway of life.

“The Resentful Phase” is how I describe the ensuing period. My time was spent cooking , working and rearing a family just as my mother had. I spoke like her: “Close the doors to keep the heat in” or “Scrape that jar before you open another one.”

We brought the children to Wexford or Donegal, just as our parents had done. I always had a tissue up my sleeve to mop ice-creams or tears as she did. Yes, I was content up to a point, but every generation wants to take a different path to that of their elders. This is what makes human nature so special – the motivation to drive our experiences a little further and feel you’ve made your mark on the world.

Next came “The Sandwich Phase”. My mother was very ill on numerous occasions and there were many trips on winter evenings when we put the little chaps in pyjamas, furry boots and coats to head for Dublin. After a visit to the hospital, we would call in with “the news” and a casserole for dad on the way home. By the time we silently carried our sleeping toddlers in and disrobed them, we were fit to collapse. I felt like that stretchy- armed character from the film Toy Story – being pulled in all directions as I loped along. While smiling on the outside when people complimented me on my coping skills ( just like my mother ....), an inner voice was selfishly screaming for ‘ME’ time.

My mother got some respite from illness and when life was good, she would spoil her grandchildren with thoughtful gifts. Conscious of time ebbing away, we enjoyed lots of shopping trips and fireside chats. When she died, it helped the gnawing pain of grief when people remarked on my hand gestures, the tilt of my head, and the a hint of a west Cork accent when I spoke. I still catch myself checking my reflection in a mirror to see if I can I spot her image.

Our beautiful daughter, Audrey-Jo was born six months after she passed away, hail and hearty in spite of a difficult pregnancy. I have no doubt my mother oversaw her safe delivery – another precious gift from a woman who gave selflessly all her life.

The first year after her death was particularly hard. On many family occasions when I would encounter distant relatives, I would bemoan the fact that I hadn’t listened to her when she described who had married who and when they had moved “up to Dublin”. I would try to pick up clues in conversation as to their identity while people chatted on about their memories of my mother.

Likewise, my little boys missed “Granny Jo’s basket”. Mam used to always arrive in our house with lots of mystery items for the children. She would place her basket on the worktop while the boys stood beside her, eyes gazing upwards with giddy anticipation. Then she would ceremoniously take out the goodies.

“A book for Barry … let me see, a truck for Graham … and have I anything in here for Gareth? … Oh, look … a little car!”

I missed how she used to nurture me with sherry-infused eggnogs when she had come down to help me after the boys were born. It had been so comforting to nip into a much-needed shower after night feeds and find a hot-water bottle in the bed when I came back to the room. She would be cooing over the sleeping baby in her arms and wink at me to snuggle under the covers. We all want to be cosseted by our mothers eternally, in spite of our protests of self-sufficiency.

I experienced many peaks and valleys during this time without her comforting presence and my endorphin levels were very low. I wasn’t sure whether I was suffering from postnatal depression, grief or possibly a mixture of both.

The turning point came on 4 July when my daughter was just a year old. She had not been bothered with “bum shuffling” or “couch cruising” like her brothers. No, she just stood up that morning and picked up a duster I had left on a coffee table and walked towards a low shelf. She then proceeded to lift an ornament and clean underneath it, replicating what had been my mother’s daily routine (something I most definitely did not inherit).

As she turned to me for approval, she could not have imagined how symbolic her gesture was. I knew in that moment that I too had to brush away the cobwebs and move on with life in all its glory. To say that life has been easy in the interim would be a lie, but at least I can acknowledge now that after darkness comes light.

I still believed , however, that I could push myself to do it all: homemaking, working and pursue some further study. I took extended maternity leave and enrolled on a course in early child development. I had it all planned – I would write essays when the children were gone to bed and do the prescribed reading in the car while waiting to collect the older pair from school. All was going well until the day I checked my sleeping infant in the rear-view mirror, as I turned yet another page. No baby!

In my earnest effort to be wonder–woman, I had left my darling bundle at home. I swung the car around and drove like a maniac up the road. With tears of guilt streaming down my face, I peered in the kitchen window as I fumbled for keys. I could just make out her chubby legs bouncing contentedly in the playpen . When I swept her up in my arms, I vowed to be less ambitious for a while at least.

Which ‘phase’ am I in now, you may ask? Surely I’ve had time to snowboard in Switzerland, go on safari and visit the Taj Mahal? Well, no, actually. I still plan to scale the Sydney Harbour Bridge and walk the Camino but all in good time. You see, I found the key to fulfillment a while ago. When I need to solve a problem or pull myself out of the depths of sadness, you will find me transfixed as warm golden syrup and melted butter merge with cinnamon -scented flour, baking gingerbread on a Saturday afternoon. My teenage daughter makes me coffee as she chatters incessantly, unburdening her soul. She needs a role model to fill the place of the granny she never knew. Therefore, I’ve found my true persona in everyday, ordinary things ... just like my mother.

Valerie Murphy is a primary teacher, living in Co Kildare. Her four children are actively involved on the family farm where they breed pedigree Suffolk and Texel sheep alongside Charolais and Limousin cattle. She has previously presented pieces on RTÉ radio programmes Sunday Miscellany and A Living Word.