The Blues

That’s What She Said

On July 12, 2011, in Birthday, Family, by Rosie

Mum turns 80 tomorrow. It’s really hard to believe, considering one of her daughters (ie: me) has just turned 25. But guess what? This post isn’t about her daughters. Or her son or grandchildren …

When a woman turns 80, it means she’s lived through the major world war of last century, the Vietnam and Korean conflicts, the Falklands, the Cold War, the times of Gandhi, the Beatles, Hitler, Pol Pot, Kennedy, Churchill, Menzies, Mother Teresa, Princess Diana, Joan Sutherland, Clark Gable, the Queen Mum, Muhummad Ali, Castro, Anne Frank, Helen Keller, Mata Hari, Bogart & Bacall, Elvis, Trotsky, Madonna, Newcombe & Roche, Hepburn & Tracy, Cyclone Tracy, Dick Tracy, Tracy from across the road …

This is a massive kaleidoscope of names, for sure, but the most amazing thing about mum? If you dropped a name from this list or elsewhere, she’d know something about the owner. Even if was the simple notion of whether they were bald or not.

She’s seen the deconstruction of the Berlin Wall, was alive during Deep Throat, the bombing of Hiroshima, the liberation of Nazi Germany, the abolishment of apartheid, the coronation of QE2, the ending of the Australian death penalty, the public acknowledgment of the wrongs done to our indigenous people, 9/11, the opening of the Sydney Opera House, the lessening impact of TB and the arrival of HIV.

Mum has seen the advent of a female Aussie Prime Minister, even though she’s lived through an era where women’s rights were secondary to men. She’s living in an era where Barack Obama is President of the US, even though much of her youth was spent in an age where coloured rights were not readily acknowledged.

She’s welcomed the technology of iPad and ‘Words with Friends’ and high def TV screens into her octogenarian home!

But the woman? She’s so much more than the backdrop of 80 years of history. She’s a living, breathing hurricane of maternal love, annoying habits, antiquated opinions, loud opinions, definite opinions, heartfelt care, great conversation, funny foibles. Then there’s the repetition. Oh, and the opinions … in case you haven’t heard them the first time, then there are those opinions, just in case you didn’t get them that very first time … and some repetition on top of that …

Here are some fast facts about our fave 80 YO woman:

mum with (much) older siblings, circa 1959?

Mum has always been an attractive old thang, although she’s never thought so. She has a tendency to say ‘rudish’ comments, then put the entire blame on Dad, who will reply with a ‘by crikey’ or ‘for heaven’s sake.’
She’s partly responsible for 26 lives, no matter the length of time they walked the earth. Dad takes a lot of the kudos for this, but he’s never even been pregnant. Apparently.
Mum’s early life was very difficult. She lost both her parents by the time she was 14 and her beloved (only) sister was gravely ill during this period. During ‘those times’, grief wasn’t really discussed and such huge loss would (understandably) shape the woman she was to become.
It is true that every surface in Mum’s home is so clean, you could eat food directly off it. Or you could lick that surface just for fun, but GOD, then she would be cleaning for a week (lest your germs remain, you dirty hound!)
Mum can still answer most mathematical problems in her head. It’s true. I test her every week to assess her level of decline.
Her spelling and language skills are amazing, although she doesn’t have her own teeth and her face is susceptible to sudden outbreaks of plague-like symptoms. She’s still pretty much free to a good home!
Mum mispronounces stuff. She does it on purpose, I’m sure, to create a reaction and so she can be ‘talked about’ at every corner of her large, spread-outwardly family. Instead of ‘says’ (sez) she sez ‘s-ah-s’ (sahys, rhymes with laze). Instead of correctly saying her ‘sh’ words (eg: shhhhhhrink for shrink) she will say (sssss-rink) and then blame her dentures (but, thank God, her artificial teeth don’t make her look like a horse, coz that would be worse than being fat). Although not really.
Because imagine having a pot belly? Just, NO.
Mum wanted to be a nun. Then she met Dad. Then she realized that religious folk did, in fact, get none so her Reverend Mother dreams were folded away with her dress-up habit.
Mum goes to church to ‘reflect’, not to look at what other people are wearing or to don a Sunday best. She’s never NOT sung a hymn, even though her singing voice is (to put it nicely) OMFG shocking!
It’s true that Mum has been asked NOT to sing by family members. They even used the word ‘please’.
It’s also a fact that Mum would carry a unused hat pin to church (in her clutch) in order to control her six children. Some of us still have prick marks to prove it.
Yes, Mum used the word ‘muff’ in modern times (referring to the fuzzy, black thing a lady was holding over her hands) and was mocked until this day, due to the slang interpretation of this term and how it (the word ‘muff’) had an ‘entirely different meaning in my day’.
Sometimes, Mum will raise the entire ‘muff’ scenario again, just to say the word and get a reaction ‘muff, muff, muff …’
Once a family member mentioned that they’d have to take her power of attorney, she stopped.
The best days are those where not a MORSEL of fat touches her lips and she has a low-carb cappucino, a gluten-free muffin and at least 2 litres of water.
She married a man who walks too slowly, is now ‘too bent’ and drinks too much red wine.
Mum’s known this bloke (aka ‘Your father’) for nigh on 63 years.
They’ve never had a fight. !!!!

‘They’ say that we all eventually morph into a representation of our parents, despite fighting hard to repress the personalities of the folk wot gave us life. I don’t know about this. Sometimes, my siblings and I will joke about how much we sound/act like those two, and then instruct each other to take aim and fire at the heart if it becomes a reality. But the truth is, we’re pretty damn lucky and we know it.

Thanks Mum, for the gift of life, such as it is. For the person you were back then, for the woman you became, for the lessons you’ve learned along the way and have passed on to me. Thanks for never favouring one of us over the other, for feeding us well, for teaching us ‘stuff’, for nagging us to keep trying, for ironing our clothes and cleaning our faces. For getting up in the middle of the night to help us through illness. For sitting up all night with injuries, emotional issues, worries. For holding our hands, or smacking our faces (true fact!) for picking us up from sport or stopping us going to parties with odd boys.

For being you. For finally letting me be me.

What a journey, lady of the muff. Happy birthday!