I wrote this post a few days ago for Mad Manic Mamas
I think I’m turning into my mother. Actually I know I am. I embarrass my child, just like my mum used to embarrass me. I love my mother; she is a warm, generous, funny lady but when I was a teenager her loudness and daftness used to sometimes make me want to hide away. At family parties she would dress up in my brother’s school blazer, squeeze into his grey trousers, roll them up to her knees and pretend to be Jimmy Krankie. Everyone loved her ‘Fandabbydozy’ impressions, they would squeal with delight, but my brother and I would be mortified.
Now I have my own teenager who finds me annoying, especially when I sing, hum or move to music in a certain way – in the car or in the kitchen, even though there is no-one else around to see me. He rolls his eyes, whines ‘M-u-u-u-m-m, p-l-e-a-s-e’ and I have to stop. I mustn’t act silly in front of his mates, ask them too many questions or in any way entertain them although this summer they have all been very grateful that I have been around to feed them bacon butties on a regular basis.
However my mum’s Jimmy Krankie impersonation pales into insignificance compared to the damage I may have caused my son by subjecting him to my performance in ‘The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas’ earlier this year. I feel he may need therapy.
Yet today I saw a chink of acceptance, a little sliver of hope that he may be growing up a little and is realising that I’m not so bad after all. Getting out of the car he walked beside me as we made our way into town and said,
“Actually it’s okay if I walk alongside you now. Just don’t sing, ok?”