(source - thegiftexperience.co.uk)
Obviously if you are one you know that being a mum changes you totally and permanently; socially – you stop hanging out in bars and start hanging out at school gates, physically you’re hanging out too, and not in such a groovy way, but thanks to the cuddles from little arms you don’t even care (that much). Mentally things aren’t much better, not only do I still know the names of more teletubbies than members of the cabinet, but I can’t even bring myself to care about whether this is wrong.
We all know about what being a mum does to us, for good, for bad, forever, I’d like to talk today about something much scarier, not just becoming a mum, but…
…becoming MY mum.
I had realised a while ago that I was secretly (at least I hoped) becoming my mother. It had started with the birth of my first child, I found myself saying things like “ eat your greens or your hair will fall out/you won’t be able to see in the dark etc., although I could never as a child work out he interest of being able to see I the dark when we were sent to bed before Top of the pops most of the year, it probably took my brother and I a few years to realize it actually got dark while we were asleep, it was usually light when we went to bed, and light again when we got up.
Recently I’ve become my mum in a different more “if I don’t get eight hours sleep and drink enough water I’ll pay the price” kind of way. This has been quite disturbing as I’d always been proud of myself for surviving on kebabs, no exercise, and the motto “salad & water are boring for boring people”, along the lines that, even as a converted non-smoker I would always choose the smokers’ corner as I had more in common with the people there.
No longer, I’ll happily join the non-smokers now, and I actually feel better when I eat a balanced meal, the shame of it. I won’t go as far too say I’ve given up alcohol or anything appalling like that, I wouldn’t have become my mum if I had anyway, more her polar opposite, like that frightful neighbour we had when I was a child, you know the one, thick ankles, always fed her children proper food and had them in bed by about 4pm.
Every time a “sit up straight, “there’s no points for being so mean to your little brother”, ”this room looks like a bomb has hit it” slips out of my mouth I wince, but I can’t help it.
On the bright side, it could be worse, I could be turning into dad -“stop playing with the remote control-it’s not a piano”, and of course the famous time he told us off for not putting the mash and the sausage on our forks in the right order.
What “mummisms” do you hear yourself say?