Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Can mothers and daughters be friends?

Celeb mum and parent of three Sara Cox discusses the inevitable divide that grows as mother and child get older.…

Mum’s been down for a visit.  We normally schedule her pilgrimage from up north down to that fancy London to coincide with one of the children’s birthday parties, but not this time. It was mum’s idea to break with tradition and pop down during a regular week and I don’t blame her, she probably wanted to avoid being met at my door by an already frazzled me brandishing a butter knife and a tub of Clover, signalling poor mum’s shift on butty-making duty has begun before she’s even got her coat off.

So, this time things were different. She arrived to a warm hug and a hot brew and didn’t have to decant a single packet of Hula Hoops.

Three action-packed days followed, with me and mum just hanging out. I introduced her to my spiritual home (Brent Cross), she did Isaac’s bedtime story, bathed Lola, gave Renee her bottle and did the grandma thang with her usual panache. Throw in a blow-dry/manicure treat at Charles Worthington and a posh dinner out and it’s fair to say we had a wicked time.

So when it came to saying goodbye did we cry? Didn’t we at least get a bit dewy eyed as we hugged farewell? Nah, not really. I love my mum but every visit has a natural lifespan. Like some species of mayfly, about four days is all that can be expected before decay sets in.

It’s as though the moment mum steps down onto the platform at Euston a huge Monty Python-esque hand turns over an hourglass and by the time the final grain of sand trickles through it, the smiles have become more forced, answers to random questions have been given through gritted teeth (“No, I don’t know what we’re doing for Christmas, mum. It’s August.”) and the more mum chats away the more I regress back into a sulky teen.

Thankfully we sense this and usually wave goodbye with seconds to spare.

My relationship with my own mum makes me think a lot about how Lola will treat me as she grows up and we gradually grow apart. Like a spaceship that has to break away from its launch rocket to enable it to continue its journey alone, I know for sure that there’ll come a time when she’ll not need me. 

She’ll not laugh at my jokes or dance round the kitchen with me.  She won’t insist I do a twirl for her before a night out so she can give my outfit approval ‘cos she won’t really care any more. Annoying, nosey and clingy; not three dwarves who didn’t make it into the final cut but three words Lola will probably use to describe me in a few years.

I sometimes promise myself that in the future I’ll not chatter on or spout trivia at her about long-forgotten acquaintances she never cared about in the first place but it’s no use fighting it because its nature.  As Sir Elton sings, “It’s the circle of life”: Night follows day, Jennifer Aniston has lovely hair and your crumpet will always fall butter side down. It’s just how it is.

I’m hoping that no matter wherever she is and whatever she’s up to, she’ll know she has a mum who loves her and would do anything for her.  I know for sure she’ll come back to me eventually and we’ll hang out, like me and my mum just have.

A few years ago a magazine interviewer asked my opinion on motherhood and since I’d recently become a parent I felt more qualified to answer; I thought I’d check out my theory with mum though. “So, you have a child who worships you ‘til she’s a teen, when she’ll tut and mumble at you until her twenties when she won’t return your calls all decade but then at about 30 she’ll have a baby of her own and will want and need you again?”  Mum said, “Yup, that’s about right.”

So, I have all that to look forward to but in the meantime Lola is only just six and will defo still be up for a dance round the kitchen at breakfast tomorrow morning, which, after writing this, I’m going to cherish even more.

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