Birds of a Feather

09Jun08

For reasons that shall not be named (namely – carpenters, hayfever and heartbreak) I am currently residing on a very spiffy air matress in my mums livingroom. Which is yet another proof of the folly of best laid plans…

It started like this: my own home covered with dust and stifling in the current, aforementioned heatwave, I decided to housesit for summering Mother. A sweet deal, the flat spacious, balconied, and with an infinate fridge of reindeer steak and salmon fricadelles. I looked forward to a big linnened bed in a cool northfacing room, rosé and endives and eternal chatt with a few chosen comisserators. All for watering a few pots of basil and a terrifyingly lushious azalea. But of course, like anything, it was but a dream too good to last. Mum is back in town. And she packs her own skillet.

It is actually terribly good of her. Somehow my voice on the phone, transmitting all that is a stuffed nose and multiple crying-jags, must have tweaked at some remaining umbiblical cord. She of few gestures and many divorces threw herself into her car and raced back to town, bringing TLC, good advice, and the first of the home grown strawberries.

I was ever so glad to see her, brisk haircut and newly comissioned me-myself-and-I sapphier sparkling on her finger. We had a lovely walk and a lovely talk and a lovely dinner at a little trattoria, all nettle-asparagus lasagna and dried tears, then home to silly TV and fold-out-secret-flower tea.

It was only this morning, waking up on the fold-out bed, cold dregs of tea in a cup on the floor, that I realised what I had let myself in for. All the sordid facts of sharing, at almost 27, breathing space with a progenitor. The slight embarassment and the backache from that damned “bed” I could bear. But I worried what 24/7 face to face combat on the kitchen tiles would do to my shredded self-esteem?

Now – you will know I am already no spring chicken when it comes to domineering in the cooking deparment.  But it all pales to nothing, in comparison to mummy dearest. After a few shared meals I have discovered every slight annomality, ever faintest trace of “my-way-or-the-high-way” that I see in myself thrown back by a 59+ mirror. I am living with my future. And though it is kindness itself and cooks a mean orange marmelade – I am not sure it is a breeze to share room and board with.

The problem is simple. She is neat. I am not. So we squabble. Or shall I say squabbled? Because somewhere between justifying my sloppy vaccuming and defending my right to leave toothpaste stains on the mirror, I had an ephippihanny, however you spell’em.

Cutting the edge of womens lib and running a straight to the top career – wrangling three kids and as many hubbys – and always managing to present, at the end of the day, a nice three cource meal complete with apple pie and a slim trim figure… it must have taken some sacrifice. If the only thing to go was a certain politesse when it comes to messy countertops – well so be it. She is still an inspiration, abnormal cleanliness or not.  

So while 24/7 combat on the kitchen tiles might be a bitter medicine to swallow, I guess it is rather the thing for my shredded self esteem. Proving beyond doubt that while we may be a tough and fighting breed, we can still be loved, by those who forgive our lashing tounges. And why not be the first to do it?  Tonight I will cook her a shrimp salad. And whipe down sans mercy.

Filed under: Mr. Wrong(s): Break-ups, Non-starters, Dogs   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: cleaning, endives, flat, house-sitting, lesson learned, mother, mum, neatness, rosé, strawberries, TLC, trattoria