Approximate reading time: 22 min

I had fun last Saturday!

I couldn’t stop smiling the whole night….

The last thing that I wrote in my previous post was:

“Please don’t let me be the oldest one there!”

Well, I think the universe heard my plea ’cause I kind of felt like I was the youngest one there.

I have seriously never been to a meetup with so many people clearly over 55 before.

Oh my GOD!!!

Did I just manifest a geriatric meet-up?

(My manifestation powers are unbelievable I tell you!!!!;-)

You gotta love London!

Where 60 is the new 30!!

In 2011 I wrote a post called ‘The science of dance‘ where I described one of the first times I ‘attempted’ to go out by myself and not drink alcohol. It hit me on Saturday night how much easier not drinking has become, I barely even gave it a second thought.

I felt pretty confident and happy the whole night without it.

So you see it is possible to have fun without alcohol!

(That only took 11 years:-)

*******

So I started writing this post on Monday.

It was meant to be a short post simply commemorating my mother who died on the 20th of December, 6 years ago.

(Yes, a short, wee little post!!)

I just wanted to acknowledge her and put a poem up that I had written about her.

Well, that was the intention….that now, seems to have completely run away with me. I have spent pretty much this entire week (which was designated as assignment writing time) writing about 3 generations of my family instead!

(Feel free to miss the history lesson and jump to the poem if you like!:-)

It has been slightly exhausting….

(Why do I do this to myself?)

but it’s something I have been thinking about for a long time now so I am really glad to finally get it all down.

It feels, for me, that so much of my healing, these last couple of years has been around simply acknowledging and coming to terms with my ‘mother wound.’

(Even as I type those words I can sense the uneasiness they prickle in so many people.)

Funny enough I logged onto Facebook briefly this morning and I saw an OM post about healing the ‘mother wound’.

I then made the gigantic mistake of reading the comments.

As always there was a barrage of very angry comments about ‘Mother shaming’ and how wrong it is to use those words.

(A clear reminder for me as to why I don’t post any of my writing on social media.)

At first, I was angry.

But then I just felt sad.

Why are people so quick to go on the defensive?

Why is there so little room for other people’s personal experiences?

Any woman who has struggled with her own relationship with her mother will be the first to tell you how much shame she carries around because of it.

Words like:

“Oh well, your mother did her best!”

simply compound that shame and stop so many women (and men) from even questioning what it was that they might have needed as children.

How can you possibly start to heal and give yourself what you need,

when you have no idea what it was that you even missed out on?

Last year I read “Discovering the Inner Mother: A Guide to Healing the Mother Wound and Claiming Your Personal Power” by Bethany Webster which was probably one of my top 3 ever books to read. While this book helped me to have compassion and understanding for myself and my own ‘mother wound‘ it also taught me how this wound is so often generational. This book instilled a deep sense of curiosity in me and a genuine desire to know more about my family of origin. As a result, I feel like I have spent the last year playing detective trying to build a picture of what my mother, my grandmother and my great-grandmother’s lives might have been like.

I’ll admit with neither of my parents around to ask, it has been a little like building a puzzle with only a quarter of the pieces and a non-existent box cover!

I have instead chatted with my aunts and my one remaining uncle, I have gleaned little bits of information from my brothers and cousins and read through much of my mother’s writing. As I have attempted to string pieces together I feel like I have created a mosaic-like picture of their stories. Granted it’s a story filled with holes and assumptions (at times) …..but it’s a story that makes sense to me. Even though I will never know the full truth of all their pasts, the one thing that I have unequivocally gained throughout this whole experience has been an infinite amount of compassion for all the women in my family.

For the first time, I can really see this deep mother wound that has been interwoven and passed down through the generations, starting with my great-grandmother Mary (May) Davies who lost her mother when she was a small child. Her father remarried and the upshot of that was that little May inherited a stepmother who didn’t particularly like children that much. May was apparently so unhappy at home that she ran away as a young teenager and got a job as a parlour maid. She ended up leaving her home country, Wales, and immigrating on a ship to South Africa with the family she was working for at that time.

May was engaged and working in a bookshop in Cookhouse when she met her husband to be Edward Catton who was originally from Essex, England.

As the story goes, May wore her engagement ring on a chain around her neck, and when Edward eventually discovered that she was engaged, he was furious.

No doubt she charmed him into forgiving her as they still got married and began their life on a farm in Cookhouse. May had her first child at 22 and her 4th child at 29. Life raising 4 children was particularly hard mostly due to her husband’s struggle with asthma. As a result of this Edward lost his job and then the farm about 7 years into their marriage. May did what she could to support her family by crocheting table clothes or selling her baked goods. There were, however, times when they had to be financially supported by May’s brother in Wales.

May was only 52 years old when her husband, Edward, died.

All I remember about my great-grandmother was a sweet 90+-year-old woman, who had a little yellow-knitted mouse, gave me lots of cuddles and passed away when I was 6 years old. I have heard comments like she was a tough, independent woman who was also a wonderfully funny and engaging storyteller. All of which I am sure are true.

(I personally have nothing but loving memories of my Nana.)

But from other accounts, I have also heard, that she had a fiery temper and that she was not a particularly happy person in her twilight years. Being someone that completely missed out on any genuine mothering and care in her infant years, this doesn’t really come as a surprise.

This confidant, ballsy, full-of-life woman could also be angry, bitter and dogmatic in her beliefs, which meant at times she struggled to get along with most of her children.

That is, except for her 2nd daughter Iris Catton.

Iris was my grandmother and from all my recollections of her, she was beautiful.

Calm, quiet, gentle and unassuming.

Everybody loved Iris.

(Most especially my grandfather)

I personally adored and somewhat idolised my grandmother.

I remember spending hours listening to her regale stories about her life accompanied by the sweetest, most angelic little laugh.

To me, growing up, she was nothing short of an angel.

My mother, Brenda, bless her, might be turning in her grave as I write this because it is well-known that her experience growing up with my grandmother was quite different. She passed a comment to one of my brothers years ago along the lines of :

“You have no idea how strict your grandparents were for me as a child”

(But as is so often the case with grandparents, the second time around…… they get to do it better!)

I used to dream of being just like like my grandmother when I grew up…..

Just Imagined…

Never complaining about anything!

Never saying a bad word about anyone!

Never even getting angry…….

(It’s like being a bloody Royal!)

Oh, what bliss!!!

Iris epitomised the good girl in every way.

From what I, now, understand about attachment strategies I realise that my grandmother typified the A-type strategy.

(Yes, that would be the strategy I haven’t finished writing about yet, soooory:-)

It wasnt that she didn’t have any negative feelings or emotions,

(Cause frankly you can’t be human without them.)

She was just extraordinarily gifted at keeping them hidden.

As an infant, Iris had unconsciously learnt that her only way of surviving life with a difficult mother was to inhibit all those negative emotions. There quite simply wasnt enough space for her emotions and her mothers ……

…so her negative emotions got shelved!

Destined to be the ‘Good girl’/ peacemaker in the family, she fulfilled her role well.

And her reward for being the good girl?

Iris was the child who spent 73 years living and then caring for her mother.

(Oh the joys of being the golden child!)

While all her siblings went on to live their own lives relatively, independently from their mother,

(As most healthy adults should!)

Iris was left ‘holding the baby mother’ so to speak.

Iris got engaged in late August 1939.

A couple of days after her engagement, on the 1st of Sept 1939 World War II was declared.

My grandfather, Wiltse Arnott, apparently asked his new fiance, who was a mere two months shy of her 30th birthday, if she wanted to get married before he left for war or when he returned.

My grandmother’s response was:

“You marry me NOW, or you marry me NEVER!”

On the 9th of September, 9 days later, they were married.

They had exactly one week together as a married couple until Wiltse was shipped off to North Africa on the 17th of September.

As soon as her husband left, May, who had lost her husband the year before moved in with the young bride and stayed with her for the next 43 years. (Granted she did spend time visiting and staying with her other children throughout the year but those were only short visits.)

In fairness, to them both I have no idea what May and Iris’s mother-daughter relationship was actually like. My gran obviously never said a bad word about her mother and I was too young to pick up on any vibes, had there been any.

I did ask my one aunt if she had ever heard my grandmother complain about having her mother live with her for so long?

(I mean surely some part of her must have felt frustrated at never having her own space?)

Apparently, the answer was no.

My aunt said that my grandmother did absolutely everything in the house and that the only complaint she ever heard her make was:

“I just wish my mum would help me with something! Even if it was just to help fold laundry”

My heart broke when I heard that.

Iris was the cook, the cleaner, the carer and the driver for 3 children, a husband and her mother.

I can only deduce that being the good girl your entire life must be truly fucking exhausting.

It was only when my gran got cancer at 73 and had to have a mastectomy that she was finally forced to put her 96-year-old, bedridden mother into residential care. I found this in some of my mother’s writing:

“This did not sit easily with my very in-control and determined Gran and she began to complain and kept the folk awake at night continually calling for a nurse – each time we visited we had the same begging story to be taken back to Mom’s home.” 

My cousin told me that his father (my mum’s brother) had told him growing up with their grandmother in the house had been truly horrible.

He said that she complained and moaned about everything and always seemed upset with the children, (in particular.)

And the best part is that my lovely mother had the privilege of sharing her bedroom with her grandmother for most of her childhood.

My aunt told me that the week before my mother’s wedding, May had to be sent away to Port Alfred until the wedding. The reason being, she simply would not stop harassing my mother or my grandmother about my father. Apparently, May had never liked my father. My father was a farm boy from the wrong side of the tracks and in her mind, he was definitely not good enough for her precious granddaughter.

My heart broke for my mother when I heard that,

especially since my mother only ever had wonderful things to say about her grandmother.

Imagine, preparing and looking forward to your wedding, while someone you love continues to undermine and belittle the man you have chosen to marry.

My mum, in her writing about her grandmother somehow failed to mention that part.

Was she just in denial or had she subconsciously just blocked out all that nastiness?

That, I guess, I will never know…..

but what I do know now, is that growing up for my mother could not have been easy.

My mother was 5 years old when her father finally came home from the war. I am certain that missing out on those first 5 years of bonding had a significant impact on their relationship. Apparently, my grandfather used to often joke and say

“Well, my wife ‘says’ she’s mine!”

I wonder how much-hidden truth was festering behind those words?

Not because he wasn’t her father but perhaps more because he was conscious of this deep disconnect he had with his only daughter. I wonder too, how he must have struggled with his own trauma, coming home from war into the arms of a ‘new wife’, two needy children and a not-so-happy mother-in-law.

Did he have the emotional capacity to love and care for his children at that point……?

Could I blame him if he didn’t?

My mother’s relationship was always strained with her father.

She poignantly wrote in one of her dairies that

“Jesus was the loving father I never had”

As much as I adored my grandfather I was never blinded by his faults. It is well-known in my family what my grandfather was like. Most of us kids laugh with fondness at the memory of him and how impatient and obstinate he could be. Although I spent countless nights sleeping at my grandparent’s house I vividly recall one particular night that I stayed over with them when I was a teenager. I remember my mum picking me up the next morning and me blurting out to her on the car ride home:

“How on earth did you grow up with that man?”

Had I known the word then I would have probably added:

“He is insufferable!”

(I vaguely recall him barking orders at me continually and him expecting everything to be done his way, to the T. )

I remember my mum smiling, this sad almost resigned smile and all she said was:

“It wasnt easy”.

I sensed that a small part of her felt slightly vindicated, perhaps to know that it wasnt just her that found him difficult.

I know that one of my mother’s biggest resentments towards her father was that he had not allowed her to finish high school.

My mother was an incredibly bright and charismatic woman and all she had ever wanted to do was go to college and become a teacher. I have little doubt that had she been allowed to follow her dream she would have climbed that teaching ladder pretty quickly. Although she often cited this as the biggest grievance towards her father I am well aware that her ‘wound’ goes further back and so much deeper than that.

My grandparents (for all appearances) had a truly wonderful marriage.

The only word I could use to describe it would be symbiotic. My grandmother started to lose her eyesight at 65 and my grandfather in many ways became her eyes, reading recipes and letters to her, doing all the shopping that she needed for her baking. At the over-ripe age of 67 he was finally forced to get his driver’s license so he could take over that responsibility.

My Grandparents set the table and ate breakfast, lunch and supper together every single day.

He brought her tea in bed every morning and continually spewed out much-loved phrases like

“Isn’t your granny the best cook in the world” and “Don’t you have such a wonderful granny!”

Always said with eyes beaming full of love and absolute adoration.

I honestly don’t think I ever saw the two of them walking separately….granted it might have been because of her eyesight, but my grandfather clung to his bride’s hand whenever he had the opportunity.

As a child, I used to think how wonderful it must have been to have two parents so magnificently in love.

(I don’t recall ever seeing my parents hold hands or hug each other with genuine affection and warmth.)

As I got older and I started to wonder what it must have felt like to be a small child looking in on that love. Was it, perhaps, so inclusive that at times my mother, as a little girl, felt like she was simply a bystander, not really feeling ‘part of it’?

In hindsight, I don’t ever recall my grandfather ever paying my mother a compliment or hugging her warmly. I myself grew up with a father who showered me with love and affection. A father whose face lit up whenever he would see me. So it often made me sad to realise that my mother didn’t seem to get that from her own father.

Except make no mistake, he gave it to me.

My grandfather’s arms were always open wide for a hug and a cuddle and his adoration for me was as clear as day.

I have this image of me cuddled up on his lap laughing, with my mum standing to the side…watching quietly.

It must have been incredibly hard to watch this man, shower her daughter with the love and affection she so desperately craved from him as a child.

When my mother died I found a timeline in her journals that she had written of her life. She had filled in all the monumental dates, her wedding, the birth of my brothers and how she found Jesus and became a Christian in 1974.

1975, my birth year, was completely empty.

My mother had forgotten to put her daughter on her timeline.

I will admit, when I saw that I actually laughed. Not an inch of me felt angry with her, it was indeed a Freudian slip of note! I have always known how much my mother loved me and wanted me…..but I have also begun to understand how my mere existence also triggered so much pain and unconscious jealousy in her. This gorgeous little blonde hair, green-eyed girl who seemed to get all she had so desperately wanted and needed from her father

And then subsequently from her husband too.

I have come to appreciate how my mother dreamt of having a daughter who would love and adore her so completely, someone who might indeed mirror back all that love that she had inside. Instead on some level all I did was remind her of what she didn’t have.

As hard as it is at times writing about all the ‘angry’ parts of my relationship with my mother I cannot deny how freeing it has been as well. Finding my voice and owning my anger has freed up so much space in my heart for my mother.

There is so very much I wish I could ask her now.

What I would do to just be able to throw my arms around her and say:

“I get it!”

To be fair, I am not sure if I would have ever been able to come to terms with my own anger and pain had my parents still been alive today. In a small way, that has been the only blessing in losing them early. Grief has been the catalyst in helping me to see and accept that my parents were flawed human beings, who got things wrong, but who also got things right.

Both my parents absolutely adored me with every fibre of their being.

I am very conscious that there are too many people in this world who can’t say that about their parents.

So today I just wanted to acknowledge how grateful I am for that!

Written the 6th of March 2021

Husband Dearest

I love waking up on Saturdays naturally.

6:00 AM with the birds singing in the trees.

Lying there, content, thinking happily.

Random thought: “mmm…I could use a cup of tea!”

The upshot of that thought …

“Dear husband you are LATE!”

I’ve been waiting, fucking years for our first date!

I could really use a cup of tea in bed!

I mean isn’t that the whole point of being wed?

Okay, okay, all joking aside

 I’ll promise I’ll make a truly wonderful bride!

But OWAL husband, you’re nowhere to be seen?

(Do ya’ realise I’ve been waiting, since I was 16?)

I mean I’ve been proactive; I online dated for years.

I’ve had many relationships, I’ve shed oodles of tears.

I’m far from perfect, but I think I might be ready.

Husband dearest I WANT TO GO STEADY!

But I’ve come to realise as ready as I may be,

perhaps it’s as simple as you’re not being ready for me.

You have your own life; your own story unfolds.

Perhaps at this moment, you have no strength to hold …

…another person close, you could be healing your own grief.

Or perhaps building an empire, becoming your own chief?

Truly a million and one reasons, why we’ve not met ….

perhaps it’s as simple as… it’s not our time yet?

It’s funny, a small vision popped into my head.

My tiny “poetry” creature sulking with dread.

“But what about meeeeee?”

he cries like a child.

Absolute fear, that he will be exiled.

“Where will I go, if you find someone to love and hold?

There are so many stories still to be told!”

I smile,

“It’s true, I spend every spare moment with you.

You have become my best friend when I feel blue

You’ve made a good point, my little friend poetry!

So maybe, perhaps I’m also not quite ready?”

So, I’ll hold you husband,

close to my heart.

Learn to be grateful for this time we’re still apart.

One day when our souls are ready to convene.

It will be a loving, warm connection, where we both feel seen.

We won’t need each other to “complete” our souls.

We’ll be strong independent, healthy, and whole.

So, for today, I’ll go make my own cup of tea.

But please just remember,

“Husband Dearest…. You owe me! “

A cup of tea and your love for me

So, then I got thinking about my cup of tea.

Why it awakens so much warmth in me?

I have written so much about my struggles with my mum.

But there are so many parts of her, not yet sung.

My mother truly loved me, with all her heart.

“I prayed for a daughter, from the very start!

When the nurses brought, you as a baby to me.

I sobbed my eyes out, they were so shocked to see.

They actually thought I didn’t want you!

Nothing could have been further from true.”

The year before mums’ death it’s poignant to see,

she retold the story at least 3 times to me.

We may have had our troubles, our struggles to get along,

But it’s as if she wanted THAT memory to be strong.

I don’t have many happy memories of growing up.

But one of my best, that has always stuck.

The memory of my mum, waking me up with some tea.

Then sitting in silence, quietly with me.

No words were ever spoken, she would quietly scratch my back.

In our early morning ritual, we never felt lack.

We were both simply present, letting the other be.

In these morning moments, her love flowed to me.

As much as I love words, sometimes they get in the way.

We don’t always have the means, to express what we want to say.

I’m so grateful for the 6 years, that we both had.

To build a new relationship without the buffer of my dad.

We learnt to talk less; we finally could see.

There were too many things, on which we’d never agree.

We’d go watch movies, I took her out for meals,

we’d sit and watch hours of funny cat reels.

We spent two days, baking a humongous wedding cake.

And on the hottest day of the year, we watched it disintegrate.

We laughed at her cat Cheeky, the self-proclaimed “Lord of the house”.

Who’d continually bring in dead birds’ lizards, the odd mouse.

“He just loves you mummy!”

I’d often jokingly implore.

“If he loves me so much he can leave the dam things at the door!”

As she got older she softened, became a gentler mum.

She learnt how to laugh more and simply have fun.

When she was diagnosed with a glioblastoma brain tumour,

She lost most of her words but never her sense of humour.

Those three months with mum, were so incredibly precious to me.

I got to mother my mother and bring her lots of cups of tea.

“The money or the box” was what we watched EVERY NIGHT!

So much kindness and loving, such a relief not to fight.

We sometimes watered her flowers.

(I’ll admit in the middle of a drought)

I just didn’t have the heart to call her out.

I got to put her to bed, every single night.

I even said prayers, while I held her hand tight.

I can still smell her smell, like a million fresh flowers.

I have bought enough of her perfume to last 10 000 hours.

One night, when I was putting her to bed,

she quietly whispered these words and said:

“Wonderful, wonderful so wonderful”

(I knew she was talking about her little girl.)

I just hugged her tight, and thanked God for ‘our’ time.

Three painful months, but our love finally shined.

I’m crying my eyes out, do you ever stop missing your mum?

But I’m so very grateful, we never gave up on our song.

Mum I miss you being my absolute biggest writing fan.

Your constant reminders, you’re always praying for my man…

“He’s coming my darling! (although I’m not sure why his so late?)

Your father and I have been praying since your birth date!”

So, I know you are in heaven giving God grief.

You will be camped on his doorstep until my man’s sent to me.

The thought of this image always makes me smile,

Mum there was nothing timid about your style.

But hidden beneath your strength, was a tender soul.

Who’d do anything for anyone, but also longed to feel whole?

So, I thank you, my beautiful mother.

For manifesting me.

For giving me this life that I live gratefully.

It’s pretty amazing, how much emotion has woken up in me.

And all brought on by a simple cup of tea