My mouth... my mother’s words (From The Northern Echo)

My mouth... my mother’s words

10:50am Thursday 10th December 2009 in

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I TRY to resist it, but there are times when I just can’t fight it any longer. There is no getting away from it: I am turning into my mother.

I hear her voice, not in my head, but in my mouth as the very words and phrases she used with us as children come tumbling out.

One of the boys poured too much milk on his cereal the other morning and, before I could stop myself, the words: “Go canny wi’ the milk” shot out from between my lips. This was one of her favourite phrases at breakfast time, as she battled bravely to stop the six of us “eating her out of house and home”. And yes, I use that one a lot too.

When the teenagers are on their way out for the evening, my finger starts to wag involuntarily, slowly and surely, just as my mother’s did, as I warn them: “You know The Rules.”

No one actually knows what The Rules are. We never found out as teenagers, but, coupled with The Look – a stern, steely-eyed stare – no one is in any doubt that they have to behave or there will be trouble. Or Big Trouble, as my mother, and now I, would say.

When the boys ask what’s for tea at the end of the week and all I have in is a few vegetables, some tinned fruit and a banana, I have developed her knack for creating strange concoctions and then trying to make them sound exciting: “It’s Caribbean Cauliflower and Spicy Tomato Casserole followed by Banana and Apricot Surprise.”

I also find myself resorting to one of her stock replies when someone complains an item of clothing hasn’t been ironed properly and we’re all in a rush to get out: “Just put it on. The heat of your body will soon get the wrinkles out.” I’ve always thought that one was quite inspired.

I have, however, yet to accuse the boys of “gallivanting round the town”, if they have been hanging out with their mates instead of coming straight home from school when they should do. Nor do I gasp “God Save Ireland” with my eyes turned heavenward when they do something particularly shocking or alarming. But I expect all this will come.

I didn’t think I would ever pick up her tendency to mix up our names, though. The fact that she always manages to get through at least five monikers before she arrives at the right one never ceases to amaze us: “Barbara, John, Anne, I mean Helen. No, Ruth... or whatever you call yourself... would you pass me that salt please?”

She will tell me one of my sisters has called with some news, when it’s the other one. It’s created a lot of confusion.

Now I do this too and I can understand why my mother has had so much trouble matching the right face to the name over the years.

When you have lots of children in the house, you are usually having about three conversations at once, while trying to do two or three things at the same time.

Constant interruptions mean you rarely get to the end of a sentence without wondering what on earth it was you were talking about. In fact, I often find myself interrupting myself, as something more pressing pops into my head mid-sentence.

It’s not dementia, I keep telling myself, when I mix the children up yet again and urge seven-year-old Albert to get on with his physics homework while I shout up the stairs to 14-yearold Patrick to get ready for Beavers.

But I do now owe a big apology to our eldest son, William, who recently turned 18, after mixing him up with his little brother Roscoe, who’s only ten.

MY friend, our neighbour Lynne, appeared unusually taken aback when we were talking about the recent storms and I thought I had told her Roscoe had come into bed with us in the middle of the night.

Of course, I hadn’t realised I’d said “William” by mistake. Since she looked shocked, and assuming she thought ten was too old to be coming into mum and dad’s bed, I started to explain: “He doesn’t usually do it. It was only because he was frightened by the storm. And he just tops and tails, he’s at the bottom of the bed while we’re at the top.”

Just then, it dawned on me that I had said William instead of Roscoe.

When I explained we had a good laugh about it.

William wasn’t too pleased when I told him. “You actually told her that?” he shuddered. He shuddered again. “And she believed you?” Only for about 40 seconds, William, I told him. “Forty whole seconds?” He shuddered some more and looked as if he was about to vomit.

I apologised profusely, explaining that it was a bit of a family trait.

“You can blame your granny, she started it,” I said, adding, before I could stop myself: “God Save Ireland.”