PAT McDERMOTT:

No matter how young or old our children are, a mother’s job is never done.

a mother’s job is never done

On one of my last trips home my mum said it was time we visited the family. This jolly group couldn’t agree on what to have for breakfast so it’s no surprise they were resting peacefully in four different cemeteries.

We set off to pay our respects in my bright orange rental car.

“It’s orange, Patty! You can’t drive an orange car to a cemetery!”

Scientists say a complex chemical reaction takes place when an adult spends more than a few hours with his or her parent. You might have kids, a job and a mortgage but your parents see a 14-year-old girl sneaking out wearing mascara and a mini-skirt or a 17-year-old boy nicking his dad’s beer.

I’d been home 30 minutes. Already I was speaking through gritted teeth.

“It’s ‘Survival Orange’ mum. It makes the car easy to spot in the snow.”

“It’s spring dear! There’s no snow.” I played my trump card. “It was the only car left and it was cheap!”

She walked around the car. It was ridiculously orange. But Mum loves a bargain. I’ve known her to clamber on the bus in a snowstorm and ride to the other side of town for a ‘two for one’ deal on margarine.

‘Okay,” she said. “I’ll keep my head down so no one can see me.”

For the next few hours we went from cemetery to cemetery, peering at headstones while Mum told tales about the family. I knew little about her early life. She’d been left with a stepmother during WWI while her father and brother were fighting in France. She got by pretending to be Anne of Green Gables, the heroine of her favourite book.

Years later, when the MOTH (Man of the House) and I were young and fearless, we flew to Canada to see her. We packed colouring books, teddy bears, three kids, a toddler, a baby and as many disposable nappies as we could carry.

Everyone on the plane agreed it was a memorable flight.

“Why aren’t they smiling mummy?” asked a small voice when the wheels touched down. “Aren’t they happy the plane has landed?”

“Oh they’re happy,” said the MOTH. “Believe me, they’re happy!”

Mum lived in an apartment on the 11th floor. The kids fell in love immediately. With her garbage chute.

During a ‘clean-out’ of her kitchen they carted bottles and old dishes to the chute, shrieking and dancing with joy at the sound of chipped china plates and glasses smashing and crashing into the metal bin 11 floors below. The older kids remember the noise and the squeals. The younger ones wish they could.

Mum was big on warnings. Never swim after eating or you’ll sink. Going to bed with wet hair was a sure-fire way to get pneumonia. Curly hair is a gift for which I should be grateful, even though I live in humid Sydney.

I wonder what my kids will remember about me. That I was excitable, bossy, brimming with unwanted advice and unhelpful suggestions?

That I got them to school on time, was a reasonable housekeeper and a good debating coach? That I never pretended to know the difference between a loose head prop and a tight head prop except that ‘loose head’ sounded scarier?

Will they remember I drove thousands of kilometres, in all kinds of weather, a street directory open in my lap, to deliver and retrieve them from parties, dances, concerts and sleepovers?

Will they remember the parties, sleepovers, ‘gatherings’ and riots I attempted to ‘supervise’ at our place? Because the neighbours do.

If they say I talked too much I’ll say ironing 30 white shirts a week makes a person babble. If they say I worried too much I’ll say every mother does. Happy Mothers’ Day my friends. AWW