Biting my tongue

The trick about giving advice is knowing when to do so.

WHEN I first left my native Scotland at the age of 20 to live overseas, I thought my mother would begin treating me like an adult.

I’m not sure what sort of mindaltering substance I was ingesting way back then, because I quickly discovered that she had other ideas. When I returned home for the first time, after an absence of seven months, it felt as if I’d entered a strange parallel universe, where I was perpetually being treated like a 16-year-old.

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” she would sometimes say, as she eyed the outfit I happened to have on, just as I was about to leave the house to catch up with friends.

“No, I’m going to take it off the minute I get out the front door and walk around in my underwear,” I would say. Quietly to myself.

On that first trip back home, I also discovered that she still expected me to adhere to my old 10pm curfew on weekdays. Like, what sort of independent woman does that? I suspect she thought that if I stayed out late at night, I might meet a man in some dark spot, get overly friendly with him and end up getting pregnant.

Little did she know that most of the girls I went to school with, the ones who were married with children by the time they were 18, got pregnant on their mother’s living room carpet, in the middle of the afternoon. So-called “bad things” can and do happen at any time of the day or night.

Even when I returned home years later when my son was a few months old, my mother couldn’t help herself. I do love her, but there’s still only so many times you can listen to unsolicited advice about your son’s diet, sleeping patterns and bowel movements before your mind begins entertaining thoughts of matricide.

A few years later still, when I returned with two children in tow, she would question things like the amount of wine I drank (which only made me want to drink more – lots more); the suitability of purple as a hair colour for a mother of two (it wasn’t purple, it was aubergine); and my driving skills – like, does she really think that I wouldn’t stop at a zebra crossing when someone is walking on it? It was only during my recent trip back to Scotland, some 30 years after I first left home, that I realised that my mother has finally stopped giving me advice. Maybe it’s her age, or my age, or because she’s finally written me off as a lost cause.

Whatever the case, I now find myself in the same position that my mother was in when I first left home. Both of my children are young adults on the brink of achieving total independence and I could possibly screw things up with them in a similar fashion.

How I interact with them today will probably determine the sort of relationship I will have with them over the next few years and possibly beyond.

Although I don’t want to be perceived as giving them unnecessary advice, I feel that it’s still my place to step on the emergency brake if they are in danger of doing something totally dumb. If they want to date unsuitable people, I’ll bite my tongue and let them learn from their own mistakes. If their clothes give them an appearance of someone who’s dressed in the dark, so be it. And if they want to work in Outer Mongolia after they graduate, I won’t stop them from enjoying the experience.

But if they start associating with dubious characters, or consuming illicit substances, or making plans to give all their money away to a Nigerian scammer, it is still my duty to step in and avert a crisis in the making – even if it means they may not view me in a favourable light afterwards.

If I give them too much unsolicited advice, I can imagine the conversation they might have with each other just before the next year-end holidays.

Daughter: “Are you going home for Christmas?”

Son: “Yes, but I hope Mum doesn’t nag me about sleeping late.”

Daughter: “I know the feeling. She’s always telling me that I should dress a little more femininely. It’s getting really old now.”

Son: “And what’s with the purple hair? Isn’t she a bit too old for that?” “Maybe we should tell her.” “But what if she gets upset?” “Then perhaps we should wait until we’ve had the Christmas turkey.”

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