“Little girl don’t you forget her face
Laughing away your tears
When she was the one who felt all the pain”
My earliest memory of my mother was hiding underneath her skirt.
I was a painfully shy kid. People I didn’t know, and some that I did, scared me. So when we went anywhere, I would sit on the ground, grab mum’s skirt, and pull it over my head. Hiding within the folds of her clothes made me feel safe. Protected.
I used to fall asleep in the car. Mum would pick me up and carry me to bed. I loved that feeling —of sinking into her body. Her strong arms wrapped around me, the smell of her skin reassuring —engulfed by her warmth. Sometimes, I would pretend to be asleep just to get that feeling again.
One time, Dad dragged us out to the Bosnian club. I would have been six or so. During the course of the night, Mum pleaded with him to stop drinking. She was worried about how we would get home as she didn’t drive. He didn’t listen to her. He got absolutely obliterated. Dad often drove us home drunk but for some reason, this night was different. Mum gathered my brother, sister and I up and we began to walk home. It was cold, very late and very dark. Fright replaced sleepiness as I followed her, street after street. She held my hand tight and said words of encouragement when we started to complain. We had been walking for an hour when finally, our house was in sight. Mum spoke to us all the way, telling silly tales and singing nursery rhymes, anything to keep us awake, and keep us walking. At the time, I thought she was trying to cheer us up but now I know better. She was trying to cheer herself up.
My mum and brother used to play fight in the kitchen. He was a strong, tall teenager but no match for her. She would pin him to the ground every time. I loved watching them. Laughing. Joking around. A glimmer of light in an otherwise childhood of dad riddled darkness.
As a teenager, I would race home from school. I would jump on my bike and peddle my legs hard to get to the shopping centre in time, so that I could accompany mum home. I would take the shopping bags off her, piling them up over my handlebars no matter how heavy they were. We would chat about books, all the way home.
Mum was everything to me. Larger than life. Stronger than anything else in the world.
Now, at 74 mum is frail. Bouts of chemo have given her osteoporosis, thinning her bones and giving her severe joint pain. She can’t stand up straight. She can’t walk without a frame. She survives on high doses of pain medication. Pretty soon she’ll be in a wheelchair. Thanks cancer.
My mum loves a strong cup of black tea. She will demolish anything sweet, especially biscuits and chocolate. Toast with loads of butter and marmalade is her perfect breakfast, lunch and dinner. John Denver, Kamahl and the Beatles were played on vinyl, on high rotation. So were traditional Irish folk songs. I still tear up when I hear Danny Boy. My mum loves the Queen. A framed picture of Elizabeth II on her coronation took pride of place on the lounge room wall. It still does.
Manners and family.
She would instil the importance of these two things over and over again when I was growing up. Good manners should be used every day to make a good impression on others and to feel good about oneself. You can always tell those who were brought up properly —they have good manners. Family is all you have. You must always cherish your family no matter what. Tell your brother and sister you love them, even if they have been mean to you. Hug often. Kiss. Family is love, protection and support.
When I was nineteen, dad kicked me out of the house. I was challenging him too much and that was just not on. I moved in with my older sister. I also became angry. I covered all of those special moments I had with mum with a thick, heavy blanket of resentment. I blamed mum for my shitty childhood, for not standing up to dad, for staying with him despite his alcoholism, his rage, his violence. I used to beg her everyday to leave him. She never did. She was hanging onto the belief that when my brother, sister and I left home, he would go back to the way he was before he had children —kind and loving. Then he died.
And then my eyes opened.
Mum did the best she could. No one is perfect, regardless of my desire for her to be. How could she live up to the idol I had created? I had placed her so far up on a pedestal that she had no chance. Mum had her own shit she was dealing with. Being married to dad was rough. Everyday she would put up with his negligence, his anger, his violence and disdain. It was no surprise that she had created a fantasy world in her head —one where dad was loving and thoughtful —who cherished his wife and children. That’s how she endured it all.
I thank mum for everything she did for me. I wouldn’t have survived my childhood without her.
She may be frail but she’s still my giant.
Happy mother’s day mum! Love, your baby, Aisha.