Im seventy years old, and I dont think I ever quite learned to put myself firsteven after becoming a mother. I married young, and from my very first pregnancy, life rather reorganised itself around everyone else. I never worked outside the housenot by choice, mind, but because, well, someone had to keep the home fires burning. My husband was off at dawn, back after dark. The house was my kingdom. The children were my subjects. The exhaustion was my loyal companion.
Nights blurred into each other: one child with a temperature, another being sick, a third wailing for no obvious reason. Me? I was alone. No one asked if I was managing. Next morning, up I goton autopilotto make breakfast and carry on. Not once did I say, “I can’t.” Never asked for a hand. Somewhere, Id got it into my head that being a good mum meant being invincible.
When the children got older, I fancied signing up for a classjust a short one. Whats the point? my husband asked. Your jobs done now. I believed him, so I stuck to supporting from the sidelines. When one child dropped out of uni for a bit, it was me who negotiated gentle discussion with their father, trying to smooth things over. When another had a baby before they were quite ready, I did the rounds at the doctors and minded the baby until she could, as they say, get herself together. I was always the one picking up the pieces.
Then, lo and behold, along came the grandchildren and the house was filled with noise again. Schoolbags, toys, tears, giggles. For years, I was a nursery, a canteen, and a nurse, all at once. Never expected a medal, never grumbled about it. When I was running on empty, they’d tell me, Mum, youre the only one who really knows how to look after them. That kept me ticking over.
After a time, my husband became ill. I cared for him until the very end. Then the excuses started rolling in: Sorry, Mum, not this week, Lets see you next weekend, Ill ring you soon. Nowadays, weeks drift by and I barely see a soul. I wish I were exaggeratingweeks, honestly. Ive even had birthdays when all I got was a text on WhatsApp. Sometimes, completely out of habit, I lay two places at the table. It only registers when the foods done and I realise theres nobody to call.
Once, I fell in the bathroom. It wasnt anything dire, but I proper scared myself. Sat on the floor for a bit, waiting for someoneanyoneto ring. Nobody did. I got myself up, dusted myself off, and never breathed a word of it to the kids. Didnt want them fussing. So, I learned to keep shtum.
My children say they love me, and I know they do. But love without turning up is a bit of a kick in the teeth, isnt it? They call, but its all rushed, always on the go. If I start telling a story, its, Oh Mum, lets talk later. That later never seems to happen.
The hardest part isnt the loneliness, to be honest. Its the feeling that Ive somehow morphed from essential to surplus to requirements. I was the glue that held everything togethernow Im just a box to tick in the family diary. Nobodys cruel; its just that Im not needed anymore.
So, what would you suggest then, eh?
