Thoughts on Mothering Sunday

The news this week has been dominated by the premature deaths of two celebrity mums- Natasha Richardson and, today, Jade Goody. The death of any mother of young children is sad at any time of year, but seems more poignant in the week leading to Mothering Sunday (I refuse to call it 'Mother's Day', sorry). Today I have noticed that many of my friends are in the same position as I- mixed emotions as, as mothers and (in some cases) grandmothers themselves, their predominant thoughts are still with their own mothers, who are no longer with us. For me personally, Mothering Sunday falls at a difficult time of year, midway between what would have been my mother's birthday in March, and the anniversary of her death in April. 

In the aftermath of Natasha Richardson's death, the Daily Mail republished a letter written by Vanessa Redgrave to her daughter Natasha, several years ago. I found it extraordinarily moving, and thought to share it here as my offering for this particular day. Every mother makes mistakes whilst sincerely trying to do the best for her children. To admit these mistakes as openly is very brave, as it can take years for the child in the relationship to fully understand, having usually (by that point) made similar mistakes her/himself. I wish I had been a more  considerate daughter; I wish I was a stronger, wiser, more patient mother to my children: and I hope to learn from my mistakes as daughter and mother as I attempt to become a kindly,non-interfering grandmother. Watch this space.

what are we doing to our children?

This news item is so sad. The part which saddened me the most:

Mike Greenaway, the director of Play Wales told the report's authors: "Possibly the most significant finding, which perhaps should not come as a surprise, is that when asked to choose between their own childhood and childhood today, all the adult groups said that they would keep their own childhood because of the 'freedom to roam' they had as children.

"For many of us this must resonate with our own experience. Perhaps, if we reflected upon this as a society, we might begin to welcome the sight of children outside in our communities, just being and playing - rather than expecting that they must always be 'gainfully engaged'.

" 

At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old woman, when I was 10, during the summer months, the only rules were that I had to have breakfast before I went out, had to be home no later than 12.40 on the dot for dinner; after helping clear the table, I was free to do as I wished- and back in again by 5.40pm for tea. I was allowed to 'play out' in the street next to ours until 8.30pm when I was expected to be home to get ready for bed, no later than 9pm.

In reality it meant I spent mornings at the local library, or swimming; afternoons inevitably 'up the common' (i.e. Wandsworth Common) or, on a Red Bus Rover day out with friends, no adults (aged 10!!) touring London for the day, which city we subsequently  knew inside out and if anything went 'wrong' it never occurred to us that we wouldn't be able to sort it out ourselves; and the evenings were spent playing out in the street with the kids who lived there, engaged in hopscotch, or skipping, or donkey or any other number of games involving throwing a rubber ball in the air. My brother usually wandered (slightly more dangerously), down to the River at Battersea Bridge, to fish. Sundays were different in that we were expected to go with Dad to visit our nearest set of grandparents in the mornings, but often went out to Clapham Common in the afternoons with Mum. By age 12, we were attending test matches and Wimbledon and show jumping unaccompanied.

In contrast, I learned recently of a 9 year old boy who doesn't have time to visit his cousins, because he spends his weekends being ferried by parents between structured activities.

Give me the olden days, any time.  We didn't have a phone, or a fridge (no kidding) and only 3 channels on a rented black and white tv which took ages to 'warm up', but I'd prefer it to kiddy life today.

oh, what a tangled web we weave...

This story caught my eye earlier this week, mostly because the entire story surprised me, for a couple of reasons....

1- Why lie about reading a certain book in order to impress someone? How can you lie about reading a book; if a conversation develops on said subject and it becomes painfully obvious you haven't got a clue what you are talking about, what has been achieved other than humiliation? Enough of that around already, not looking for more, thanks. (Raises the bigger issue : why lie about anything in order to impress someone? it's painfully dishonest, displays a lack of integrity, and will just come back to haunt you.)

2- why ever do people lie about reading 1984? It's not the longest or the hardest read in the world. It is on my 'read again ' list for this year as the only time thus far I have read it was at school, aged 14, when we had to read it for a prescribed text in our third year. So what's so hard about reading it?!!

and for the record, of the books listed:

1. 1984 - George Orwell (42%): yes I have read this!

2. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy (31%): in fits and starts, on and off, more or less

3. Ulysses - James Joyce (25%) :tried it several times but never finished it; prefer Portrait of the Artist;

4. The Bible (24%): yes

5. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert (16%) :nope, but I know I should try it

6. A Brief History of Time - Stephen Hawking (15%): nope

7. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie (14%):nope, no intention of trying it

8. In Remembrance of Things Past - Marcel Proust (9%): no

9. Dreams from My Father - Barack Obama (6%): waiting for a copy from eldest offspring who has this volume;

10. The Selfish Gene - Richard Dawkins (6%) : nope.

I