Impractical shoes and a mother’s voice

I didn’t used to be able to make a single decision without worrying what my mum would think, way beyond my teenage years and far into adulthood. It would drive me crazy.  I’d go to get a clean towel from the airing cupboard, and I’d stand there for 10 mins trying to decide which colour and length of fibre, what type – beach, hand or bath my mother would choose.  I’d hear her scolding me for losing my house keys because I would just never learn to put them in the same place.  I’d catch a disapproving whisper “not the liquid eyeliner, too harsh” when applying my make up or a low, amused chuckle when choosing between two sets of shoes that I knew my mother would think equally impractical. I’d replay ten arguments in my head as to why I had made that decision, or this decision regarding my children’s food/clothes/birthday presents, even though it was only in my own head that my choices were ever questioned.

I used to chide myself for it. Why couldn’t I just trust my own instincts? Why did my mother’s opinion on absolutely everything I did as a 30-something still matter? Why was it even more important than my own opinion? In truth I often didn’t even know what my own opinion was, my mother’s voice in my head was so loud.

But now I love it.  Where once it infuriated me, now it only makes me smile. It reassures me, a calming familiarity in a world that is otherwise so changed. Warm, tender, teasing. And it’s in exactly the words she would have used, in her slightly staid tones and with a scent of a New Zealand accent.

And I listen to it now, just as I listened to it then.  Because it’s protective and wise and it knows me. And now I get that.