Carlsberg Don't Do Mums

"Carlsberg don't do Mums" said the man in the beer advert, "but if they did..."

I can honestly say that my mother doesn't have a clue who I am, what I am doing, and that she has only the vaguest idea of what makes me tick. I wish I could say she was reading this blog, but she doesn't use the internet. We set her up a broadband connection and gave her a computer. A year later it was in the same place, unattached, never switched on. I suppose I should be grateful that she sends (and even sometimes responds to) text messages - usually when she is stuck in traffic and has nothing else to do to relieve the boredom. She occasionally sends cards and calls me if I haven't called her after a couple of months.

When I called her recently to give her my medical news, she gave me 5 minutes of scant attention before breaking off to remind father about the football match on TV.

Don't get the wrong impression here - I'm not feeling neglected or unloved. But, my Mum is very definitely not a Carlsberg Mum. She's 72 and still making up for lost time, enjoying her freedom with her husband, having the robust "we waited all our lives for this and we're making the most of it while we're still here" attitude. My Dad goes along with everything she wants, more or less, and if she's happy, he's happy.

Thank God for that. Good for them. It means that since they are seldom at home (unless recovering from some injury or other - the last was a broken toe) and I am permanently busy and several hundred miles away, I am really not expected to visit.

My sister is much more sussed out than I am about controlling my Mum, giving strict instructions about when they are allowed to arrive - but then, she has the bargaining chips of children. I managed recently to coincide at my sister's and spent an afternoon with them on neutral territory. That was a success.

Once, when I was feeling particularly low and unloved, I told Mum that she didn't know how to relate to me for the simple reason I had no children. "My children are my work," I said, expertly mixing insight with a measure of resentment and a garnish of pomposity. "Why don't you come visit me? You never do because I have no children."

To my great surprise, she took this entirely seriously; and a weekend visit to London was arranged. Now, I really did not want this to happen, but having said my piece, I could hardly say no. When they arrived afew weeks later, Mum was suffering a recurrence of her breathlessness, which meant she could not walk very far at all. She was not being DELIBERATELY unwell of course.. just funny how these things always seem to happen. It meant that she became the focus of the entire trip, as we accomodated her and ensured that she was OK.

We had a nice weekend, actually, we ate and drank and chatted, and on the Monday morning, I arranged for Mum and Dad to visit the London Eye, which they loved, whilst I determinedly went to my regular therapy session, meeting them afterwards for lunch. I printed my blog - or at least fifteen or so pages of it - and bless her, she took it back to Somerset with her and read every word.

I am just like my Mum, I realised then, the same emotional age, needing the same reassurances, too easily wounded, distracted by fears, afraid of missing out, determined to be the centre of attention, needing love and not very good sometimes at getting it.

The visit did me good. I've been much kinder to both her and myself ever since.

Don't You Think It's Time You Dropped A Few Pounds? What Time Do You Call This? The Oldest Noodle