Like Mother, Like Daughter

Not so long ago, I said to my mother, “remember when we were young, and we would spend the day at home playing café?”

We would hunt through the pantry and freezer, write up a menu with our discoveries and spend hours getting our café setting just right. Tablecloth, a small vase with the fresh seaside daisies that were always present but exploded in our front garden each summer. Even now, those daisies make me smile. They’re so reminiscent of home.

We’d welcome our most loyal customer and serve her regular cup of tea with milk and sugar, ask what she would like to eat and busy ourselves creating a meal. A fruit platter for the best customer in town? Of course! Two party pies with sauce and a teaspoon to scoop out the meat? Coming right up! Those days, that game, the memory is just wrapped in love.

When I shared how special that memory is with Mum, she looked at me for a moment and said, “Those games, those days – we had nothing. We couldn’t go anywhere, pay to do anything because we had no money. I was home, all the time, with four daughters. Those games were out of necessity.”

Perspective. It’s a wonderful thing. How someone else’s hard times can be some of your best memories.

We often hear that it’s not about the things that our parents give us, but the experiences. For us, that was unequivocally true. Mum gave us games, fanciful ideas, memorable experiences, belief in magic and whimsy, adventure. Waking up in the morning and running out to check our carefully constructed fairy garden only to discover there was water splashed from the seashell pool, the crumbs of the picnic scattered over the miniscule table, and one tiny shoe left behind. Oh, the excitement and joy we felt. I never want to lose that feeling, that joy in magical belief. Mum understood how much that meant to us.

The most valuable thing Mum ever gave us was a belief in ourselves. Not once in our lives have any of us felt as though we were unable to do exactly what it was we wanted to do. We were given everything we needed to be successful – emotional support, encouragement, a taxi, a shoulder to cry on. We were given a mother who was so committed to ensuring her four beloved daughters were always striving to be the greatest versions of themselves.

My mother is a teacher. A wonderful, passionate, dedicated teacher. A teacher who gives all of herself to her job, her kids, her colleagues and her school. A teacher who showed her daughters the importance of education, of knowledge and of building other people up. Just as importantly, she showed us the significance of being kind, and understanding that everyone is worthy of compassion and kind words. Mum understands the value of a quick smile, or a quiet touch on the shoulder to check if someone is ok. These small acts and gentle reminders were ubiquitous as we moved through our childhood, whether Mum realised we were noticing or not. Quietly observing our mother exist and grow in her profession has undoubtedly helped shape the way my sisters and I engaged in life, interacted with others, and generally saw the world. Mum inspired me so much I became a teacher myself, and I attempt to emulate her caring and committed nature daily.

One of the great joys in my adult life has been getting to know my mother as an equal, a friend, a woman who has an identity separate from ‘mother’.  She is a wonderful person. Mum is fun, she is curious, she is always pushing herself to do more. She is quick to a laugh. She loves to learn. She enjoys a mystery more than anyone I know. She loves a dance floor. I’m beginning to appreciate how similar I am to my mother, and for that I am thankful. Everything that forms my identity I can trace back to Mum. A love of books and stories, commitment to family, undeniable love of champagne. What fun we have sharing a glass of our much loved bubbles, not because we are obligated to spend time together, but because we truly enjoy each other’s company.

Becoming a mother myself gave me a fresh perspective of how much you must give of yourself to your children, and how much that can change who you are as an individual. Mum has been ever patient with my constant stream of questions and wonderings, no matter how inane. “Is my child talking enough? When will she grow more hair? Should she be drinking more water? Is she going outside enough? Eating enough? …am I enough?”.

Our life is an ordinary one. Perfectly, wonderfully ordinary. We’ve found such happiness as a family, growing up in the ordinary. Growing up, branching out, creating our own families – but always coming back together whenever possible, our parents the beating heart and ever-present soul of the family.

My sisters and myself are strong women, because a strong woman raised us. We are indisputably lucky to call Trish Johnstone our mother.

This essay was published in "Mother: memories, moments and stories", an anthology of essays about mothers for the Bendigo Writers Festival.

"Mother" is published by Accidental Publishing, and is available for purchase at Dymocks Bendigo or here.