Slug Names and How I love My Mother.

Tourists feed the scabbing seagulls in Devonport. Auckland city in the background.

As I may have mentioned I have committed to helping mum sort out her flat. She doesn’t want to ask anyone for help, but because I keep showing up, she’s letting me do more.

A couple of people in the family used to offer help, but  they didn’t understand what’s going on for mum and what the ‘holding on’ is all about. Everyone’s security, identity, way of staying sane in an insane world is to try and cling onto something (which makes you insane!). You can imagine the world spinning and these little fleas of humanity are sucking on for dear life, doing their best to extract what they can before their time is up, completely consumed and consuming. Some of us invest ourselves completely in what we do in order to define who we are. It’s what we’ve been taught and how capitalism keeps thriving. Advertising wouldn’t do so well if we felt as beautiful as we actually are, if we knew we weren’t fleas infecting the planet with our greed and misery. I digress.

What I wanted to tell you was how much I love my mum. She is fucking hilarious and cute. I know that she has ‘issues’ (who doesn’t?) but let me tell you why I love her so much.

 Amongst one of the many piles of paper to be sorted through is a list.

In red pen the title reads “Suggestions for Slug Names”. Below that is the list which reads as follows:

Igor                                                                Is he a boy or a girl

Mr Fluffy                      

Bottom

Gordon

Baldrik

Garlik

Marion

Audrey

Stinky Slinky

When I read this, I smiled and then re-read it. I wondered if she had crossed out  ‘Mr Fluffy’  because that’s what she called a spider that once took up residence in the corner of a kitchen window. She accidentally killed Mr Fluffy one day when using fly spray and told me she nearly cried about it and then said “don’t be ridiculous!” to herself. I said I would have cried if I wanted to.

Finding that list of slug names fills my heart with all that is good about my mother. I think of how she has always been my greatest fan, laughed the hardest and longest at antics performed for her amusement. She didn’t send me to kindy (or pre-school I think they call it in America). She said it was primarily selfish, that she really enjoyed my company and imagined she could teach me just as well.  She didn’t think of the fact that I might not know how to relate to children my own age (which I didn’t). I used to resent that. Years later I would complain that I hadn’t had a normal upbringing, that I didn’t understand the concept of school and used to run away as often as possible. I was terrified of school assembly and remember once hiding behind smelly raincoats in the corridor. An older boy asked what I was doing. I think I said “hiding”. The corridor smelled of damp raincoats and old bananas. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment.

Fortunately I have since figured out that no amount of pre-school could have prepared me for this life. What I have also figured out is that no one had a ‘normal’ upbringing. 

Some of my upbringing was challenging of course, but we all have different kinds of ‘hard’. I used to imagine that rich people had it easy, but they may find something else to complain about (a ‘problem’ dissolves, another appears!).

Growing up relatively poor (by NZ standards) I sometimes wished for things like ‘the right shoes’, but it also pushed me into a deeper state of ‘being’ at a younger age. Acceptance of what is. No. You cannot have that. No. We cannot afford it. No, you have to make something or create something, I can’t buy you things. I was the least bored child you ever met and very rarely complained or asked for anything.

Robert’s death was also a pivotal point in my life. He was my uncle, mum’s youngest brother. It was the first time I saw a dead body and I knew; he is not here. The adults were devastated. A terrible accident and he’d only just turned 13. I was 10 years old, and my child soul knew it was okay, but as I watched the grief and on-going misery I felt a heaviness descend. They said one thing but acted as if he were truly gone. Fortunately mum taught me that it was okay to ask questions, and to do our best to understand each other. In her haze of grief she never recovered from Robert’s death, but she continued to be greatly affectionate and teacher-strict with me.

It is because of my mother that I love music so much. It is because of her that I appreciate the funny little things in life. Just last night we went outside and looked at a hedgehog in her courtyard. We admired a big spider hanging by the wall, its shadow playing a twin. We got excited about one of those make over house shows that she’s addicted to.

 It is also because of her that I appreciate the bigger things, like making sure you love people deep and hard because, yes, they do die. There is only ‘taking notice’ of what is and making peace with it. You start to look at language and slogans with a smile. Instead of ‘Just Do It’, you think ‘no, just be it’. Instead of ‘because I’m worth it’ I might go for

 ‘worth is a measure, and I cannot be measured. I am beyond measure. I am worth less. I have no worth because worth is nothing to do with Me. I am that I am as someone once wrote in a very old book.”

I also like how my mum has been straight with me about things that matter. The only time she got pissed off with me about being inappropriate was when I asked if she gave blow jobs (I was about 11). She was 27 when I asked her that. She replied that it was her business (and reminded me not to read her adult magazines. Too late.)

Yes. I love my mum. She is not easy to be around. She has issues. She is addicted to buying tissues. But there is so much love. 

Light is shining through the prisms on the window sill. The cat is sleeping with her legs stretched out; she is snoring very softly. I can hear birds having a little conversation. My mother has a list of slug names. I think my favorite is Gordon.