Mother
Words by Kerry Graham.
Art by Amy Louise.
1996
You’ve just been for a scan, and when the doctor asked if you wanted to know the sex you just about wet yourself with excitement when you heard that you’re having a girl. After three boys it’s about time for a wee doll on the scene. The husband smiles, but you sense his dismay. It’s your time to shine, you’ll think to yourself with glee. Himself can take a backseat after years of playing football or building forts out in the garden with the boys. You’ll assure him that once the wee doll comes along, he will have no time at all for the lads. You were a daddy’s girl and she’ll undoubtedly be one too, you’ll assure him, with your fingers crossed behind your back. After pinning the sonogram on the fridge with colourful magnets, the pair of you will paint the spare room pink. Your mother will knit tiny cream cardigans with yellow roses and suggest that they name her after your great aunt Maureen. You’ll smile and nod, rolling your eyes when she turns her back, because Maureen was an awful bitch, constantly tweed-clad and smoking like a chimney. You know that your upcoming angel will be nothing like her.
2002
She’s six years old and covered in muck. Thank god that you’re putting a dark wash on anyways, because her brand-new navy tracksuit bottoms are filthy. You’re past exasperation, well on your way to livid. Every time you turn your back for five seconds it seems like she’s covered in dirt, or grass stains, or blood, or worse. When will she learn that boys will be boys, but that she is a girl? She can’t just act like a boy and hope people don’t notice. Your mother, god rest her soul, would be rolling in her grave, if she could see your daughter now. After seizing her by the arm as gently as you can muster, you’ll scold her quietly, telling her that that’s no way for a wee doll to act, she should know better, and she’ll nod sorrowfully. She’ll win an oscar yet, you’ll think grimly. You’ll drag her inside and send her off to the pink bedroom for the third time this week. She’ll sniffle, and your heart will twinge as you boil the kettle. Catching your own reflection in your cup, you’ll nod at yourself. You’re doing what’s best. She’ll learn...eventually. After all, you sure did.
2004
It’s the day of her first holy communion and you’ve never felt so proud. She’s a picture, finally the beautiful little angel you’d always wanted her to be. Then she opens her mouth, and the illusion is shattered. Her head hurts, the dress is itchy, she needs to pee, she’s thirsty again. You’ll breathe through gritted teeth that beauty is pain and that she looks wonderful, so buck up and be quiet. Your face will hurt from smiling, as all the neighbours coo at her. The husband rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t understand. This is just part and parcel of womanhood, sure your mother did the exact same thing to you. Fortunately for your bank account, your sister’s girls shot up this summer, and outgrew all their little pastel frocks, so every Sunday your doll looks better than the last. If only the child would ever stop complaining. You’ll lick a hanky and wipe at her face. Has that freckle under her eye always been there? As the photograph session outside the chapel draws to a close, her grin will begin to droop, and you’ll poke her in the back with a whispered promise of a 99 with two flakes. She bolts up ramrod straight, with a smile that could put Miss Universe to shame. You shake your head, stifling a laugh. She’s some ticket.
2010
She’s fourteen and has just left for her first night out, and you’re absolutely, positively, absolutely shitting it. What if she doesn’t enjoy herself, what if she gets drunk, what if she doesn’t get a dance, oh lord, what if she does? What if she manages to borrow a pair of jeans off her cousin? You just can’t understand why she doesn’t want to show off her gorgeous legs in a nice skater skirt. All the wee girls wear nice dresses and skirts on nights out, sure jeans are barely a step up from tracksuit bottoms. They’re lad’s clothes. You’ll both be a laughing stock once those photos go up on Facebook. She’s gawky and lanky, and of course you love her to pieces but why won’t she ever listen when you know what would look best on her? All you want is for her to look as beautiful as you know she can. Your phone will ping with a photo sent to you by your sister of the girls getting ready, and your heart will sing. In her girly get-up, with sparkly eyelids and lips, your daughter looks just like you at that age…almost spitting image...if only she’d give the camera a smile.
2015
She’s eighteen and you can barely believe it. Your little girl is all grown up! You burst into her room on a sunny July morning, barely noticing all the awful posters that she has tacked up over the years to hide the pink of her bedroom walls. You’ll holler good morning and rip back her duvet, and she’ll groan but you’re too lifted to care. Into the car you both go, off to the nail salon. While she’s at her appointment, you’ll steam her dress and rush around like a bluearsed fly. After she returns, she’ll be taken aback by all your hard work. When she says quietly that she isn’t worth all the fuss you’ll be ready to smack her silly, but you settle for a tight hug (minding the fresh makeup of course). Of course she is, you tell her softly. She’s beautiful and wonderful and you just don’t understand why she seems so uncomfortable in her skin. If you’d had a figure like that at her age, you’d have run off to a nudist colony at this stage. Securing a fainthearted giggle, you’re victorious, and off she goes to get dressed. When she finally descends the staircase, you’ll blink back tears. She looks nothing short of stunning. Your mother, god rest her soul, would be so proud of the amazing job you’ve done with the not-so-wee doll. When she shows you the photographs the following day, you’ll notice that at a certain point her feet are no longer in the pictures. You know damn well that she asked a friend to sneak in a pair of flatties. You’re not stupid, and she’s a terrible liar anyway. You don’t ask, and she doesn’t tell. Some things just aren’t worth the screaming match.
2016
The house feels a lot emptier, with all the kids now away at college. Himself is steadfastly ignoring your attempts to cover the greys in his hair. It’s literally called Just-For-Men, why does he think that men can’t beautify themselves even a touch? You know you'll get him yet. Every week, there’s a new hobby on the cards. Crochet was fun, but you’re not eighty. Learning Spanish in the community centre was gas, but the classes were on at 8pm, and sure that’s practically the middle of the night for someone of your...vintage. You think about getting a pet, maybe a dog, but the husband points out all the mess that a new puppy makes, and you come to your senses. You’ve done your time cleaning up other people’s messes. One day when hanging up a jumper she left in the ironing basket, you notice that she’s left behind an awful lot of clothes. The ripped jeans are all gone, but most of the dresses and skirts remain. She must think you’re stupid. She’ll learn, you think to yourself. When she runs out of socks because she hasn’t done a wash in a month, she’ll be on the first bus home.
2019 - October
You’ll recoil in shock as you spot her, eyes zoning in as soon as she walks in the door, fidgeting with her jacket buttons. How could you miss her, a splash of violent blood red and pale skin in a sea of pretty blues, oranges and pinks. Not a stitch of makeup. Bare-faced on her graduation day, you’re honestly lost for words. Your poor mother, god rest her soul, would roll in her grave if she could see your daughter now. Your sons will add to the problem, teasing her lightly and saying that she looks better than they do in a suit. You’ll spit that you suppose that she’ll get married in a suit too, and as her face falls you feel a twinge of guilt but push it down. Why on earth did she need to garner attention - the wrong kind of attention - on today of all days? When she walks across the stage to collect her diploma, the least awkward on a stage you've ever seen her, your feelings of pride trump the embarrassment. You’re so incredibly proud of her, an honours degree in something she’s actually passionate about. You’ll smile tightly in your seat, long nails digging into your palms. You just wish she’d given you a heads-up about her sartorial choice. Excluding you from that part of her life felt like a slap in the face. Did she not tell you because she knew you’d try and talk her out of it, is that what she thinks of you? Your mind going a million miles an hour, you almost walk straight past her. After she grabs your arm and goes in for a hug, you sigh, and melt into the hug. She's still that little hellcat, covered in muck, delighted with herself. After the ceremony, during the long long photograph session, you’re struck by just how many young girls from her course are sporting suits. Pinks, blues, oranges, a veritable rainbow of mens/womenswear. Within the group of her friends, your wee doll doesn’t stick out one bit, and she seems to like that.
2019 - November
She’ll arrive home for the weekend, laden down with grad photos. You’ll tell her that they look lovely, after a brief pause to inspect the photos up close. You wonder if she’ll apologise. She doesn’t, but she does cook the dinner that night. And the night after that, and makes brunch for you two the day before she leaves again. You can’t hold back the fact that you’re worried what the neighbours will think, and you tell her as much, because it’s your house and you’re entitled to your opinion. Everyone still thinks of her as the pretty little thing in the wee dresses at Mass on a Sunday. The husband will shush you, but the not-so-wee doll will shoot you a smile. Just a smile. No snarky comment, no backtalk. You're honestly a little disturbed. Deciding boldly to ride this newfound wave of harmoniousness, you’ll muster up the courage to ask if she’ll still wear the dress that you got her for her brother’s wedding next June, because you can always get it altered if it’s the fit she dislikes. She assures you that she will, but only for the photographs. You nod silently but are secretly heartened. A perfect compromise. She’s learned, finally! In the evening, you’re flicking through Facebook and see an article on Women’s Power Suits and before you know it, you’ve emailed her a few photos of Mary McAleese and Hillary Clinton. Chuckling quietly, you bless yourself half-jokingly, to an empty living room. Your mother, god rest her soul, would be rolling in her grave if she could see her own daughter now.
Kerry hails not from Kerry, but from Donegal. Following a BA in Classics and English at NUI Galway, she went on to graduate from an MA in Writing in 2019. Her areas of interest include comedy, contemporary life, sexuality and gender. When she’s not writing, sleeping or trying to blow up on Tiktok, she can be found over-watering her plants, quietly playing the drums (it’s possible) or trying to convince her manager that hot pink is business casual. A firm believer in aliens, she hopes they believe in her too. Her work has been featured in ROPES, The Galway Review and local newspapers.
