Dear Mum,
I was in the middle of a small disagreement with the Shmoo yesterday when I heard your voice erupt from my mouth. In that moment, I knew what I’d write about today. For the record, he was right and I was being a royal tit. I have a tendency to do that. Sorry love.
But it’s there that I heard you, Mum. So that’s what I’m writing about today. I went for a run this morning, pulled my thoughts together and…here it is.
The chair in the kitchen
I remember the noise of our house, and how funny it would seem when it was quiet. I remember the kitchen floor and why we always had a dining room chair in the kitchen. Why do I think of this today? Because I want a kitchen with a chair in it. We don’t have space for a chair in ours, and I kinda like the idea of being able to sit down and watch a pot boil. I see why you had one. I’ve done one better though, as there’s a chair by the counter on the other side, where the C will sit and talk to me as I cook sometimes. Or, she’ll help out with dinner and lunch prep, and we’ll chat about our days. If it’s not C sitting there, the Shmoo will sit there and we’ll chide each other over some silly rubbish that happened during the day.
The idea of having a chair in the kitchen was a clever move, Mum. That way, you’re either relaxed and seated while you wait for the machines that help us make our meals to do their thing, or you’re not alone, because there’s a little person sitting there keeping you company. I guess that’s why you put the bar in too, so you and Dad could chat while you made food magic happen in the kitchen.
Experimental Food
As for food magic, my family have learnt what to do when I say “I think I’ll be experimental in the kitchen tonight”. There’s usually a mixed reaction to that phrase, and I’ve learnt not to take it too much to heart. There have been some excellent experimental successes and some downright dismal “I think we’ll just go get takeaways” experiments. I failed at Fried Rice but I can make a damn good Frittata. Contrary to what they might want though, I will never, ever make my family anything called UFOs though. Promise.
Back to the first part
Why did I hear you in my voice yesterday? I know there’s genetic and nurtured reasons why, but there’s another reason why too. Somewhere, in the muddled snapping when I was being a tosspot and the Shmoo was being sensible, I noticed an altogether familiar rhythm. That rhythm I used to see as part of my life, where I’d sit under the round table and listen as Dad would say “Where are my glasses? They’ve been moved” and you’d say “No Fred, you’re just not looking properly” and there’d be a shuffle of papers and a footstomp or two. Seriously, mum, try find a working pen and a clean piece of paper in my house. Seriously. Try it. And then laugh with me.
That rhythm
That lilting singsong of daily life. The one where I’m rushing out the door, and the Shmoo is taking his sweet time down the stairs. The one where I’m all like “OMG I HAVE TOO MUCH TO DO” and he’s saying “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get dinner. You write”. The one where I’m “Seriously, you spend too much time at your computer” and he’s like “Er, so do you” and I’ll stomp off in a huff because he’s right and a million other reasons that I feel but are actually totally pointless because, he’s right. Sound familiar, Mum? It should. It sounds exactly like our house in here sometimes.
Does any of this sound familiar, Mum?
I thought you’d find it familiar, Mum. I never knew, really, how much my life would start to sound like yours, in the little conversations and daily routines. How I’d end up thinking like you, and it makes me mad how I understand you now, in hindsight, but at 24, I didn’t. I want to show you this part, Mum. This part you’d wished for me and told me of. I’d love to have you over for just ten minutes so I could show you. I wish I could ask for those ten minutes, but I can’t.
I miss you, every day. I can’t send you flowers or call you up. But I sure as hell can find you on the chair in the kitchen.
Thank you. X
