Mothers. Who needs 'em.

A casual conversation with a colleague – wait. Too many Cs. Start again.

Idle chatter with a workmate triggered a painful flashback this afternoon. All thanks to the pair of heel shields* she bought at lunchtime. You see, my mother almost disowned me over a pair of those. No, really. It was my wedding day, too.

Honestly. I couldn’t make this up.

It started with a phone call, to alert Mother that we would be picking her up in about an hour, and that she should be dressed and ready. (Always worth emphasising, with my mother. Punctuality is not a virtue native to those born under the sign of Aquarius.) Now, I know Mother well, I know her tendency to get into a flap; I should have expected something. Especially as, since the wedding had been announced four weeks previously, there hadn’t been a peep of trouble.

The warning signs were clear as soon as she spoke: slight agitation, anxious explanations of how she had meant to wear this, but then she realised it didn’t look good with that, and now she had to wear these shoes, but it turned out that with tights on they were a bit slippy, and could we please stop off at the shops to find some of those sticky things to keep them on?

Er. Well, I pointed out. Well, we were on a Schedule, and we would be keeping the guests Waiting for the pre-wedding champagne cruise**, so I didn’t really think so, but I would call the bridesmaid and ask her to please pick some up and we’d get them before the actual ceremony. Um, she said. Well, okay…

That, you would think, would be that. You would be wrong.

Five minutes later, as we were heading out the door, the phone rang. Mother had put those five minutes to good use in working herself up into a Right Lather and launched into a speech as soon as I picked up. She had had Enough of This Treatment, she informed me. When she turned 50, she had Promised Herself that she Wouldn’t Take It Any More. If I didn’t think she was a good person, worthy of my attention, she didn’t have to burden me, and she was quite happy to remove herself from my life. She would not be coming to the wedding; I was to get Substitute Mother*** to light the candle, I didn’t have to have anything to do with her ever again. Goodbye****.

Imagine My Surprise. Naturally, my first response (after the floods of tears) was to say right, I have to go over there and do some repair work. Beloved, however, rightly pointed out that I had to do no such thing: I had to have a cup of tea, calm down, do my nails, and enjoy my day. I endeavoured to do this.

Few hours later, just as the booze cruise ended, Mother called. Hello, said she. Hello, said I. Pause. I just wanted to check you were okay, said she. Yes, fine, said I, everything’s under control*****. Okay then, said she. Pause.

Would you like me to get your brother to pick you up, said I. Oh yes! said she. Of course I want to come – if you want me.

[Dramatic sigh.]

She came. Last-minute communication failures meant that Substitute Mother still did the candle bit, forcing her to confront her phobia and giving Mother further (self-generated) cause for bitter resentment. Absolutely prize-winning bit of manipulation, that. After the ceremony, she told me that she was really glad we’d had this out, as it was really important, and it was just as well that I saw the error of my ways. She did love me, although I was so terribly selfish and awful to her. (At no point did she actually explain anything. Still, as long as it got sorted out in her head.) I also spent much of the wedding dinner reassuring Mother that she looked lovely, really, which I’m pretty sure is not the right way round. For one’s wedding day. And all.

Not that I’m still bitter.

My advice to any would-be brides? Elope. It’s so the best way.
_____
* You know, sticky things to protect your feet from new shoes and/or prevent them (shoes, not feet) slipping off. Because Elastoplast just isn’t good enough for some people.
** It was a very low-key wedding, really, but Beloved’s cousin happened to have invited us to start the festivities on his yacht. It was lovely.
*** Long-time family friend, medium-time Mother’s Enemy, long long story.
**** Took me ages to figure out what had upset her, but I’ll spare you the expense. She was peeved that I wasn’t able, at a moment’s notice, to take half an hour to help her dress. On my wedding day. Did I mention that? Weddings. Schedules.
***** Slight overstatement there, as I hadn’t actually managed to get hold of Substitute Mother and was taking it on faith that she would do the candle bit. Turns out she had a crippling lifelong fear of open flame. I thought it was just wedding nerves causing her to break five matches like that. Well.