Fish and chips on a Friday

Fish and chips on a Friday. Feeling grown up as you leave the house, clasping the money and trying to remember what everyone wants. Climbing over the brick wall to cut across the green, staying away from the busy main road. Following the scuffed-grass path, but slowing down to peer through the iron railings into the small back gardens of the ground-floor flats. Waiting for a moment by the pink plastic windmill, watching it spin wildly in the slightest breeze, then carrying on along the pavement, with its faded markings from the last game of hopscotch. Up the hill to Rosendale Road, past the huge metal gate that was always shut, knowing it was there to keep the cars out but let the fire engines in. Waiting to cross the busy road, peering out between the parked cars and then dashing across to the chip shop. Staring through the glass front of the counter, past the pieces of fish lined up in a row and down into the bubbling churning cooking oil, where the dancing chips were trapped in a deep wire basket. 

Fish and chips on a Friday. Always eaten straight from the paper, but with the paper set down on a plate, so you could balance it on your lap as you watched the tv in the corner. Too many chips, always too many chips, soaked in vinegar and too much salt. Small fingers picking between the sharp thin edges to grasp the softer thicker ones. Breaking off the tail of the cod first, with all its crunchy batter, then biting into the thicker part, realising too late it was still piping hot. Sucking in cold air, trying to cool the fish down. Holding your hand over your open mouth so nobody else could see as you moved it from side to side, hoping it wouldn't burn.

Fish and chips on a Friday. Forty years later and a different part of town. A five minute trip in the car, to bring back the Styrofoam packages and tip them out on a plate. We sit at the big wooden table, the tv screen high on the wall. I still eat the crunchy tail end of the cod first, but the brightly-coloured plate next to mine has a sausage neatly sliced and there's no salt or vinegar on the chips. Too many chips, always too many chips. Small fingers pick between the sharp thin edges to grasp at the softer thicker ones. Eddie looks up at me as we both blow gently to cool them down, “I like chips Nana.” 

A Penny for them

One of the things about being a mother, and particularly a mother to four children, is that it defines who you are to other people. The moment you confess to parenthood you open yourself up to the judgement of others - from the glowing, usually unwarranted, praise at your ability to conceive, through the well-meaning advice of friends and family, to the looks and comments of those who clearly think that you have no right to be a parent at all.

For a long while, that was just fine. I was just as impressed by my ability to conceive, equally condemning of my failures to get mothering right. And why would I ever want to talk about me, when my children were clearly so much more interesting, intelligent, and downright beautiful than I had any reason to expect.

They still are more interesting, intelligent and beautiful than any other people ever born, but somewhere along the way I realised that I couldn't take the credit for that when I'd never had any real idea how to bring them up. I used to joke that each of them was an experiment and that I still hadn't learned how to do it properly, then I realised it wasn't really a joke. And with that came the recognition that, if I couldn't claim the credit, people's judgement of me had no real basis or reality.

But they carried on assessing my value on the presence of my children.

"I wish I'd achieved something more, something that would leave a mark of my time here on earth"

"Oh, but you've got four interesting, intelligent, beautiful children - you should be proud of that"

And I was. I am. Except...there was a part of me that wanted to be just me.

So it got to the stage, when I met new people, that my kids weren't the first thing I mentioned. I waited until people had formed at least a vague impression of me, before I made a slight, casual, reference to their existence. When I started writing this blog, it was a while before I wrote about any of them; I didn't want to be viewed in that particular way, I didn't want to be labelled a 'mummy blogger'.

And two years ago, when my grandson came along, despite being as pleased as possible, and totally overawed by him and the fact that I have a grandchild, I made only a passing reference to his birth, lost in a longer post about Formula 1 and football.

Then two months ago, my first grand-daughter, Penny-Rose, was born. Since then, I've gradually realised that my views have changed. I find myself wanting to talk about her, and the others, more and more often.

Working full time, I don't get to see her nearly enough, but I saw her this weekend. She is already beautiful and I have no doubt she will turn out to be interesting and intelligent too.  So I sat there holding her, singing long-remembered rhymes and talking to her in that high-pitched, over-animated, way. I grinned inanely when she gave me a first real smile, just as I did with her mother so many years ago and as I did so, the years fell away. I was twenty again, excited and petrified that I had a baby to love and care for, knowing nothing about being a mother, but also knowing that it was the best thing I could or would ever do.

I still want to achieve something in my life, I still want to be judged for the mark I leave behind of my time here on earth, I'd love people to think that I'm interesting, intelligent and beautiful. But if that doesn't happen, and there's every chance it won't, then how can I possibly think it's a bad thing for my worth to be assessed for the  presence here of my children - Claire, Gerard, Charlie, Megan, my grand-son Eddie and now my new grand-daughter Penny-Rose?

As a grand-mother, I have the chance to experiment all over again, an opportunity to have the slightest influence on the person she'll turn out to be. And who knows? I might even learn something this time.