A letter to my mother

Charlotte Gill - 28 Oct 16

Dear Mother,

When I was tiny you fed me mashed up liver. Your idea of chocolate milkshake was a banana whizzed up with cocoa powder, wheatgerm and brewers yeast. You fed me cod liver oil on a spoon and held my nose to make me swallow. You dressed me in green dungarees, banned coca cola and never brought me a barbie.

You made homemade bread that would disintegrate in the sandwich bag along with the ‘no added sugar’ peanut butter. I would observe longingly as the other kids ate neat white squares filled with jam and slurped on a capri sun.

I was charmed by the ads for the princess shoes from Clarks. They were black patent, with optional ‘party-ready’ sling strap and they had a magic key that glittered in the heel. I begged to no avail. I got sturdy, achingly sensible, last a lifetime blue buckled sandals. Mortification.

For many years, I was convinced you had been largely unfair. Misguided even. And now I have a daughter of my own. And suddenly I understand – all of it.

I whizz spinach into her pear mush and think of you. I purchased her first toothbrush, dismissing barbie for the one with dinosaurs on and I thought of you. I brought her a set of wooden bricks to bash around. And thought of you. I browse the shoe selection in Clarks and my eyes fall to rest on the exact same  sensible sandals…in tiny-size patent hot pink. I smile, and decide that these may just have been allowed.

So thank you for your care that went beyond the call of duty. I may not replicate the liver or the yeast but I reference the determination to nurture a healthy, headstrong, fiercely independent girl. You showed me the way.

X

Charlotte Gill

Charlotte lives in Malaysia. It's pretty hot. But the other kids are nice. She feared motherhood until 38+5, when she was gifted miniature DM's.

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