Disowning your own.

I don’t like driving to strange places, especially in the dark.

When my son asked me to take him to a theatre in Surrey for a pre-production photo shoot, I panicked.’ I can’t do it and your father’s in China this week! ’’ But you must, that’s what mothers are for’.

Although Hollywood sadly never beckoned, I always loved treading the boards and I knew I had to get him there somehow. Then I remembered my Welsh friend C lived nearby. She volunteered to sit with me in the car and give directions, so I calmed down and off we went. We got there without crashing and I asked my 17 year old’ Can I meet the producer then’. ‘No, I’d rather you sat in the car and not show your face’.

‘What a dammed cheek’ I fumed in the cafe with C.’’ How dare he disown me like that’. (I’m translating here because when we’re together C and I always speak Welsh).’ Well, you did it to him when he was 2 years old, don’t you remember? I was there.’

The incident in Fleet library came back to me. We, being middle class, pushy ,Welsh mothers  had just taken our two year olds to the tiny tots music school.C’s son Jac had a habit of trying to escape through the door when he’d had enough, with my son hot on his heels. Many times the teacher had to haul them both back into the room under her arms. One day I even stood guard, blocking the door and their escape efforts.

After a particularly trying lesson we went to the library cafe for our usual coffee, and juice and a cake for the kids. My son, for some unfathomable reason, started to crumble the cake in his hands and then attempted to grind the mess into the carpet. C took one look at my darkening puce face and sent me off with her son Jac to look at the trombone hanging up in a display case. 

Two elderly, scandalised, ladies told C ‘Your son is the most appallingly behaved child we’ve ever seen.’’ My son is over there, looking at the trombone’ she replied. ‘This is my friend’s boy. I had to separate them because she was about to kill him’. C then, happily, persuaded my son to clear up his mess with a pan and brush and he made it home in one piece.

Welsh children, as soon as they can walk, talk etc, are often made to perform in public, singing or reciting at our Eisteddfodau, which are the  premier artistic events in Wales and one of Europe's largest and oldest cultural festivals. We both recalled Max Boyce’s tale of when, at the age of 12, he had to recite ‘The Squirrel’ and fluffed his lines. In the audience someone asked his mother ‘isn’t that your boy up there Mrs B?’ ‘No, I’ve never seen him before in my life! ‘she replied.

I hope my son’s performance goes well. If it doesn’t, although I might be tempted to respond as Max Boyce’s mother did, I wouldn’t. You can’t really disown your own, even though you’d like to at times. 

You’re stuck with them for life