Mother’s Day is just around the corner and I’ll be avoiding the expensive Sunday lunch tables, inflated prices for flowers and pink cards. Tony and I will probably take my step mum out for a drive and fish and chips (her favourite) and it will be a huge surprise for her as her memory is very bad now. But the good thing is that every visit, phone call or delivery brings her immense joy as she isn’t expecting it (even though we’ll have planned it and phoned to remind her countless times). My gorgeous sister will hopefully be taken somewhere lovely by her two grown-up sons and I’ll be thinking about my mum Margaret as I do every day.My mum Margaret decided one year that she wanted 99 red balloons on Mother’s Day as it was her favourite pop song. If you can remember back to 1984 it was top of the UK charts for Nena. I was sitting in her living room, in fits of laughter when she told me about the balloons, imagining her being raised up into the cloud whilst hanging on to a huge bunch of them. And while I was laughing she joined in and soon it was a loud mess of crinkled faces, tears, aching diaphragms and whimpers of “Stop, no more, no seriously STOP!” Do you know what? I reckon she’d have loved it and would have found a way of getting down unscathed. She was a genius at creating impossible situations and working her way out of them.
We were lucky to live across from a park in Hendon in a tumbledown house which she’d inherited from an old man called Stanley. I had a flat on the top floor and Mum lived on the ground floor. The old chap was someone Mum had befriended while she was working down the road. An old friend had asked her if she could help him out a day a week and it all went from there. She moved in to be his full-time carer and nursed him through his illnesses (he was 92 when Mum moved in) and despite many offers of marriage, Mum refused him politely and carried on. He invited me to live in the house too as I was about to start my first job at the BBC and he thought it would be nice for me to have a bit of independence and start paying bills from the get-go. When he passed, Mum found out that he hadn’t actually left her a “bit of cash” as he’d mentioned, but the whole house which, at the time was costing £290 a month in rates alone. It was in this old place that I heard a spooky noise coming from the ground floor. Upon investigation I saw Mum lying on the sofa with a cassette player under a cushion, playing Nena’s “99 Red Ballons”. The volume was turned up and i asked her why she wasn’t just playing it like normal people do. Her reply was that under the cushion it sounded like it was in a room somewhere else, muffled by people having a party. And it made her feel part of something fun going on somewhere else. I remember feeling sad in that moment as it felt like a lonely thing to say, although she never said she was. This “feeling part of something going on somewhere else” was a normal thing for her. She’d organise parties for me and my brother, get everyone there and then disappear, leaving us to organise our own party from then on. I took these skills into adult life as I was used to arranging parties, functions, outside broadcasts etc. at breakneck speed as it was in my DNA.
I’ve often wondered what drew her to Nena’s song – was it something in the lyric that intrigued her?
“You and I in a little toy shop, buy a bag of balloons with the money we’ve got, set them free at the break of dawn, ’til one by one they were gone.”
Now I’ve just Googled the words I can see it. She had very little money, we did often buy balloons to blow up and bounce around and then the letting free which was something my Mum was always doing. Getting herself out of situations, running away, disappearing. She always said she only loved the song as there were red things in it (and she was the stereotypical redhead), but I wonder if the deeper words resonated with her without her really understanding why.
It’s a year now since I started the MUMBELIEVABLE podcast in Mum’s honour and I’m working on series 2 with a few more famous faces letting us glimpse into their lives through the prism of how their mums have influenced them. I was hoping to get a few in the bag in time for Mother’s Day this year, but there are a couple of people who can only do recordings in April and May, so series 2 will float into the world in the Summer. If you can’t find an individual unique present for your mum, why not get her a red balloon and see her reaction to the idea that a bunch of 99 of them could make her float up into the sky? Maybe there will be a few more houses with daughters laughing mumcontrollably with their children.
Don’t make me laugh. No, seriously don’t. 48 hours after surgery I’m trying to keep my life as boring as possible. Tricky in this household with my wonderfully comedic husband. And it’s a rare moment when HE says “don’t make me laugh” as he’s been coughing so much his ribs are aching. *Don’t mention coffin – oops*.
I’m just home after the same operation my beloved mum had after my brother was born and now I know how she felt. She said she’d had her tubes tied off so no more babies could come. It was another confusing story for an already confused child when it came to reproduction stories. I’d just got my head round the fact that Mum was fibbing when she said that ladies had babies when the man gave her some milk (listen to the Mumbelievable podcast with David Baddiel for more on that). Now, babies were delivered by underground? And how was I going to go and see Nan and Pop if the tubes were tied off? Perhaps they would only be tied off for a little while, as there were always strikes happening and then everything started running again. Then my little brain worked it through. I knew I couldn’t read the tube station signs at that age, but if I got out and went upstairs I’d recognise the Gray’s Inn Road and could walk to their flat which was bang opposite the tube station. That made as much sense to me as anything Mum told me. She also told me that I would have three children; two girls and a boy. It was something I’d grown up knowing and you don’t question these things when grown-ups tell you, do you? Sadly, babies never happened for me, despite trying. In my case it was all about creating a safe, secure family into which children could be introduced. No plate throwing, arguments, flouncing out, banging doors etc. But it wasn’t until I married my beloved Tony that home life was in the right balance and sadly it was all a bit too late. I didn’t think I’d be feeling emotional about the salpingo oophorectomy (I’ll wait a sec while you Google that) but I find I am. The fallopian tubes and ovaries are gone and even though they never worked properly, it’s a reminder that my natural mothering instincts were never realised. Yes, I took care of my little sister and have always felt the need to protect and look after people, but it’s different.
To distract and cheer myself up without making myself laugh, I wondered the origin of salpingo as it sounded to me like a rather exotic margherita-style cocktail with salt and fizz. No, it comes from the Ancient Greek for trumpet.; TRUMPET! Here comes the egg – fanfare – and it’s entering the womb – parp parp, parpetty parp. Flags and heralds spring to mind. Stop! It hurts and I’ve now got the trumpeting elephants from Fantasia in my mind. Why does my brain do this to me? Remnants of anaesthetic and strong pain killers no doubt.
When I understood more about the reproductive system I asked my Mum why she had her tubes tied and she brushed it away, not wanting to talk about it. And now I think back, she went through a very tough emotional time after my brother’s birth and we’ve always put it down to post-natal depression. Now I’m wondering if the operation brought on early menopause for her which messed up her hormones. I was warned about that myself and almost hugged the nurse to death when she assumed I was approaching menopause rather than having left it behind ten years ago. My poor mum had so much going on emotionally with her mental ill-health, so with this on top of it, she coped as well as she could.
I told my step mum that I was having the operation and now her memory is so short, I was pleased that she’d forgotten about it almost immediately after getting emotional herself and reminding me how sad she was that I’d never had children. Sometimes, seeing someone NOT remembering sad stuff is quite comforting. I feel like I’ve told her the truth and given her the respect of knowing what’s going on, but the pain doesn’t linger for her, as the cat’s toilet habits are equally important. It’s very sad to see her forgetting who people are now, especially her own daughter and my sister is having a horrible time witnessing that. D always tells people that she was lucky having me as a fully fledged daughter as she didn’t have to go through the pain of childbirth. But do you know what? That’s a pain I wished I’d had the chance to witness. But I’m not going to get all emotional as I’m going to toast a crumpet and remember my mum who used to call them strumpet crumpets, although I had no idea what she meant.
Beloved step mum rang this morning in a panic as she’d forgotten to go to her dance class. When I say dance class, I mean stretch a bit, breathe, sit down, gossip about absent members and stretch another bit class. I’ve been a couple of times and in the beginning it was all disco pump, aerobics and dance routines to give Pineapple a run for their money. Now, it’s about curling and uncurling toes, alternate shoulder lifting and granny dancing for grannies with no puff.
It’s sad to see the decline in her memory and the slow dwindling of her energy. And despite being nearly 80, she feels as if she can still conquer the world. I can put a funny spin on it, as is my way as you know, but it upsets my poor sister more as she’s on the receiving end of the frequent calls and is the daily support. Let’s refer to step mum as “D” as she may one day get her head round the internet and read this, although I suspect that’s as likely as Gemma Collins winning Mastermind. No, that’s unfair, Gemma could win if pitted against Joey Essex in the Celebrity version. I digress. Here’s a snippet of the sort of conversations we’re currently having. Picture the scene … D ON PHONE – I’ve fallen over and hit my head. I’m a bit dizzy and can’t focus. ME – I’ll be right over. D – why are you coming over? ME – because you’ve hit your … look, never mind. I’ll be round in 10 minutes to take you to the hospital. CLICK. KNOCK KNOCK – Hello darling. how lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were coming. ME – Good lord, look at your head ( huge bulbous bump, deep purple shiner, swollen eye). OFF TO HOSPITAL. After various inappropriate conversations with women in veils, naughty kids and drunk patients, we’re whisked into triage. NURSE – Hello D, so what’s happened to you today? D – haven’t you got pretty eyes! NURSE – thank you. Do you know why you’re here today? D (ANGRY NOW) – Of COURSE I know why I’m here. I’m not an idiot. NURSE – OK, can you tell me why you’re here today? D – I don’t know. Was I going shopping?
My reason for sharing this difficult story? Memory loss is horrible for the one losing memory, but it’s a also very difficult for loved ones, family and friends to cope with. I’ve learned a few tips on how to make the whole sad process easier to navigate and have been wondering whether those tips and more recently acquired professional insight could help people going through the same things. As with my mum Margaret (the inspiration for this blog), I love D very much and I spoke to her recently about sharing these stories. She’s totally up for it as she too feels that her experiences, if shared, could help support others. A cousin is outraged at the whole idea and that is a legitimate reaction, because the whole thing is sad, but my way of coping is to write the hell out of it in order to get things clear in my own mind rather than melt down and get depressed, because that doesn’t help in my books. My sister and I support each other by sharing the stories and coming up with different strategies as D’s state changes, so I hope I’m my sister’s main support, even though I sometimes have to make light of it all for my own sanity.
My precious mum (Margaret, real mum) didn’t lose her memory, even up to the day she died six years ago. She just lived in a fantasy world and couldn’t focus. She used to call D “Fancy pants” because of her posh clothes, but it was never malicious. In fact, Mum did everything she could to praise D when she took over the family. Every Sunday we’d get a knock on the door and a stranger would ask in a puzzled and slightly scared voice if we were ready as Mum was lurking around the corner. On the bus Mum would then tell us how pretty D was and wasn’t it better to have nicely cooked food? And when we came back from a day out that Mum had obviously been planning all week, we tried to act as if the day was just a hum drum event so as not to cause any ripples. I always felt that if I enthused too much about Mum’s trips to go fishing (with tights stretched around a bent coat hanger) or visiting a kipper factory (with very curious workers wondering why their fish dunking efforts were being scrutinised by a little blonde girl dressed like a bride), it might upset her. Little did I realise at the time, that D was going through her own inner turmoil, but did a wonderful job of covering them up, whereas Mum’s were loud, proud and out there.
I feel as if I’m entering a whole new mum phase now. D is now suffering the real effects of not having Dad around. He was her memory bank and we didn’t really see it when he was alive. I was always inwardly amused when D thought she was including him in her non-stop chatter with the occasional, “Didn’t we, Charles?” or “That’s right isn’t it?” to which Dad would find a hundred different upbeat ways of saying “Mmmm”. Now that her memory’s failing and she’s been banned from driving, the roles are reversing and once again I’m the adult in the mother/child relationship. She doesn’t understand the ban and thinks I’ve stolen her car, which in a way I have as the doctor whispered “take her keys and move the car to another location” after delivering the blow that D was now officially banned and had to give up her driving licence as a mini stroke could have been the cause of her fall. The loss of independence must feel so unjust, but we all agree ( even her in her more lucid moments), that driving with an underlying health problem is dangerous and with memory loss it’s easy to lose your way geographically too.
I’m now working with a brilliant professor of neuroscience on a new podcast to talk about memory loss and how to cope with the effects it has on loved ones, and also on the carers who need their own support (and occasional spa break). I can’t wait to tell you all about it when it goes LIVE, because it’s going to be such a help, as both myself and the wonderful host have had issues with motherly memory loss. And you won’t be surprised to know that I throw in the odd mumbelievable anecdote to lighten the mood and shed light on one of Mum’s brilliant antics.
My mum would often laugh at herself, tap her head and say “My brain is playing up, Sonia darling. I want it to do things that are normal, but it just won’t.” It was heartbreaking and hilarious in equal measure. Step mum eventually laughs at herself after a lot of distraction, bringing in jokes and reminding her that life is a gift that Dad would have loved to be enjoying with her too. She soon comes round and we always remind each other how much we love each other, but boy is it a struggle at times.
One thing that came out of a recent podcast recording is that we should all start thinking about how we’d like our lives to be organised if we do start going a bit ga-ga. Not as in strange clothes made out of steak or telephone hats, but if we grant early power of attorney in anticipation and tell our loved ones that we’d be happier being looked after in a care home so that they can enjoy their own lives. I’m not kidding … if my beloved husband went before I did, I’d want to set myself up in sheltered housing with a bit of independence while I’m still fit and active. That way I’d have people around and support if I needed it, unlike D who believes that she lives a totally solitary life because everyone has drifted away, despite daily phone calls, visits and people caring for her.
Next week I’m picking D up and taking her to dance class which I’ll be forced to participate in. Oh well, I guess my thumbs could be with a bit of waggling and my knees could do a bend or two. Louis Spence, look out!
Let me whisper in your ear … I’d love it if you tuned in to the MUMBELIEVABLE podcast, because every little listen helps, and it got me thinking back to my earliest memories of storytelling. My darling mum wasn’t very good at bedtime stories as she got bored with the traditional tales and would wonder off into a fantasy story that was usually very scary or had something inappropriate at its core. I remember an incident with a junior school teacher (the one who cried when Mum marched in with the porridge that I hadn’t eaten that morning). We were supposed to write a short version of our favourite fairy tale. Mine was and always will be Cinderella. Somehow I identified with the lonely girl who was always trying to do good and could get animals to sew dresses and help with the washing up. It made the story even more personal when I was lucky enough to have my very own stepmother who wasn’t cruel and didn’t make me scrub floors. Yes, the kids used to tease me with “cruel stepmother” taunts, but I think I stepped on their toes or something a little bit painful, but not bad enough to get me into trouble. My short version of Cinderella was based on the version my mum had told me the night before and her version got muddled up with the original. My story went something like this. Cinderella did everything in the house. Her stepmother ordered her to wash the dishes and scrub the floor. Cinderella asked her Daddy why the stepmother had come and Cinderella’s dad said it was because Cinderella’s own mother didn’t like cuddles or having things put inside her, so the new mummy came who was very happy with “all of that stuff, thank you very much.” The teacher gasped when she read that bit and a few minutes later I was back in Mrs. Partridge’s office with a biscuit and a cup of orange. This snack would happen at least once a week and I was surprised when I found out that none of the other kids had the same treat.
I haven’t told that full story yet on MUMBELIEVABLE, but I will. I’m just waiting for the right guest who has an equally inappropriate mum story to share. I’m astounded and flattered that the guests so far are willing to share very intimate details of their maternal relationships. Not all the interviews are upbeat. Some are quite sad and go temporarily into a deeper place, but ultimately, we look at these events and try to re-frame them, with a good dose of laughter and new eyes.
I’m hearing that one of the great things about my particular podcast is that it’s good to listen to as you snuggle down to sleep. A bit like a bedtime story to get you thinking as you drift off the sleep (not that it’ll make you fall asleep I hope). One listener drifted off to sleep after hearing Su Pollard getting a little emotional about sharing her love for her mum Hilda and another listener loved the insight into Bobby Crush’s family which he had never spoken much about in public before.
So, please have a little listen if you fancy something different and maybe you’ll recognise your own mum in one of the episodes. And if your mum ever told you that Cinderella had to ride side saddle because her legs were quite sore, think of me as a five-year-old trying to work that one out. And spare a thought for my teacher who has probably been scarred for life by the fairy tales re-written by a mother with un-diagnosed ADHD and a penchant for turning most stories into a sexual fantasy.
And as for … promise not to tell … forget that! Tell everyone you know about the podcast if you like it, because one day it might get more listeners than “Dad wrote a porno”, but … oh, wait a minute. Maybe I’ll ask those guys if they fancy coming on and I can tell the Cinderella story in full.
The MUMBELIEVABLE podcast has properly launched on the world and I’m thrilled that some of our best-loved famous faces have come on to talk about their mumbelievable mums. I’m finding the sharing of my mum’s stories on a new platform to be incredibly cathartic and sometimes quite emotional. My gorgeous little mum who infuriated and inspired me in equal measure, would never have dreamed that she’d be the topic of conversation with some of the people she loved watching and listening to during her lifetime. She would have written their names on the spine of an old cassette tape when she recorded their radio shows or snippets off the telly and that would be that. Some of my guests have known or met Margaret Beldom and experienced her antics for themselves. Some haven’t met her, but they all say that they feel they’ve got to know her by hearing stories of her outrageous behaviour whilst revealing their own relationships with their mothers.
This podcast is proving to be a fascinating way into famous lives and more often than not, guests are loving the process of digging back into their mothers’ history, comparing notes and understanding more about how their own lives have been shaped by these mumbelievable women. Some in a good way, others more challenging.
So far we’ve featured the wonderful Su Pollard, who almost breaks down at the end of her episode talking about her lovely mum Hilda, Bobby Crush talking how his mum never let him do anything at home so he could concentrate on playing the piano and showbiz, Steve Nallon (aka Maggie thatcher on Spitting image) about the heartache of losing his mum at nine years old, Fuzz Townshend on his two mums; one tall and the other with achondroplasia, Shazia Mirza on how her mum is forever trying to marry her off and getting her to buy cheap jumpers from charity shops and the effervescent Kerry Howard (Russell Howard’s sister) on her fearless mum who’s suddenly got a career in TV and with whom she currently shares a house.
Tomorrow we’re releasing two more episodes; the wonderful comic actress and writer, Helen Lederer and the ex-That’s Life presenter and radio presenter Bill Buckley. Both episodes will have you laughing whilst reaching for the tissues. After these have landed we’ll be releasing new episodes fortnightly and the list of famous faces who’ve already signed up will amaze you. Actually, it amazes ME how people exclaim YES when I tentatively ask the question … “would you ever fancy coming on my MUMBELIEVABLE podcast to chat about your mum and hearing a few funny stories about mine?” Considering nobody gets paid, it’s a privilege to have such a positive response.
I hope you enjoy listening – all episodes are available on Spotify, Apple, Android and wherever you usually listen to podcasts. I’d massively appreciate it if you help this along by listening, sharing and recommending the podcast to everyone you know. Cheeky or what? I’ve never been one to demand or ask directly for favour-y things as through my life I’ve always been cross with people who’ve tried to blag tickets, autographs or charity celebrity appearances from me just because I’ve tended to work the well know faces. So, for once I’m asking you directly if you’d be up for helping. As you’ve signed up for new written blogs, perhaps you’d also sign up to the podcast which is an audio version of the blog with more laughs and a sprinkling of showbiz stardust. You can do this on whichever pod platform you fancy. If we hit 10,000 listens a month, we’ve “arrived” in pod land (a world I’m just getting to know) so I’m told.
For updates, there’s a MUMBELIEVABLE Podcast page on the website and while MUMBELIEVABLE is still a needy seedling, please throw water and fertiliser to help us grow. As Mum would have said, “Huggles darling, huggles.”
“Once met, never forgotten”, is one of the phrases used by a special guest on my new MUMBELIEVABLE podcast about our challenging, courageous, confusing and cherished mums. Margaret was a one-off. For anyone who met her, she wasn’t one of those women who merged into a beige memory – oh no, she was a bright red, luminous green kind of woman. A woman not afraid of speaking her mind, flirting with any man within winking distance, demanding money off strangers or brazenly stealing bunches of flowers from flower stalls or front gardens. The only thing that scared her was that I could become well known and get my house burgled. She was convinced that if anyone knew my name they could look me up and break in. I think secretly she knew that she was capable of doing it, so was suspicious of the world of Margarets out there.
Today being Mother’s Day is a mixture of celebration and sadness as Mum is no longer with us, but her memory and life is the basis for the new podcast which has already had dozens of famous faces agreeing to come onto talk about their own mums. We are officially launching today and put up a couple of episodes online for people to get a flavour of what’s to come and the reaction has been overwhelming. With 24 hours we had 900 downloads, so that’s a good sign in podland, so I’m told. That’s the happy bit. The sad bit is that Mum isn’t here to listen to the stories. She would laugh her head off at the memories I have of her antics, because she always told me that she had no real recollection of doing or saying the things that caused me so much embarrassment in my childhood. I suppose it was because she was doing them all the time, not just to me, but to my long-suffering dad, mixed up brother and anyone around her. I think what’s making the podcast so appealing is that it’s a celebration of our mums, mixed in with more poignant, deeper stories about how their lives were so different to ours. The first two episodes on the podcast feature Steve Nallon and Kerry Howard. Steve was the definitive Maggie Thatcher on the original Spitting Image and we learned from him that around the time he lost his mum when he was 9 years old, he realised he had a skill for impressions. His story about how unbelievably open-minded his mum and grand parents were is a lesson to us all. Kerry’s mum sounds incredible and a TV star in her own right as she has been accompanying her son, Russell Howard (Kerry’s brother) on screen around the world and getting her teeth into adventures she never would have dreamed of having. Another insightful and moving story that reinforces the message that life’s there for living, if we choose to live it.
This blog will soon become part of the MUMBELIEVABLE family as it’s too confusing for my little brain to have so many concurrent blogs and pods going. The podcast is inspired by the stories I’ve been telling about Margaret here and I want the podcast to become an archive of generational stories that help tell us who we all are, through the lens of the mothers who brought us into this world. I’m thankful that my cancer journey completely missed Mum. She would have been beside herself. because in one of her lucid moments when I was about to go into hospital for a gall bladder removal, she said. “Now, don’t you die on me, Sonia darling. That’s not a gift a mother wants from her daughter.” Looking back, I went into hospital on the Monday after Mother’s Day which must have been behind her thinking over 30 years ago.
I’m on a mission now to include stories of our mums, good, bad or ugly (stories, not the mums) to help support people who may have had tricky relationships, amuse those who love a giggle and to help us all dig a bit deeper into our own lives. One guest said that we only really think of parents from the moment we were born. Their history isn’t relevant to us until we’re much more enquiring as adults. I sometimes regret not sitting down with my dad to ask him more about his upbringing from a working class family who were supportive, but confused by his career choice to be a classical violinist. I did ask my mum about her early life, but to be honest, the stories were so fantastic and mostly made up, I’ll never really know.
In my bones I feel that I may get to know more about her through the podcast as I’m hoping that friends and family will tell me stories of their own encounters with her. And I can build up an album of pictures and stories that make more sense than the tale she told me of living on a yacht on the French Riviera, dropping in for lunch with Prince Rainier and learning how to ride a horse on the golden beaches. Do you know what? I’m going to believe that’s true. It’s the sort of thing my mumfomgettable mum could have done. I’m also really looking forward to people sharing their own mum stories, so if you feel inclined please drop me a line and we can chat.
To quote the great Nate King Cole, one of Mum’s favourite singers … “Like a song of love that clings to me How the thought of you does things to me, Never before has someone been more…”
Sonia’s Mum is a transformational love story between a mentally complex mother and the daughter who adored her. I want to share these deeply personal and funny stories so that we can raise awareness for how challenging it is for many people who’ve had mentally ill parents and have struggled to come to terms with their own issues.
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