MUMFORGETTABLE

MUMFORGETTABLE

“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 meHow the thought of you does things to me, Never before has someone been more…”

Happy Mother’s Day = to our mothers near and far.

 

 

Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb and Custard

Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb and Custard

What were your favourite childhood sweets or were you one of the lucky ones whose mum gave them organic carrot sticks and tooth friendly low sugar stuff?  When I was little sherbert lemons and fruit salad chewies were great and rhubarb and custard boiled sugar sweets were my favourite.  Mainly because they could mask the flavour of my dearly departed mum’s atrocious cooking.  They played havoc with my teeth of course and one day I might get round to changing all the metallic fillings to invisible fillings, but I’m not quite that vain … YET.  Talking to my dear friend Sue across in Provence I’d forgotten to take my semi-precious stones necklace off and we were discussing colour themes for blogs and podcasting in general.  I’ve chosen rhubarb and custard colours for the podcast page and Sue helpfully added that my necklace could be a regular appearance as it has yellow and pink semi-precious stones in it. YES!

This is a short-ish blog to tell you that the trailer for the MUMBELIEVABLE podcast trailer is now up on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.  I’m beyond excited and we’ve already got five shows in the can thanks to the professionalism, enthusiasm and speed of Ultimate Content who are producing the podcast with me. The reaction from agents and VIPs has been incredible, so we’re confident that this little pod is going to fly.

Here’s a link to the new MUMBELIEVABLE podcast page on there website. You can listen to the 1-minute trailer there and see the colours.

Here’s the trailer if you fancy a quick 1-minute listen.   

The more shares and likes we get the better at this early stages because I’m told that clicks and likes are super important in podcast land.  It’s all a bit new to me as I’m still thinking back to the old days of producing BBC Radio shows where editing involved razor blades, sticky tape and chinagraph pencils. I hope that lots of people will feel like share their own stories and open up conversations about tricky relationships as well as celebrating the great ones.  

Do you have a mum story to share?  I’d love to include other stories in the podcast if you’re up for that.  

Right … I’m going to buy myself a packet of rhubarb and custard sweets to keep me going while we put the finishing flourishes to the episodes.  Exciting times, even though my teeth won’t thank me.  Sorry Simon (my fabulously brilliant and hilarious dentist).  I promise to clean my teeth, unlike my mum who lost all hers when she hit 50 and never nagged me to clean mine when I was little. Maybe I’ll go for the chewies on second thoughts, but then again no, because the last chewy thing made the veneer on my front tooth come off and nobody wants to hear a whistling podcaster. Decisions, decisions …

RADIO MA MA

“Freddie who?” asked the young consultant when I commented on the brilliance of Mercury’s voice. He’d never heard of Queen which made my joke about Fat Bottom Girls fall flat on its … well, bottom! My mum loved the radio and recorded almost every show I produced whilst at Radio 2. She only ever recorded random snippets and always deleted my credit at the end in case they somehow tracked me down at home and burgled my house. She adored Brian Hayes when he was on LBC, Gloria Hunniford on Radio 2 and The Archers on Radio 4 – apart from Linda Snell who she called a “snoot”.

”Don’t ever get a job as a presenter will you, Sonia darling?” Why, Mum? “Because people will know who you are and will bother you for autographs.” Considering her mantelpiece was full of signed photos from radio presenters, I found her logic flawed somewhat.

I wonder what she’d have made of my new project? A major content production company has invited me to make a podcast based on this blog – all about our mums from maddening and meddlesome to miraculous and marvellous. We recorded the pilot yesterday which went really well with a terrific guest who I’m keeping secret for now. Years of producing shows and training people in public speaking has paid off and it felt fantastic to be on the other side of the microphone again.

I can’t tell you the name of the podcast yet, but as soon as we’re up and running with a few more episodes you’ll know ALL about it. Oh yes ! I was going to call it Radio Ma-Ma but we’ve got a much better title. Thunderbolt and lightening … very very exciting … and yes, I know, I know … frightening ! But only a little bit.


Stomach Cake

Stomach Cake

A very short blog to remember my precious mum in the run up to Christmas. I’d spent all night creating this special cake and Mum’s reaction was – Why do the reindeers have Square legs? And His stomach looks like he’s about to explode. We did eventually eat the cake after taking it to at least four parties where we had to stop people slicing into it.

Considering that Mum was the worst cook for anything savoury, her cakes were always gorgeous. She didn’t like this actual cake as it was a dense fruitcake which she always said gave her windypops.

Happy Christmas – it’ll be a quiet one this year and I can’t wait. Chemo coming to an end soon and no more ‘orrible drugs till January.

Bring on the windypops !

The chemo chameleon

The chemo chameleon

“You’re just like you’re mother” or “ Meet the mother, know the daughter”. Sentences I lived in dread of hearing until Mum and I came to really understand and honour each other once she reached 80 and was placed by the mental health authorities into a secure care home.

A couple of weeks after my previous post I sought help with debilitating grief at becoming an adult orphan after losing my precious, funny, wonderful Dad. This was on top of losing three close friends just before Dad died in an instant. I told myself, slightly tongue-in-cheek that I was going nuts and was just like my mum. It made me smile to think about it as I noticed certain expressions, looks and existential stabs at the world which reminded me of her. I knew my mental state was poor, but I didn’t really believe it deep down until those two words were made real by my therapist suggesting that I was going through a type of nervous breakdown. But I wasn’t running down the street naked, singing Danny Boy at top volume ( like Mum did ) or pretending I was a prima ballerina and performing en pointe in bare feet ( again, like Mum did). I felt breathless all the time, agoraphobic and running on empty. Normal for grief and burnout, right?

It turned out that the breathlessness was from blood clots in my lungs and very low blood count. Even though I was hospitalised and felt awful I decided not to give in to the mental decline and fought the emotions, telling myself I was getting stronger. I wasn’t. I nearly died but thanks to a strong heart, the clots passed through it and lodged in my lungs. Then they told me that my low blood count could mean I went quickly into sepsis if I caught a fever. I caught that fever and was hospitalised again. While trying to make sense of everything from my hospital bed the main diagnosis came in – life threatening leukaemia – seriously?

Oh, for Heavan’s sake. What was going on?

Now I had an inkling into the mental turmoil my complicated, maddening, loving mother went through and if it was possible to love her memory even more, I did. Now I’m grateful for the near-death experiences as they’ve allowed me to understand the crazy life Mum lived and I have inherited her adventurous no-more-if-only attitude now that I’m on the road to recovery from this horrible blood cancer.

As for “Meet the mother, know the daughter”, my darling husband adored my mum and could see how I’d inherited her bravery and comical look at the world. And I’m so grateful for the chance of getting to know myself by experiencing the light and dark of life through her crystal blue eyes.

I’ve started a new blog as I feel that there’s a new adventure to tell – hop on over to www.chemo-chameleon.com for the new stuff. I’ll be checking in here whenever a situation occurs that directly relates to Kathleen Margaret Beldom. She would have been distraught at my cancer diagnosis and Heaven knows what she would have said or done in the hospital. I know one thing. It would have been the stuff of anecdotes and mayhem. Many years ago I had major surgery and Mum invited a priest one day, a very puzzled Rabbi the next and a group of gospel singers to sing outside my window. Happy days.

Children’s Mental Health Week

Children’s Mental Health Week

I danced, sang, and did anything to distract people from my mum’s crazy behaviour and until recently, I thought this was normal and “cute”. However, conversations with a therapist who is helping me process the death of four close friends and the sudden passing of my dear dad, have made me realise that it was anything but normal. It was a coping mechanism, sure. It was a way of making me feel happier by banishing the “scary monster”, OK. But it was the result of having a dysfunctional mum whose erratic, unpredictable behaviour made me want to hide in cupboards and tear up tutus. It was the behaviour of a little girl going through mental health problems which were never spotted because she was so good at hiding them.


This is a hard blog to write and I’ve been wondering about sharing experiences and insight, but as it’s Children’s Mental Health Week it feels like the timing is right.


Creating fantasy lands, disappearing into fairy tales and imagining life as a princess or ballerina sums up my early life. I hated school. I found teachers ridiculous. I stayed away from the other kids who would make “crazy” gestures whenever my mum turned up at school or sent me to school in weird outfits. Who’d have thought that a yellow T-shirt, bright red hot pants and wellingtons would mean another day in the school office with Mrs Partridge? She was sweet and I asked her once why she walked like a dinosaur as she held her elbows tight into her waist and let her hands droop down in front of her, making her bottom stand out. (Ooh, I said “bottom”). I can remember her being very amused when I showed her how ballerinas held themselves properly and her frowning face when I demonstrated how she should do it to look more normal. OK, I was 6. I didn’t understand that you shouldn’t say things like that to grown-ups in case they got upset. But most grown-ups were upset, weren’t they? Cross and bemused people getting in the way of my stories. Silly people. I inherited a bit of my mum’s no-filter approach to life because let’s face it, grown-ups were weirdos, so you might as well have fun turning them into fun characters and story inhabitants, right? So what if they got their angry face on? Twirl, point, hop and twirl.

Cope, cope, hide, dance, cope, cope.

I remember loving the game of hide and seek. I got good at it. I could find places where nobody could ever find me until I sneezed or coughed. I managed almost a whole day at junior school and only emerged when I heard unfamiliar male voices shouting my name. And whenever I needed time out to de-tox from Mum’s craziness I could hide in my fantasy world where I was a princess and nobody, not even Mrs Partridge could make me concentrate on lessons or take anything seriously. And there were times that I did what the teachers told me: leave the classroom if I wasn’t going to concentrate or take part. Well, they DID say to leave, but they didn’t say that I had to stay in the corridor outside the classroom did they?

Mum was going through a particularly difficult emotional episode when I was in my early teens. I was aware that she’d not been around as much and, to be honest, I was having more fun with my friends than with anyone in my stressful family at the time. I was living with my Dad who’d recently married my stepmother. Dad told me to go and visit Mum and was greeted with my, “Nah, another time.” response. He insisted I went to see her, which was unusual for Dad as he normally cursed her existence under his breath whenever I spoke about her. Go and see her? Ohh Kaaay, whatever. She was in her room in the guest house with two or three friends. Sitting in a chair near the window, wrapped in a blanket, she saw me, stretched out her hands and beckoned me to her. I froze. I just couldn’t go to her. I was angry with her for causing all the fuss and put my hand up in the classic “talk to the hand” gesture that hadn’t yet been invented. She buckled, her face crumpled and she started crying.  The more pleading her friends did, the more adamant I was to stay in the doorway and not go in. I did eventually, but I really didn’t want to and on the way home I went into the cinema instead of going straight back to Dad’s. Mum was worried I’d been kidnapped and had called the police, Dad was furious with my disappearance and I just wanted a cupboard to hide in to get away from the whole lot of them with a big fat key to stop anyone coming in. I’d never really forgiven myself for being so cruel to my mum and I’ve realised recently that silence, a steely stare and a metaphorical “talk to the hand” has become my default for dealing with difficult people in my personal life. Occasionally the angry monster has emerged if I’ve been pushed into losing my temper, but I have to be really pushed. The odd mug-throwing or stomping off is OK, isn’t it? But that pent-up emotional repression isn’t.


Talking that episode through recently, I came to see that I was far too young to understand what was going on, too young to be the one to forgive my mother’s mental state and I have been hanging on to that guilt all my life. I went to see Mum the next day and recently it was pointed out to me that forty+ years ago I’d made sure that Mum was looked after, Dad was OK and not going crimson in the face when talking about her and my stepmother might stick around if I made her smile with my dancing and singing. But who was looking after me during that time? The answer? Well, I’ve always thought it was me. The proper answer, of course, was no one, because everyone assumed I was OK. I think Mrs Partridge was probably the only one who saw what was going on, which is why she would sneak me the odd biscuit, and a cup of orange and ask me if I wanted to talk about anything whenever I was dumped on her for whatever reason. I ALWAYS wanted to talk about being in Cinderella or dancing for the Royal Ballet and I’ve often wondered if things would have been different if I had been encouraged out of my fantasy world. Would I have been so good at dealing with VIPs, creating children’s stories and coaching people to be more confident by having conversations with their younger selves? Probably not, so I’m not wasting any more time wondering. I’m on a mission to dig deep, share and encourage myself to be more honest and hopefully encourage other people to speak out and share their own experiences as the children of mentally unstable parents.


Talking to other people my age who’ve experienced a tricky parent, it’s apparent that children’s strange behaviour or demonstrations of underlying stress weren’t recognised, let alone spoken about openly in public back then. How great that today we have Children’s Mental Health Week where the well-being of young people is top of the agenda.

The angry monster will inevitably appear at times, but she won’t look quite as scary if I imagine her in a red tutu and yellow ballet shoes whenever she threatens to de-rail me.

 

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