Well, Mother’s Day is nearly over, and whether you’ve been a Saint, gone that extra mile and bought chocolates and candles for that special lady in you life or not, it’s time to celebrate the thing mothers are best at: talking absolute nonsense. That being, outside of cooking, cleaning, finding things in your room that you SWORE were missing forever etc.
Just you WAIT til’ your father gets home! You can’t be more than ten. You’ve probably refused point blank to go to bed, or maybe you’ve destroyed a wall in red crayon. Whatever you’ve done, it has driven your mother up the wall. She has roared herself silly, thrown away the wooden spoon in despair, threatened to take you up town and sell ya, but you still haven’t given in. The poor woman is at her wit’s end and you have forced her to play her trump card. What can you do but obey. Nothing puts the fear of God into a child like Daddy coming home, even though he’s usually a softer case than the mother herself. Probably the most effective saying in any mother’s repertoire, these words have struck fear into generations of Irish children, and will continue to do so.
It’ll be grand sure, you’ll grow into them. Those clown shoes that lasted you over three years because they were so big your feet only went half way up them. The big Liverpool jersey she gave ya when your brother grew out of it that still fits you to this day. That baggy Communion suit that looked like it came straight from your father’s wardrobe: the rolled-up sleeves, the trousers with the folded up ends, the horror of it all. All of the above, forced on you by a mother who, to be fair, was trying to save a few quid. She was right though, you were grand. Sure aren’t you still alive and well and happy and not a thing wrong with ya?
Oh, and was it a final of some sort? It doesn’t matter whether you’ve just been training, or played a league match of some description, or actually played a final. This is always her first question whenever you come from any sort of sporting event. She doesn’t understand sport, so don’t try and explain it to her. The only sporting memory she has concerning you is when you were playing in the final of some peewee under sixes tournament that she went out to watch. From that point on, everything you’ve played since then has been ‘some sort of final’ (are semis included?) as far as concerns her.ou’re making me cold just looking at ya. Lagging just behind snakes, chameleons and other reptile-like creatures, Irish mothers are among the coldest-blooded beings known to man, and therefore certain rules and regulations must be adhered to in order to keep them above freezing point. Blankets, throws, cushions and other soft objects must be littered around the living area, in close proximity to wherever the creature formerly known as Irishus Mammius may choose to lay her head. The heating must always come on in the evenings, although a nice fire or stove is preferable. Most importantly, the emersion must always be ready when she needs it, but it shall never be left on so long as to be deemed wasteful. The emersion must always be firmly switched off when leaving the house.
We’ve heard them all in some form at a point in our lives; and sayings like these, along with things like the Den and butter-biscuits after school are exactly what helped to make our childhoods so, well…. Irish!