Fran Whiting: My letter to my mum this Mother’s Day

Many of us can’t see our mothers for a cuddle this Mother’s Day. So we’re writing letters instead.

Dear Mum,

Sorry.

Sorry for all the sleepless nights, first when I was a baby and liked to party at three in the morning, and th en when I was a teenager and repeated this behaviour, only this time it was not because I did not understand the concept of sleep yet, but because I didn’t want to.

In fact, I don’t know if you will remember this, but you once took me to our family doctor in my very early 20s to check if I was all right.

“She just won’t stay home, Doctor,” you fretted. “She’s out most nights and sleeps in most mornings. Is this something I should be concerned about?” That lovely man smiled and said, “No, I’d say that’s pretty normal behaviour for a young woman her age with a healthy social life.”

Fran Whiting: My epic home school fail

Fran Whiting: We will kiss and hug and laugh and love again

So, we went home, and I went back to living part time at Cafe Neon.

Now, if you are young, you will not know what I am talking about, but Cafe Neon was a nightclub where much of Brisbane’s young population danced during the entire ’80s.

As a side note, I would like to add that my husband, before I met him and became the calming, sensible influence I am today, broke his leg sliding down the banister at Cafe Neon during this same period.

Anyway, Mum,
I want to use my letter to you to give several, well-overdue apologies, firstly for all those sleepless nights during the Cafe Neon/Underground/Brasserie years, secondly for the Girl Guide incident, and thirdly for Kevin.

That’s obviously not his real name, but you know exactly who I mean.

Columnist Frances Whiting. Picture: Liam Kidston

To the Girl Guide incident, which is the only occasion I can remember you being truly angry. White hot angry. Simmering rage angry. I considered stowing away on a plane and moving to another country angry.

As you may recall I begged you to sign me up to Guiding, specifically its junior league the Brownies, but you, knowing my terrible track record for signing up for things, then rapidly losing interest, sensibly declined.

And so began my long, and ultimately successful campaign to not only wear you down, but also to convince you to buy an entirely new and very expensive Brownie uniform, having convinced you I would “die of embarrassment” if you made me wear a second-hand one. Again, I am deeply sorry, I was a pill of a child.

So I did join the Brownies in my brand new uniform, went once, donated that hideously expensive uniform on the way out, and arrived home in my civvies to airily announce: “No, not really for me.”

I would lastly like to apologise for Kevin, and the emotional rollercoaster I – and therefore you – went through during the time I was dating him.

It’s funny, the thing I remember most about Kevin now is not him at all, but you. You, walking up and down our street with me for weeks on end, listening, promising me it would all get better, and that one day I would be happy. And you were right, Mum, about a whole lot of things, including Kevin not being the one for me, and not getting a spiral perm.

Anyway, there are a thousand other things I’m sure I could apologise for, but instead I think I’ll just say thank you. Thanks for all the walks and all the talks and all the listening and all the great big dollops of love.

But mostly, thank you for not telling Dad about me giving away the Brownie uniform.

*Write your own letter to your mum and we will publish a selection in The Sunday Mail. Email your typed letter to [e-mail] this week and don’t forget to include your full name and suburb.