What my mother’s 80th birthday taught me about life

My mother just turned 80. It’s a milestone she’s immensely proud of, and rightly so. It takes a lot of resilience, self-care and, yes, luck to be in that club.

She would tell you it’s impossible to believe she is now 80, because she still feels 35. At 52, I concur, although I feel a touch older – more like 40. We’re smashing stereotypes of what women our age should be like. Except if you want us to be out past 9pm.

Eighty is a mighty achievement, but it looks different for everyone. Credit: ISTOCK

That said, we did nudge the clock past 10 for the 80th birthday dinner because it was a joyous occasion. Or occasions, plural, because an entire month of lunches and dinners and afternoon teas followed. It’s possible every cake in Melbourne has been sampled in honour of Mum’s birthday, which is as it should be.

Especially as we’re a family who loves sweets. If there’s one thing my mum has taught me it’s to always check the dessert menu before ordering your main, for fear, through bad planning, that you might not have room for sweets. (Reader, we always have room for sweets.)

Such life lessons have shaped me. Because of my mum, I never arrive empty-handed, I treat heartache with a long walk, and the only reason my house is tidy is because of a mantra she gave me: “Don’t put down, put away.”

Theirs was a generation of no-nonsense mothers who were thoroughly fed up with whiny kids who insisted on getting sick or injured.

JO STANLEY

I think the women of my mum’s era were full of such wisdom. Whatever the ailment, have a warm bath. Whatever the injury, run it under the cold tap. And in our house, no matter the drama, this response: “Oh well, never mind.” From lost homework to lost guinea pigs – I mean, you could have lost a limb – “Oh well, never mind” applied. (I’ve now adopted this with my own daughter, and I have to say it’s delightfully effective.)

Theirs was a generation of no-nonsense mothers who were thoroughly fed up with whiny kids who insisted on getting sick or injured. Their love language was meat-and-three-veg and “only bother me if you’re bleeding”.

Not to suggest we weren’t loved. I think it was more a reflection of our mothers’ stoic acceptance of what is. Sure you’ve knocked your tooth out on your sister’s knee; no point making matters worse by getting hysterical. It reminds me of a saying from the Dalai Lama: “I do not judge the universe.” My mum and His Holiness – same same, but different.

But inherent in this non-resistance to the flow of life (and accident-prone children) are strength and hope, two of my mum’s greatest qualities. Indeed, if I were to tell the story of all octogenarians, resilience and optimism would surely be universally held qualities.

This generation born in the last years of the Second World War, growing up in families traumatised by fathers and sons returning broken from battle – or worse, not returning at all – what struggles did they face as the nation was being rebuilt? And how did families that migrated start a life out of nothing?

And what struggles now they’ve reached their 80s, having weathered loss or illness, scarcity or tragedy, or even just a lot of boring? I’ve asked my mum about the impact of her own life’s difficulties, and her response was typically wise: “I don’t think people are better for not going through hardship.” Which is what I will say the next time my daughter has a bad hair day.

This is what we celebrate when a person turns 80 – a lifetime of heartbreak and healing, and the ongoing becoming that emerges from that. And it is ongoing, even at 80. You’re never too old to become who you are.

Eighty is a mighty achievement, but it looks different for everyone. For my mum, it’s walking and gardening and reading lots of books, but saying “that’s enough cooking for a lifetime”.

It’s meeting your community at the dog park, and checking in on your neighbours. And having a few precious friends you’ve had since you were a teenager and who still see the younger versions of you, where the rest of the world sees a grey-haired old lady.

It’s aching hips and a banged up knee and taking the stairs slowly. It’s the flu vac and shingles vac and COVID vac and RSV vac, but mercifully no more mammograms. It’s noticing that now you’re an old lady, young men are nice to you, although you still get ignored in shops.

It’s still quoting poetry and Shakespeare and the Bible. It’s sitting and thinking and remembering, alone with a cup of coffee. And sometimes feeling lonely.

It’s being proud of who you are, and grateful for every single moment that has led to you becoming you.

And that is worthy of all the cake. Good thing I’ve got room for sweets.

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