There are few things as painful to a child as a parent’s disapproval. When my friends’ softly spoken dads boomed, they knew a line had been crossed. I never knew my father, but my mum’s raised voice hardly bothered me. Instead, it was her silence – her pained face and furrowed brow, her deep sigh and the curl of her lips in a frown. I felt that in my chest. This week I did it again: I disappointed my mother.
In my defence, the bar for disappointment has dropped considerably over the years. That time as a teenager when I said I was an atheist, or when I got caught taking drugs in my 20s, were perhaps understandable reasons for my mother’s disquiet.
These days, the pained face comes for trivial reasons. If I eat a doughnut: disappointment. If I use satnav on a route I should know: dismay. And if I turn up in a crumpled shirt, she will tut me into ironing it.
Mum has always been an advocate of smart dressing. She says it is disrespectful not to make the effort. As far as hair goes, buns should be tight, and clothes should be repaired before they are too worn. Time and again she would sit me in front of the sewing machine, demonstrating.
I wasn’t listening. To be taken seriously by my peers I had to be confident, which meant looking as if you didn’t care. Anyway, stiff clothes were for aunties and uncles, immigrants whose parents were born under empire and believed you should make sure your shoes are polished, and your collars stiff.
So, at 31, I once more take my seat at the sewing machine to fix the falling buttons on my now-crisp shirt. While not convinced by Mum’s point of view, I recognise the value of the skill. And, no matter how old you get, you never outgrow the power of a mother’s disappointed look.
