Three Stories About My Mother

1: How my mother almost ruined any chance I would ever have of a meaningful relationship

There are many stories I could tell you about my mother. This story, though, has had the most lasting effect upon my life. It is a story that is both amusing and thought-provoking,… but mostly amusing.

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This is a story of how my mother almost ruined any chance I would ever have of a meaningful relationship in my life.

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Any parent has to accept that at some point their child is going to ask the question; the dreaded question about where do babies come from? You can never know when or how that question will come.

My mother was in the kitchen, cooking the evening meal for the family. I was sitting in the dining room reading the local newspaper. There was an open archway between the two rooms. I would guess my mother had instructed me to stay in the dining room so that I did not get ‘under her feet’ in the kitchen, which was probably a wise decision on her part.

There I was; a boy of about 9 or 10 years old, reading the local newspaper on the dining room table. I am reading an article about a court case that has recently taken place in the town. In the kitchen, my mother is carefully preparing a stew by stirring the ingredients in a large pot on the stove.

In the newspaper article, I come across a word I do not know. I have not seen the word before, and it is difficult to guess its meaning from the context of the article.

‘Mum?’, I call out, though it’s more like ‘mu.uuum?’ With a long-drawn-out middle and a fall off toward the end. The way you let your parent know you want to ask them a question, but you’re uncertain if you should.

‘What is it, my favourite number one son?’ She says. Perhaps not in exactly those words, but I cannot recall accurately..

‘What does ‘intercourse’ mean?’ I ask.

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My mother is as calm as anything and responds;
‘In what context, my dear?… read me the sentence.’

I return to the newspaper and read out the sentence as printed in the article.
‘He admitted he had gone to the park with the girl to have intercourse with her.’ I read out perfectly innocently.

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“A talk, dear, a conversation. He wanted to have a conversation with her.”

My mother’s response seemed feasible. It seemed to fit into the sentence and did not seem in any way wrong.

Looking back on it, I like to give my mother some credit ; she carefully avoided having to explain the ‘facts of life’ to her inquisitive son at a time when her time and attention were, rightly, being given to the cooking.

However, I am less sure she could know the effect her clever avoidance would have upon her son.

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In our family, my brother and I had been taught that you need to treat girls gently and kindly. You have to be polite to them and be mindful of what you say. They don’t like rough games; they don’t like sport. They do like flowers and little animals. They also get upset easily, cry a lot. So, you have to be very careful around girls.

Of course, this was just an example of the gender stereotyping that was common in society in those days. However, at only 9 or 10 years of age, we were not yet to know any different.

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So, the man had taken the girl into the park to have a conversation with her. I knew now that this is what the article meant when it mentioned ‘intercourse’. I carried on reading the rest of the article.

‘Oh my word’, I thought to myself as I got toward the end of the article, ‘oh good heavens’.

By the end of the article, I had learned that they could send a man to jail just for talking to a girl.

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That is how my mother nearly ruined any chance I might have of getting a girlfriend.

As I grew up, I met many girls. Some of them thought I was simply very shy, others may have thought me as incredibly aloof. Some, I fear, may have me thought me rude. All because I avoided talking to them.

In reality, I simply wanted to avoid going to jail.