A mother always knows

by Sticky Toffee Pudding

It is my suspicion that some mothers belong to a secret underground network of ancient mystical knowledge, like a society of supernatural spies.  It is during the process of birth (ours, not theirs) that they are initiated. The epidural that so many of them receive is really nothing more than a DMT style hallucinogen that transports their minds to this mysterious land of knowledge. It is here that they make the ultimate sacrifice (their physique) in return for an everlasting abundance of information regarding their child. Because a mother always knows. Always.

Their knowledge richly spans the spectrum. There are those pesky little practicalities, such as making the perfect bed with not a single wrinkle in the sheets, or cooking your favourite meal in such a perfect way that it simply can’t be replicated, as no matter how hard you try it never tastes the same… right down to the deep and meaningful, like knowing their daughter does not consider herself heterosexual, or maybe just who stole the last chocolate biscuit from the tin.

Take my mother for instance: it is fair to say that she remains rather ignorant of many a thing. For example, when it comes to reality tv stars or sine and cosine rules, confusion is her friend. Yet she can whiff out sickness like a bloodhound does a fox and she’ll know just how to treat it, assaulting me with a whole host of traditional remedies that I will of course shun, only to go whimpering back later seeking her guidence and chicken soup. Half the time she’ll diagnose me before I’ve even realised something is wrong, as she’ll spot the early warning signs long before I do. And don’t even get me started on her remarkable ability to uncover my little white lies. As a child I am certain my mother installed a hidden camera in the kitchen, as despite having four children she always knew when it was I who had snuck into the fridge and eaten half of whatever treat she had been saving. The woman has a sixth sense.

As an adult I get on rather well with my mum. Some children give flowers, I give hugs and sing songs (what can I say, I’m the youngest of four). So what do I do now that my homophobic mother has started asking me if I’m gay?

She’s certainly been suspicious for a while, quite a few years in fact, and the subject has come up on a number of occasions. The closest we got to the truth was when I retorted back ‘and so what if I am’, which launched her into a fury of why it would indeed be unacceptable if I was. The problem is that my mother is of a completely different generation and culture, and was raised in a country where homosexuality is still not accepted. I do believe my mum is as tolerant as she can possibly be; sadly she just hasn’t reached the stage of accepting that sexual preferences can differ.

This old school thought is not so uncommon and I know plenty of lesbians and bisexuals who chose to stay in the closet to their parents for convenience sake. The idea that you can only really be true to yourself if you project everything you are to everyone you know doesn’t suit everyone. And besides, how much of anyone’s identity is truly defined by their sexuality?

In my personal experiences I have found that there is no need to mention sexuality when it comes to my role as the dutiful daughter. I mean, you certainly wouldn’t catch me dishing out the goss on my latest date, nor swapping tales about that time I went skinny dipping for a laugh. For me, these are experiences to share with friends (and quite possibly siblings), but not sweet old ma. There’s a time, a place and a(nother) person for those things. And as much as I am saddened by my mothers’ attitude towards homosexuality, the fact of the matter is that I’ve no desire to share the details of my romantic life with her – especially when I know it poses a very real threat to our relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll challenge any condescending, ignorant drivel that she may let slip from time to time (example – gay men can’t have children. No mum I think you’ll find that they can). But when it comes to revealing why LGBT issues are just so dear to my heart, I prefer to keep schtum. My mother is the sort of woman who is fine with other peoples’ children being gay (i.e. my best friend) but not her own.

Things are complicated further by fact that I identify as bisexual. Whilst some may feel this would actually make things easier, I find that generally speaking the opposite rings true.  Why can’t you just be normal becomes why are you being unnecessarily difficult. And even if I were courting a gentleman I still wouldn’t tell my mum about him. Growing up I was raised on the mantra ‘you are not allowed a boyfriend’ played on repeat. This certainly isn’t the case now but such a history does not invite a culture of sharing. Thus, the way I see it I wouldn’t tell my mum about anyone I was with at the moment, male or female. Of course if/when I decide to settle down the situation will most likely be different. If I were to find myself in a serious long term relationship that looked likely to last, I would attempt to make the customary introductions; if only to let my partner know what she or he was getting into. But until then do I really need to delight my mother with details of my sex life? I think not.