I HAD a conversation the other day with a few friends about how we in Ireland address our mothers. There are a fair few different variations of the moniker on the island and everyone seems to have a different one.
One of my friends called their mother ‘Ma’, ‘eh?’ or ‘whaa?’. Another calls his mum ‘Oul Doll’; a girl calls her mum ‘Meyammy'; and another goes a tad more international and calls hers ‘Miami’ as in ‘Miami got me this lovely coat’.
Someone else thought the word mum was far too posh and is possibly what the royal family call their ma. Someone else added an M to their m for a mam. Someone else was complaining that we have, as a society become far too Americanised when some of our youngsters are now calling their mothers ‘mom’, decidedly more 90210 than BT1.
And depending on where you are in the north, you’ll either get a hug or a clip around the ear if you call her ‘Ma’ to her face.
But regardless of what you call her, one thing is certain, the Irish mother is the most unique and original of creatures with her own hilarious quirks and fabulous characteristics, hail she from Ballybofey, Ballymun, Ballycolman or Ballymurphy.
The Irish ma tells children totally believable lies with a stern face such as ‘If the wind changes you’ll stay like that’ and has ‘good’ items that only come out when visitors are coming – good biscuits, good cushions, good tea towels, good cups, good jumpers.
She is a woman who will not rip birthday wrapping paper so she can use it again and ‘regifts’ presents to you that you gave to her for Christmas last year, but you say nothing about it because she’s scary and lovely in equal measure.
She is the type of mother who knows that too much happiness and enjoying of oneself can lead to severe unhappiness and therefore, when you announce you’re going out, asks if you have not done ‘enough gallivanting’ for one week. She also vows to pray to St Anthony when you lose your car keys and will tell you with brutal honesty that you are getting fat.
She ‘gives off’ and she ‘gives out’. She says things like ‘If you fall off that wall, don’t come running to me’ or ‘Come over here 'till I kill you’. She can morph into a wooden-spoon ninja when punishment or discipline is required and breaks her actual heart over burnt spuds.
She’ll tell you a story for 15 minutes about someone you don’t know and then tell you they are dead and states that various things – you, your antics, your carry on etc – will be ‘the death of’ her. Never mind traditional modern medicine, the Irish mammy will give you flat 7up when you’re not well and it will make you better, guaranteed. If you find yourself a significant other she’ll order you to bring them to her house so she can have a ‘good look at them’.
Her knowledge of weather conditions is unrivalled and she has her own metrological terminology – ‘There’s a grand stretch in the evening’, ‘That’s a good drying day’, ‘That wind would blow the head clean off you’ and ‘That’s a day you’ll need your big coat’ – that would put even Barra Best to shame.
She has a direct line to God and lights candles so that you’ll pass an exam or get a job. She’ll warn you to always wear good underwear in case you get hit by a bus – she wouldn’t want you and your tatty undergarments embarrassing her in the hospital.
Whatever way you look at it, there’s simply no-one like an Irish mammy, ma, mum, mom, mam, meyammy or Miami.
