I’ve spent the last year living in Prague, with my partner and her two teenage kids. One, an almost 18-year-old girl, was out with her pals the other night and came home an hour later than the time she was told by her mom to be home. I’ve never been a parent, but I found myself completely, and naturally, assuming the role that my own mother would have taken 35 years ago.

It was a frightening moment to behold.

Did I just become my mother? I thought to myself, practically laughing out loud.

Yes. Yes, you did, Orla.  (My imaginary friend reassured me).

It went something like this…

Ciara (teenagers real name withheld) arrived home at 3:00 am instead of 2:00 am. Upon hearing the heavy fire-door in this top floor apartment clunk and clang open and closed, I sat upright quickly, grabbed my phone for a time-check, thumped my partner twice (much to her dismay), and in my best grumpy north Dublin accent launched into the following drivel:

“Do ye know what time it is? She’s only coming home now. And she slammed the door she did. Did you hear that? It’s feckin’ 3 o’clock in the morning. Oh, there’ll be harsh words I’m tellin’ ye. Wait’ll I get my hands on her.”  

At this point, I realized I had been possessed by my mother from 1988. The words coming out of my mouth were not my own. My partner bolted upright, fumbled to turn on the bed-side lamp which seemed more fluorescent than usual. We both spoke at the same time:

Me: AAAHHHH, me eyes!

My partner: ORLA SHUT UP. I’ll handle it. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason.

Me: (Still) AAAAAH me eyes!

This little incident sparked a memory of being 17 years old in Dublin, around the time of my Cure-Head days, when certain friends had been banned from my house, because they wore all black clothing. I was a misfit. I went through phases where I would try to fit in with the popular girls, donning a fabulous Simon Le Bon hair-do on some days, but weeks later, throwing on my second-hand Doc Martins from that shop in Temple Bar. (For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of it. It was next door to Bad Bobs I recall). I’d back-comb my hair and plaster on some coal-black eyeliner in an attempt to look like Robert Smith. Within 24 hours, I’d re-invent myself again and wander over to the Country Club Hotel in a sensible cardigan and nice trousers, to serenade the punters on the piano every Friday night. (read more here: https://orladoherty.com/play-it-again-orla/).

I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Ashamed of the reality that I was gay*, and could never tell anyone, I desperately tried to fit in with the good girls, and the bad girls, not knowing if I’d ever figure it out.

There was a boy in my school that I liked. He was different to the other boys. Tom K (that’s not his real name) was tall and blond and quiet and nice and smart and he was nice to me. He didn’t hang out with the popular lads, the athletes, or the GAA** players. He was a bit nerdy and sat behind me in Applied Maths Science Class. (Don’t ASK why on earth I took Applied Maths Science – that’s another story).

I thought he was lovely, I liked looking at him and his sallow skin. Sometimes his cheeks had a pinkish hue to them. His hair was short at the back, and he had the most beautiful blond curls at the front that fell down over his big brown eyes. (To be honest, I haven’t a clue what colour his eyes were). He was a gangly awkward teenage boy who was trying to grow into his own body. We clicked on some level and enjoyed talking to each other. And sometimes we played squash, which meant we didn’t have to talk, but could at least be in each others company.

We had agreed that we would go to the Debs*** as a couple when school was over, so I had assumed in my mind, that he was probably my boyfriend. For now, anyway. I’m sure he had a different idea, but I relished in my notions.

Once a month in my hometown, there was a ‘disco’ at the Portmarnock Sports and Leisure Centre (PSLC). It was a highlight of our lives, for many reasons.

1. The chance to get out for a night, albeit with blue eyeshadow, and outfits we had no idea would come in handy nowadays for fancy-dress parties.
2. The chance to dance the night away to all the tunes we loved. The 80’s really were the best.
3. The chance to see if anyone fancied us.
4. The chance to be away from our parents for a few hours.

I asked Tom K if he’d meet me at this particular disco in 1988. Before hand, a group of my friends gathered at my house as my parents were gone for the evening. We dared to raid the drinks cabinet, carefully ensuring that we didn’t take too much from one bottle, for fear that mam and dad would notice there was some missing. It was the ultimate concoction of any alcohol we could find. We filled an old plastic bottle with a mixture of Vodka, Crème de Menthe, Whiskey, and Tia Maria. And a bit of red lemonade. Even now, 35 years later I remember that rotten smell of this light brown delicacy. I remember how it tasted after that first swallow. Our faces would twist up, the hair standing up on our necks, as we bravely consumed the substance that would give us a bit of courage on the night out. God, we must have had stomachs of steel.

My house was only a stones throw away from the PSLC, so we huddled into the small woods behind the building and waited for the doors to open, passing around the bottle, pretending to enjoy it. Once we all felt nicely buzzed, we waltzed in to the gymnasium hall, which was still smelling of basketball practice from earlier in the day. The lights were dimmed just enough for the chaperones to keep an eye on us, unbeknownst to them what we had just consumed 30 metres away.

At 11 o’clock, having danced ourselves into a sweaty frenzy to the tunes of Depeche Mode (Just Can’t Get Enough), and Dexy’s Midnight Runners (Come on Eileen), there were those of us that would await the SLOW SET, signalling the disco was about to end. The DJ would play at least two songs, maybe a bit of Chris De Burgh (Lady in Red) or Eric Clapton (Wonderful Tonight).

I waited as Tom K sheepishly approached me:

“Do ye fancy a dance?”

I feigned surprise and modesty.

“Oh really? Me? Ah yeah sure go on”, as my friends would quietly jeer me on.

I loved the feeling of his arms around my waist, my head on his shoulder, trying not to step on each other’s feet as we circled slowly in the 2 by 2 ft space we had chosen to dance in, surrounded by other couples in similar embraces, not a word being spoken. I wanted to be loved, held, adored. By anyone. Having struggled for years with an unfortunate set of buck front teeth, and gigantic freckles, I knew I was not attractive. I was the ugly duckling, and the only thing I had was my sense of humour to make me even somewhat popular.

There we were holding onto each other in silence, acutely aware that our private parts might be pushing into the others, when suddenly he stopped. He appeared stiff (Easy Tiger! Not THAT way), almost frozen, and he squeezed me so tight, as if hoping we’d both disappear.

Whispering quickly he blurted “Don’t look now but I think your mother is standing in the corner”. His breath fell heavy on my ear.

“Ah jaysus you’re joking me”. I tried to keep my voice at a hush, in disbelief.

“No really. I’m sure it’s her. She has an apron on. And I think rollers in her hair”. There was panic in his voice.

I remained in his tight grip, afraid to move. I needed the DJ to play another song.

Rollers in her hair? I thought. That was definitely her. I knew it.

I was supposed to be home at 11pm. It was now 10 past the hour. Mam would have looked at the time, realized I was late, and crossed the road in her slippers to catch me. I was always trying to push the boundaries, but my mother was the strictest mam in Portmarnock. She was so strict that other mams would threaten their own children with Phyllis.

“Eat your vegetables or I’ll get Phyllis”.  Said child would inhale all the carrots.

“Clean up your room or I’ll get Phyllis”. And like the road-runner in a frenzy, a tornado of tidiness would ensue, and their rooms would be immaculate, like the Virgin Mary.

I don’t mean to give my mam a bad rap. She’s heard me tell this story dozens of times and I think she secretly enjoys it. Today, decades later, she’s the most beloved woman I know. The kindest person you could meet. It’s comforting to me and many others to watch how she has evolved over the years. She’s reinvented herself in many ways.

But that particular night, she yanked me away from Tom K and marched me home under the flickering street lights, wooden spoon in her apron pocket, my head hanging in mortification as my friends watched on. Some of them scampered to get home too, before word got out that Phyllis was on the loose. I can’t help but laugh when I look back.

I’d say it was typical for our mammies to be hard on us in the 80’s. It’s the only way they knew how to handle us youngsters who thought we knew it all. Just as our grandparents instilled in our parents how to bring up children, I found myself unknowingly under the influence of my own mother the other night when Ciara arrived home. I’ve never raised a child. But my natural instincts kicked in and I was shocked. We are all a product of our parents, and despite the rant that emitted from my mouth that night, I am proud to say that I also possess the kindness and generosity that my mother exudes on a daily basis.

My hat goes off to mams and dads everywhere. I never imagined I would have children of my own. I’ve never known the kind of love and protection that comes with being a parent. Now at age 50, I am discovering a new joy in participating in the lives of these two kids I live with. I am lucky. It’s daunting, educational, eye-opening, wonderful, funny, and also very entertaining to see my own reactions to things they do. Things I did myself as a teenager, and how I respond. In a way, it’s teaching me to take a deeper look at myself and I appreciate it.

I don’t dare to check our drinks cabinet though…I wonder if Ciara is up to the same tricks that I was! I admit, there’s a mischievous part of me that wants to secretly show her how to do it. Her mother would be appalled!

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful week!

*Gay – if you’re interested to read my four part series on coming out, please check out this blog-link.

Ille-Gay-ly Homosexual – Part One

**GAA – the national treasured sport of Ireland, the Gaelic Athletic Association teaches Gaelic Football and Hurling/Camogie in all Irish schools.

***Debs – the end of high school dance that took place after graduation. A rite of passage we all participated in.