Hi °C | Lo °C Shortly before noon Sunday, there's a thump on the ceiling as Wolverine rolls out of bed and shouts that she needs a lift to Mass.
Mass?
She hasn't attended Sunday Mass in five years – she points to the child sex abuse scandals – though to your mind Wolverine's Mass boycott owes more to her opposition to getting out of bed.
But, then, what do you know?
If Wolverine really wanted to go to mass, you say, she could have accompanied the rest of the family to church last night instead of watching her 'Love/Hate' DVD.
Alternatively, you mention she could have risen hours ago, done some much-needed study and then enjoyed a leisurely walk to church, oxygenating her brain along the way.
Wolverine snarls.
A spin is the least you could give her, like, she never asks for anything!.
She can't remember the last time she asked for a lift!
You can, you say crisply.
It was yesterday.
"But I want to go to Mass," screams Wolverine.
"Humph," you say, "did you, by chance just get a text from Johnny Vaughan telling you to meet him outside Centra?"
Christ Almighty, Wolverine shouts, all she wants is to go to Mass!
She defiantly tosses her long blonde locks.
If, she declares, she wanted to meet Johnny Vaughan, she'd goddamn say she was meeting him!
She's 18 years old!
Don't think you intimidate her! You're a failure as a mother!
She hates you! She can't stand the sound of your nagging voice! She's sick of your lecturing!
And if Wolverine damn well wants to go to Mass, you've no right to stop her!
Hmmm. With the exams looming, the Lord's clearly back in favour.
As she flounces out the kitchen door, you bite your lip to stop yourself laughing.
Or, to stop yourself crying.
Because, by God, she's tough going.
That afternoon an old friend calls over.
The old friend has three handsome sons, who do well in school, play lots of sport and lead mellow, uncomplicated lives.
But your friend is dissatisfied.
Her sons never tell her anything, she complains.
All they do is mooch around the house, eating and getting mud on the stairs.
When you ask them anything, she says, they grunt - amiably but unintelligibly.
You never know what they're thinking!
Now daughters, your friend says enviously; daughters will talk to their mothers!
Daughters have opinions!
Daughters tell you what's going on in their heads!
They sure do, you say.
You wonder if she'd swap.
Just for a decade or so.
Irish Independent
