In Mom we trust

Duncan Disorderly

Moving out of home and into college accommodation for the first time is a life-defining experience. For some, the transition is flawless and exhibits little or no change from the routine of life back at the home ranch. For many, however, the proverbial leaving of the nest can be akin to a Spartan baby being cast out into the wilderness to discover whether or not he is worthy. It’s a process everyone should undergo at some stage (the moving out of home, not the Spartan baby exodus) and you can learn much about yourself while you’re at it.

I remember in my first year in student accommodation, I had many bright-eyed dreams of maintaining a pristine house where visitors would clamour at the door to gain entrance to my immaculate domain; where we could have a nice cupán tae and, who knows, maybe some biscuits if the night was heading that way.

That simply wasn’t the case. The reality was that all I could entice possible visitors with were some of our basic amenities… “Hey guys, want to come in and try some of our freshly squeezed water? Have a seat on the couch there, lemme just move that mould to the side for you.” Needless to say, our visitor count barely reached double figures by Christmas.

I remember in my first year in student accommodation, I had many bright-eyed dreams of maintaining a pristine house where we could have a nice cupán tae and, who knows, maybe some biscuits if the night was heading that way.

Another obstacle I encountered was in attempting to control my spending. A chicken roll here, a Jagerbomb there; my funds were rapidly dwindling. One’s budget can take quite the battering as college progresses as many Freshers discover that the one thing missing from their lives up until now was a double mochafrappacappalattecino from Starbucks or the New Bar’s chicken curry.

Come April and May, dust has gathered in wallets college-wide and the phrase: ‘what’s a dole? I think I want one,’ becomes a lot more commonplace. The average student may have 99 problems, but being rich ain’t one.

But there is a fall-back scenario, a plan B, a last crusade. She goes by the name of Mom in most cultures and is usually only a phone call away.

I had trouble showering in my old house, so I contacted the mother for some reassurance and guidance. “Open the door, step in, turn the nozzle to a heat that you find manageable and scrub in a counter-clockwise movement” was what she told me. I should have been standing at the shower when listening to her; I was in the kitchen so I ended up trying to wash myself in the oven.

Mom will always know what weather-conquering attire to don, regardless of your opinion. Even if it is 30 degrees outside with not a cloud in sight, if your mother tells you to wear a coat, you better damn well wear a coat because if she thinks it’s going to rain, it’s going to bloody well rain. I could take a trip to the most isolated parts of the Saharan desert, where it hasn’t rained for hundreds of years, and if my birth-giver told me to wear a coat, you could bet your bottom dollar that it would piss out of the heavens.

In Mom we trust.