There is a process in psychotherapy known as “re-parenting”. It describes the role that the therapist, (or analyst), can play in their patient’s life: that of a proxy “parent”.
This is because a great deal of psychological problems, (persistent ones at least), begin when a parent knowingly or unknowingly fails to meet the needs of a child.
The damage done by this is sometimes mild and sometimes extreme. “Re-parenting”, by the therapist, is done in order to repair some of this damage.
But, it is not a magic bullet. I remember interviewing Camila Batmanghelidj about this process and the impression that I got was that it was to Origin Parenting what a dupe tin of off-brand coke is to a can of Coca-Cola. Ersatz, a copy of a copy of a copy.
But it is better than nothing.
One of the most straightforward, literal examples of this “re-parenting” is that even if the patient cannot attend a session, the therapist will be there, sitting in the room, in the chair, thinking about the patient.
This act may seem absurd and silly, but in fact it is the therapist demonstrating to the patient: “Even if you are too busy for me, or other events have intervened, I am here for you. I will not scroll my phone or read a book. I will sit here, for 50 minutes, and think only about you.” In other words, they will do what a parent does. They will sit and wait, they will be there, they will think of you and no-one else.
Okay, it is ersatz, but I have seen this process at work on a person who badly needed a bit of “re-parenting” and it is not stupid woo woo or a waste of time. It is reasonably effective.
But thinking about it makes me increasingly alarmed at how many psychological disorders, distress, discomfort or general unhappiness stem from what mothers, particularly, did or did not do when their children were small.
For fuck’s sake, I think, isn't there enough pressure on us already? We must do all the things and clean all the stuff and remember literally everything for everyone and the thanks for that is that also we are the first scapegoat if the child is having a breakdown - whether now or in thirty years’ time.
The good news, I think, is that the essential requirements from a mother are actually reasonably basic. I am reminded now of the slightly exasperated advice, “Just don’t bang your child over the head with a frying pan and they will be alright,” from the psychologist Oliver James, (I may be paraphrasing). I think it’s a bit more than that, but I increasingly think that the number one requirement from mothers is just to be there.
A basic task, requiring no intelligence or sophistication, but also unfair. We can’t always bloody BE THERE, for any number of extremely pressing reasons, financial, domestic, physical - that have nothing to do whatsoever with the strength of feeling for a child. But as the tale above about “re-parenting” illustrates, “being there”, is a profound act of duty.
Being there is what the Queen did. Being there, being visible, saying very little, carrying out her various niche leisure activities out of sight so as not to bore us with them, was a sort of Platonic ideal of motherhood. I also do truly believe that she sometimes sat quietly and thought about nothing but us. Massed before her, in all shapes and sizes and faiths and income brackets, republicans and royalists alike. How could she not?
This is all very gendered and faintly enraging to the modern female mind but is, I am convinced, why her death is uniquely emotional even to some republicans or royal ambivalents.
Humans are, in many ways, very simple. And I wonder if the Queen’s longevity and consistency, her brightly-coloured being there gelled her in the atavistic, lizard part of our brains as ‘Mother’, even though we know, duh, that she is not our mother.
If you are taking her death surprisingly hard - possibly embarrassingly - *cough*, perhaps it is because it is hitting us in that same extremely vulnerable part of our consciousness that it would if it was our actual mother who had died. Not the same, of course. It’s a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of that feeling. But it’s the feeling, all the same.
Now, my friends. Now, now. There, there. Let’s dry our eyes, put on our best cardi, a nice sensible tartan skirt and pull ourselves together.
What could possibly go better with amateur psychology than sugar?
If you have never made Queen of Puddings, do give it a go. Marvellously old-fashioned and seriously delicious. My mother, who follows the always there principle, is a master of this dish. I do love the extremely humble ingredients: supermarket sliced bread, milk, eggs. Jam.
This recipe is from Complete Cookery Course by Delia Smith, that other woman who casts, perhaps, rather a long shadow.
Queen of Puddings
For 4
1 pint of milk (570ml)
10g butter
110g fresh white breadcrumbs
50g caster sugar plus 1 tsp
lemon zest of 1 lemon
2 eggs
1 tbs raspberry jam
Preheat your oven to 180C
This is enough pudding for a 1.5 pint or 850 pie dish. It is worth finding the right size dish so that the meringue can fluff up over the top - like a crown!! - and look marvellous. Butter the dish generously.
1 Pour the milk into a saucepan and bring to the boil. Take off the heat and stir in the breadcrumbs, 25g of the sugar and the lemon zest and leave for 20 minutes. After this time the bread will have swollen up and you will have a porridge-y type thing.
2 Separate the eggs, beat the yolks and add those yolks to the cooled milk/bread mix. Pour this into your pie dish and spread evenly. Bake in the centre of the oven for 30 mins until set.
3 Meanwhile, melt the jam in a small saucepan over a low heat. When the bread/milk mixture is cooked spread the melted jam over the top.
4 Now beat the egg whites until stiff, then whisk in 25g caster sugar and spoon the mixture over the pudding. Sprinkle a tsp of caster sugar over the top of this and bake for another 15 min until the topping is brown.
Eat, accompanied by a 24 gun salute. God save the King! [sobs]
I've never commented either, but what a very brilliant piece of writing about why we feel bereaved - and the ways that we connect with abstractions, in this case icons. In all of the journalism about the Queen's demise, this has resonated most with me. My favourite pudding too.
Excellent piece of writing and a recipe to boot. Thank you xx