You’re not my real mum!

I stupidly made the decision about 18 months ago to head back to university. Not only has it caused me to seriously question my intelligence – I certainly didn’t find it this difficult the first time around, it has also has me spending a great deal of time thinking about botox and how to disguise a rapidly expanding grey streak in my hair.

Really, I don’t like to spend any more time than necessary on my appearance, but spending several days a week under fluorescent clinic and lab lighting with 19 year olds is making me feel like Jenna from 30 Rock lamenting having to audition for the role of a mother in Gossip Girl.  Yep, I’m old enough to be the mother of some of them… if I was a bit more like Spike from Degrassi Junior High.  Sigh… none of them would get that last reference.

You’re such a broomhead, Spike.

Now I don’t have children of my own, but that doesn’t mean there are slots open for people to step into that role.  I say this because there is someone at uni who seems strangely keen on me and it’s not the first time.

Last year, a young gent I was paired up with in a weekly lab would message me on Facebook at all hours asking for advice following a relationship breakup.  He was very sweet, a long way from home and helping me with a subject I hadn’t done in about the amount of time he’d been on earth, so I was happy to listen and sympathized with young love gone awry.  That was until he said he really enjoyed talking to me because I reminded him of his mother.  Yeah thanks.

It’s only the second week back of the semester and I have apparently adopted another lost puppy.  I was describing this situation to my own mother who declared that this person has decided that I’m their uni mum.

Patches (not the puppy’s real name), who does actually have a real mother, seems to think I have a better idea of what is actually going on just because I’m close to double their age.  And because of this, I seem to be on the receiving end of a barrage of questions I haven’t experienced since working with journalists or my last job interview.  Listen here, Patches, you’re really backing the wrong horse.  I’ve got no idea what’s going on most of the time.  I almost fainted in a lecture yesterday when I found out I had to learn 105 anatomy flashcards by heart.  I actually drove past a construction site the other day and thought, ‘maybe I could be a ‘stop/go’ person’, despite being what I’d describe as ‘really not an outdoorsy type’ and ‘chronically allergic to manual labour’.  I quit a perfectly good job and embarked on a career change in my shallow mid-thirties (I’m in my mid to deep mid-thirties now).  Yes, I’m obviously someone who’s got all the answers.

Sorry, Patches.

Patches, while standing disturbingly close to me – as they proceeded to do for most of the 10 hour day – asked me what I had for lunch, followed up with asking what I had on my Vita-Weets, and then if I had anything to drink with my Vegemite and avocado smothered crackers.  Worried that I’d have to recall what I had for lunch yesterday, what last year’s tax return was and when my next pap smear is due, I ran away and hid in the toilet.  I know I really shouldn’t compare myself to real mothers, because I know my girlfriends with little ones usually have to do that in front of an audience and I actually got a few minutes of peace.

So what’s the etiquette for breaking up with your adopted without consent uni puppy when you have to spend the next almost three years with them?  That’s right.  There isn’t any.  Time for me to pull up my big girl undies and be grateful that I have an adopted puppy at all.  Woo hoo.