Joanna Lumley is right – I’m terrified of being eclipsed

Promoting her new comedy series, Amandaland, actress Joanna Lumley has confronted one of the myriad taboos of motherhood. “Quite a lot of women, who were once pretty, when they’ve got a very pretty daughter, are jealous,” she said. This bold statement cut a knife of recognition through me.

While I never thought of myself as pretty as a young woman, I felt possessed of a certain striking appeal. And until recently, I considered women who claimed to be envious of their prettier daughters to be petty and insecure. Gnarled old-hags lacking generosity of spirit. I even wrote a few years ago about how I couldn’t possibly be jealous of my daughter, Daisy, then aged 18. I was thrilled, I crowed, that she made it onto Tatler’s Most Eligible list, featuring in their coveted Little Black Book, something that had eluded me in my youth. This happy harping has turned out to be pride before a rather sobering, emotional fall.

Now that my daughter has grown into a beguiling young woman – she recently turned 21 – and I am on the cusp of 60, I have begun to notice pesky twinges of covetousness that pluck and plague me. Before Christmas we were in Thailand together, and for the first time ever, I lay on my sun lounger and looked at her lean, wrinkle-free body. I convinced myself that it was not envy for her youthful perfection but nostalgia for my bikini body of old that I was feeling.

But let’s face it – this was hair-splitting semantics on my part in order to stave off sticky feelings of guilt. Because surely it goes against the natural order of life to feel anything as uncouth as envy for your own progeny? Jealousy of your daughter is an ugly, unbecoming feeling that lacks maternal grace. The truth is that, as I watched her wade into the sea, all tight thighs and flowing hair that didn’t need to be constantly under a sun hat, I felt old. And then sad about that.

In yoga classes, I had to constantly remind myself not to feel envious as I looked across at her loose limbs and ability to contort herself with ease into poses, when I was stiff and far less flexible than I used to be.

It goes beyond that, too. Although I aim to dress and act in a dignified, age-appropriate way – which I hope conveys the acceptance that I mostly feel about my looming sixties – there are moments when you look at the dewy face of your daughter and there is a savage reminder staring back at you that what was once yours is long gone. As much as I am thrilled to give Daisy shoes I can no longer wear because of my bunions, expensive evening bags that are too small to fit my glasses in and clothes that are too sheer or short to wear, each offering to her feels like a tiny death of my past self. I’ve become almost hysterically possessive about the clothes that I still wear that she covets, screaming that my camel Max Mara coat is “completely out of bounds.”

In my defence, unlike Lumley’s character in Amandaland, Felicity, who belittles and berates her put-upon daughter, I adore Daisy, making every effort to champion her. No one makes me laugh as much as she does. More than that, I admire her. As much as I moan about the deficiencies of Gen Z – and I do – rolling my eyes at their preciousness and inability to drive, go to a post office, read a newspaper or use a J-cloth, I also watch in awe. Daisy is so much more sophisticated and accomplished than I was at 21. She feels empowered to express herself and has fierce opinions, whereas I was uncertain of myself and tentative. Ever since she was a teenager she has had a strong sense of her own style, whereas I have basically worn the same clothes since I was seven. I’ve always been a blue-stocking in corduroys, cotton shirts and navy v-necks.

But where I really need to come clean and confess my envy interlaced with a fresh unfamiliar shame is that Daisy is now encroaching on my career terrain. The yelping truth is that I feel unfounded terror mixed with excitement that she is going to eclipse me. Although she is training to be an actress, she is currently writing a novel. She already has a literary agent whereas I struggled to seek a commission for a newspaper article at her age. She keeps saying that she definitely “does not want to be a writer”, and is writing only as a means to create some material for herself to act in, yet she clearly has a gift.

Last week, I read the first third of her book with mounting pride, then panic. Her writing is far more accomplished than anything I could have written at 21. Her book, a blend of Bridget Jones and the novel YellowFace, is startlingly well-observed. And she has captured sexual power play in a manner worthy of Babygirl, the racy new Nicole Kidman film. I can only shake my head in wonder that one so young can conjure up scenes of emotional complexity laced with humour.

The only antidote to facing my ageing inadequacy is to remind myself to bask in the reflected glory of Daisy’s achievements. I used to watch mothers at school sports days and envy them – their daughters were winning all the medals, whereas we always left every prize-giving or competitive event empty handed. The only time I experienced the fulsome swell of school-gate envy was when Daisy played Gwendolyn in The Importance of Being Earnest at her boarding school. It was a blisteringly good comedic performance and afterwards, I was lauded and feted for being the mother of such a promising actress. Frankly, I revelled in it. But it wasn’t a threat to me as I have no acting aspirations.

I always take it as a compliment when people say how alike Daisy and I look, as I think that she is far prettier than I was. The next test of motherhood for me is to step back gracefully and let my daughter take centre stage. What allows me to do this and soothes me, is the reflection that my mother always championed me and was happy for me to outshine her.