And no, it wasn’t the first time we had held hands.
For I had grabbed and clutched his hand on many occasions prior to that day; when crossing the road, or when trying to pry him from the rows of toys at the department store, or to just to help him balance during those first wobbly stages of walking.

But this was the first time he had reached out for mine.

Not because he felt unsafe, or because he had been ordered to do so; but because he had wanted to. For no reason at all.

And that reason, that no reason, is why the incident is so deepy nestled in my treasure chest of memories.
Because the feeling of that unexpected little warm hand in mine represents one of those lump-in-the-throat beautiful moments.

Today that little boy who once reached up to place his hand in mine is turning 13.

Goddamn but it’s true what they say about time …

It flies by; whooshing past on a stream of chubby crayons then textas and the proud brandishing of a newly received pen licence. It is carried away by Mummmeee, then Mum. And its history is recorded by the tilting of my own neck which looked down for a while, then straight ahead for a moment, but for some time now, and indeed the rest of my life, will forever be looking up.

That little boy who reached his hand out to me is a teenager today.

Oh save me.

A teenager.

I’ve heard it could be a dim road ahead. Grubby and a little dank. And, I won’t deny there haven’t already been glimpses of what might be gloomy times ahead. But there have also been signs, bold, warming signs of the man he will be.
A man whom I will be proud of; a man who won’t need to hold my hand anymore.

But for now he’s a near-man.

One who is doing his best to pretend that he doesn’t need my hand anymore.

Though,
I still notice that he looks at it on occasion.

So I shall keep it ready and waiting.
Not exactly tucked away, deep in a pocket,
nor waving it in front of him, fingers wiggling like a mad-woman who cannot let go,
but just there.
Hanging loosely by my side.
Casually exposed.
Ready and waiting,
just in case he ever wants to,
for no reason at all,
reach out for it again.

I think I’ll keep them.

“Look at life through the windshield … not the rear-view mirror.” – B. Baggett.

I have never run through a field of wildflowers screaming.
I have never enjoyed a cup of instant coffee.
I have never liked the look of liquid paper on a page.
I have never gotten blind drunk.
I have never liked the taste of raw tomato.
I have never thought I was good enough to be a writer.
I have never won a running race.
I have never liked the saying: “The grass is always greener on the other side”.
I have never liked the way I look.

I have been handed a bunch of wildflowers, that were mostly weeds, by a chubby handed little boy—and my heart screamed with happiness.

I have hand-ground freshly roasted coffee beans, brewed espresso shots and sipped that concoction with my eyes closed.

I have saved writing drafts, calling them version .1, then .2, then .3 and so on, then enjoyed looking back to see where I have come from.

I have experienced being drunk on life.

I have served raw tomato to my children from an early age. Because I do not presume just because they grew in my womb that they have the same tastes that I do.

I have realised that sometimes you just need to ignore your critics.

I have never won a running race but that doesn’t mean I feed my kids lame lines about participation being THE most important thing. No. Winning is important. Striving to do your best IS important. I don’t care if they win the running races of life, but I hope they win at the things that are important. Career. Love. Life.

I have always loved the saying “…that if you think the grass is greener on the other side, maybe you should be spending your time watering your own effing grass.”

I have really got to get over that. One day.





This post is dedicated to Bookboy. Thank you for a writing prompt that challenged my mind: I ran through a field of wildflowers screaming.

There are now seven screwed up bits of paper to my side.



Last year as we were packing a little suitcase together for the big-grade-three-camp my daughter asked me a simple question.

Will you miss me Mummy?

Of course, I answered.
Her face crumpled a little as she placed her left gumboot into the case.

It’s funny, I said as we folded the prescribed number of size-eight sweaters into neat rectangles, when you love someone and they are headed off on a grand adventure you have what they call mixed emotions.
She stood, looking up at me while wringing a pair of High School Musical Socks between her fingers.
I feel sad, I continued, that you will be away from me and yet also blissfully happy knowing that you are going to have such an amazing time.
She rolled her socks into a ball and stuffed them into a runner.
There, she said ticking off the last item on the list-of-things-you-must-bring, all done. She smiled.
Then she zipped up the case.

In front of me is another sheet of blank paper.

I can’t quite get the words out of the thicket that is my head, down past elbow, wrist and finger tip and out through the pen onto the page. I’m stuck on I’ll miss you.

I try again. She is only nine years old. She doesn’t require an elaborate message. I’m pretty sure she’d be as happy with a page of red-biro love hearts as with perfectly worded sentiments.

I hold her camera for inspiration.

My plan is to photograph the note.
I know my daughter. As soon as she shoots a few frames the first thing she will do is turn the camera around to marvel at the images she has captured.
She’ll flick past the cheesy shot of her Daddy trying to hold the leaning tower of Pisa aloft with the palm of his hand, and the three shots of Nonna and Nonno smiling over their short black espressos in a cafe on the Piazza dei Miracoli and she will reach the end of her snaps…

and find my message.

If I can actually ever figure out what I should write.



I’ve laid out all her summer clothes on my bed. I am the mixn’match travel Queen. Everything has a purpose. Anything unnecessary is ruthlessly dumped.
She looks at the outfits I have selected… we are negotiating whether to bring pink runners as well as white ones. She decides one pair is enough.
Besides, she says, that leaves more room for souvenirs.
Clever girl.
She smiles as she zips up the case.



I think it’s the amount of time that she will be away that is causing my brain to seize. Over one month. Four and a bit weeks. Nearly five. Exactly thirty three days.

The little white squares of August suddenly take on new meaning.
I shut my calendar.



I unfold my seven attempts and smooth them out in front of me.
I see the same three words written over and over.
I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.
Three words.
Three words.
Three
words.
oh.
I stop.

Three words.

I just had the wrong three words.


I write with conviction. I love you. It’s perfect. It’s simple. And it won’t make her cry.
And she will know it is woven, richly, with all of her Mother’s mixed emotions.

I frame the shot, take the pic and throw away the written evidence.


I put the camera, with its secret embedded message into its little protective bag
and I smile.
Not a very big smile. It’s a bit wobbly round the edges.
But a smile nonetheless…

Then I,
very carefully,
zip up the case.

My son is the family jokester.

We call him Jerry, because sometimes he channels Seinfeld… but most of the time he’s a total Lewis through and through.

He decided he wanted to play a birthday trick on his little sister, Miss A. So he concocted this (err…not very original) idea of wrapping up a pack of knickers and giving it to her, as though it was the only gift she was going to receive.

I looked at him a bit puzzled.

You don’t know your sister very well, I said.

But he was already chuckling at the hilarity of it all and he picked out a pack o’five for his joke.

In the morning we serenaded Miss A with the traditional rendition of the happy birthday song (meaning we sang it properly, not the you-smell-like-a-monkey version…) and he gave her the present, barely suppressing a smirk as he watched her unwrap it.

Undies, she smiled, thanks they’re really nice, she said flinging her arms around me and giving me a big, long hug.
Her brother waited for the question… Is there anything else? Or the expectant look around in case there was another gift waiting… but there was nothing but cuddle… glorious cuddly-cuddle.

Over her head I looked at him and I raised one… single… eyebrow.

Now if you haven’t seen this particular look before, my heart breaks for you ‘cos you were obviously orphaned at birth… as it’s a look every Mother gives her child at least once (if not, let’s face it, a hell-of-alot-of more times) in their lives.

One, very carefully raised eyebrow equals… see I tooooold you so AND why don’t you ever listen to your mother… all wrapped up in a little arched n’hairy caterpillar of maternal guilt.

Yes, the eyebrow could very well be the single most powerful tool a Mother has at her disposal…
and I can work it like a master…

On seeing the eyebrow-of-doom Miss A’s big brother scurried away to retrieve the real present he had bought, (with his very own money… yeah I have to cut him a little slack for that, he is after all only eleven…) which was a pair of prized iCarly PJ’s (what’s that I hear you say… you haven’t heard of iCarly? Ahhh sorry I can’t be fekked explaining… suffice to say she’s the latest marketable invention in the licensing spin-cycle for cash… see your local Target for more details…) and as predicted Miss A adored them.

And then I gave her my gift.

Which was something she had admired in a jewellery shop window a while ago.
But never asked for.

A plaited leather, Pandora bracelet.

Which she liked because,

a) Mum look it’s pink!

And…

b) Look Mum, money from the sale of each bracelet go to Breast Cancer research.



She turned nine today.


And she could teach a lot of kids, double her age, a lesson in grace.


*********

Happy Birthday Sweetheart,
Love from Mum, Dad… and… Jerry.

*********

And now she’s lying on a thin bed that’s covered in a utilitarian width roll of paper towel with nine little probes on her chest, no I think it’s ten, or more…no I can’t count them anymore. And I’m trying to focus on her perfect pinched face but this fucking noise is distracting me.

I think I’ll tell the nurse or the pathologist or whatever the heck she is to turn the radio off, I mean forgawdssake who puts the radio on that loud when you’re doing this stuff anyway… but the woman looks at me as though she’s seen me have this kinda reaction before, even though we have never met, and says politely,

“Love, there’s no radio playing, it’s okay… you know this isn’t gonna hurt.”

And I know it isn’t going to hurt, this blip machine that plots spikes and falls. It’s the reason for doing it that hurts.
And the noise dies down the minute I realise that it wasn’t the radio at all, not some techno, repetitive gunge blasting from anywhere external.
It was an internal noise.
A mantra repeating over and over, rising from shaky knees up into the perdition of my stomach, stuck like broken vinyl…

please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing don’t worry just a routine test please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing just to check everything’s okay please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing routine test please let it be nothing please let it be nothing just to check everything’s okay please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing…
Please let it be nothing.

And then I wonder if maybe I should pray to someone.

All the usual suspects flit through my mind. But they have no fucking clout anymore in a world that is contemptuous and derisive about faith. Spirit of cynicism thriving on wrappings and baubles and mine is bigger than yours… and my mind clouds over darkly…

I will kiss the back of your ages old scaly hand and give you the only shard of my soul that is worth anything and I will worship you forever and I will go down on my knees for you till the end of days if you just make these spikes and falls mean nothing.
Nothing at all.

And then she smiles and I smile back, toothpaste-ad-cheerful, and say,
“See honey, it didn’t hurt…”
“Yeah you’re right Mummy,” she says, “I felt nothing. Nothing at all.”

~
~
~

February 11th 2010

Our girl is fine. The Specialist told us so.

Happy, happy…happy Valentine’s Day

to me.

He reached up to hold my hand. He was terrible at tying his shoe laces. His best friend at kinder was a girl named Alex. He played with matchbox cars.

We took a walk together down the bike track, close to the creek. He watched the trickles of water. Looked at the trees, the bark, the leaves, touched a washed rock, stared at a blade of grass.

He asked “How was this world made?”

He wasn’t interested in who, he was interested in how.

He was three. And he already knew there was a bigger picture.

If I close my eyes I can see him now. He hasn’t gone anywhere. But he’s not here anymore.

Tonight I feel off-balance. The axis of my earth has shifted. Slightly. Perhaps no one else notices. The changes have been gradual. Daily infinitesimal.

I now look up to see this little boy.

He puts his arm across me, protectively, before we cross the road.

He mows the lawn because he is saving for his first car. Or a play station three, whichever comes first.

He plays his guitar with his best mate at school. His best mate is Jase, an enthusiast of Queen and ACDC.

But he likes to play Sunshine of your love because he knows I like the sound of the first few bars.

He reminds me to take my vitamins. Every day.

He’s learning how to swear. But he never says anything rude in front of girls.

He’s learning how to cook. And he teaches me about renewable food sources.

He shows me the pumpkins he has planted. He demonstrates the male to female pollination process. He’s rigged the garden so the pumpkins have a soft place to form. So they don’t hang themselves and wither. The vines twist up the back fence and down past the tree he grew from pits we spat out three summers ago.

He needs new shoes. I push my toes into them, ready to squeeze, but I realise that they are roomy on me now.

I tell him that when he falls in love, he should find someone who doesn’t want to change him.

I tell him that when he falls in love, he should find someone whom he can respect.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. But his ears are paying attention.

I watch him when he’s sleeping. One hand squashed under chin and cheek. I’m staring. Trying, trying to find the little boy. He’s there somewhere. Enveloped in this man-child.

I understand now,

One cannot pine for something they have not lost.

But the axis of my earth has shifted.

And I’m standing in his shoes,

trying to find my feet.