Memory Melee

Sometimes I have so much to say that it all rushes forward at the same time and bottle-necks at the exit. And nothing can get out and all my thoughts begin to panic. There is an uprising and then my thoughts are rioting, in their bid for freedom and this internal mêlée paralyses me. So I sit and try to calm the panic. I sit and try to restore order. I sit and stare. I sit and breathe. I sit and sit. And nothing comes out but there’s so much. Years of memories and theories and anecdotes and opinions. But they’re all fighting to be heard. To be told. They all want their day in the sun.

“Pick me!” they say “I’m a great story.”

But sometimes it’s the quiet little memory in the corner, hoping to go unnoticed that, in fact, gets your attention. Sometimes you are drawn to the one making the least noise because sometimes, they need the sun the most. So I motion to that sweet little moment in time and gently nudge them forward.

“Go on” I say gently “tell me.”

And they do. And it is beautiful.

It’s very early in the morning. My mum and dad and baby brother are all sleeping. But I’m not. I’m awake and reading in bed. I read whenever I can but I’ve been reading for a while and I think it’s time to start the day. I head down the hall to the kitchen in my nightie. I don’t make much noise because I’m small and my feet are bare. I am four.

My dad likes to start his day with coffee. I know this because I see my mum make it for him every morning. Today I am going to make his coffee. Because I love him and it will be nice for my mum to have a rest. I get his favourite cup. I’m very proud of myself because mum keeps the cups in the high cupboards but I’m clever. I pull out the drawers and use them as steps to reach the high cupboards. I get the tin of coffee and put some in the cup. 2 big spoonfuls looks about right and I’m very pleased that I remember Dad has sugar too. I put in 4. One for each of my years. All good instant coffee is made with water from the kettle. I’m not allowed to turn it on so I don’t. I pour the cold water from the kettle into Dad’s favourite cup but only half way. I haven’t forgotten the milk! I fill the rest of the cup to ALMOST the top and stir up that morning coffee.

It takes me the longest time ever to get back down the hallway to my mum and dad’s bedroom because I can’t move too fast or I will spill the coffee. So with two hands I gingerly make my way across the house in my nightie and bare feet and slip into their darkened room. They are STILL asleep so I put the coffee next to my dad and climb into bed with him to wake him up. Which he does, almost immediately. His moustache tickles me when he kisses me good morning. But I don’t care. I love it.

“I made you a coffee Daddy”

My mum sits up bolt upright. “Tania! You KNOW you’re not allowed to use the kettle!” She’s mad at me and she looks scared so I tell her that I know. And I didn’t. And she calms down. Until she sees the cup. “How did you get that cup down?!”

I explain everything and everyone is calm again and then I wait, expectantly for my dad to try his coffee. He exchanges [possibly pained] looks with my mum and sits up in bed, with me tucked under his arm and starts his day with my cup of coffee. Every. Last. Drop.

The memory of that cold cup of coffee keeps my soul warm.

Dear Dad

Sorry I missed your birthday this year. I’ve always found it ironic that my French Dad’s birthday is on Australia Day and that while I celebrate being an Aussie I always raise a glass of wine and say a ‘salut’ to you too. It wasn’t always that way, of course. We used to celebrate your birthday, just the two of us, at a beach somewhere. It was what I needed for a long time. I’m happy we’re past that now.

It’s been a while since I’ve written I know. I’m sorry for that too. Life is just so busy these days and I am consumed with living every minute to the fullest. Mum reckons I get that from you. She’s probably right.

I know I always told you that I wanted to marry you. Or at least a man like you and sadness would touch your smile when you would say 'No. Not for you ma petite chere'. Turns out you were right. Life with Mark is good. You like him don’t you? I know. What’s not to like? I wish you were here to drink with us. I’m sure marrying a man in the wine industry was more destiny than accident. He thinks so too. Have I told you what a good palate I have? It’s true. Mark reckons it’s in the genes. I don’t argue that. I like the inference. He’s different to you. Considered instead of reckless. Calm instead of passionate. Controlled instead of emotional. Consistent instead of irrational. He’s a good husband. Let’s face it, he’s a better husband than you were. That’s not an accident either.

Do you remember when you used to have all your friends over and Mum would cook French food for everyone and you’d all sit around the kitchen table and drink wine until all hours of the morning singing... and crying? My kids will never have those memories of their Dad and I’m happy for that.

Jason is doing ok. He misses you but keeps his feelings close to his chest. Sometimes he’ll be telling me a story and wave his hand about and I feel as though a younger you stands before me. It’s disconcerting. Mum feels it too and I see that it makes her happy and sad. She’s coming to visit you this year. 45 years after she met you and she’s finally going to see where you’re from. No, she could never be accused of being radical. You two. So different.

So, life is good Dad. Nathan just turned 8 and Stefan will be 6. I can hear you exclaim “Already??” I can’t believe it myself. It only seems like yesterday that I was telling you that I was pregnant and sharing the wonder of growing your grandchild in my bloody huge belly. Nathan is so proud that I gave him your name as his middle name. He tells everyone. Especially Stefan. Just something else to tease him about. I know you are proud of my boys. Do you see yourself in Nathan? I do. His eyes. His face. His mouth. His body. So much of you in him. It makes my heart burst. Stefan is a bit more of a mix of Mum's side and Mark’s side of the family. He’s got your passion though. And your hair. 

They talk about you sometimes. They’re learning French at school and have excellent pronunciation. They love reminding their class mates of their French heritage too. Now that we’ve cleared up the confusion that they are not actually Aboriginal. Don’t ask, Dad.

It’s been a bumpy ride, as life tends to be, but the bumps seem to be in the right places. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I know I promised that it wouldn’t be. I’ll write more often. I promise. Again.

I miss you Dad.

Rest in Peace xx

What does a mum look like?

My mum looks amazing. She looks strong and proud and determined. She looks fit. She looks like a tiger, always ready to pounce, always protecting her cubs. She looks like a lady with painted nails and coloured lips. 

She looks like a kick boxer, always in her family’s corner. 

She looks like a dancer. She looks like a dad. She looks like a daughter who is sad without her mother. She looks like a child laughing with my boys. My mum looks like a racing car driver with her seat laid back and her gloved hands on the wheel. She looks like a bread winner. She looks like a model walking in heels with a strut I’ve never been able to imitate. She looks like a boss. She looks like a clairvoyant, calling on her intuition to predict the future. She looks like a clown holding court with her hilarious stories. She looks like a counsellor always ready with advice – sought or otherwise. 

She looks like an inspiration. She looks like an aspiration.

My boys’ mum looks like me. I hope they see a mum that looks like their protector. I hope they see a mum that looks strong and fit. I hope they see a mum with arms big enough for the whole family. I hope they see a mum with a heart that shines through her eyes whenever she looks at them. I hope they see a mum that is larger than life itself when they stand behind her for protection. I hope they see a mum that laughs with them. I hope they see a mum who’s not ashamed to cry. 

I hope they see a mum with magic in her kisses. 

I hope they see a mum who stands on the sidelines chanting their name and heading their fan club. I hope they see a mum who knows when to be quiet and let them shine. I hope they see a mum who is a mind reader that somehow knows what they’re thinking even when they don’t. I hope they see a mum who they will always want to hug. I hope they see a mum who is a master chef. I hope they see a mum that’s important to the whole world, and not just theirs. I hope they see a mum who is fair. I hope they see a mum who leads. I hope they see a mum who will follow their dream too. I hope they see a mum who is smart and has the answers. 

I hope they see a mum who’s not afraid to tell them that she doesn’t know. 

I hope they see a mum who thinks she’s beautiful. I hope they see a mum who looks for the beauty in others. I hope they see a mum who delivers on her promises – good and bad. I hope they see a mum they can respect. 

I hope they see a mum that they can point out to their friends and proudly say ‘That’s my mum’

What does a mum look like to you?

My mum hates my blog

It's true. Mum hates my blog. Well, she doesn’t hate it as much as fears it. She loves my writing and she loves that other people love my writing but she hates that people read what I have to say. She hates that I have a place, on-line, that I share stuff about me and my opinion and my loves and my hates. And she hates my blog mainly because of this post I’m writing right now. The one she doesn’t know I’m writing. The one about her.

When Mum finds out about this, which she will ‘cause her friends love my blog and they read it all the time, she’s gonna lose her shit. And when my mum loses her shit – the world knows. She’s that kind of mum. The outspoken kind. The opinionated kind. The awesome kind.

Being born in the 70s meant that my mum was young. It wasn’t the norm, back then, to wait until you had ‘done stuff’ before you had kids. You got married as soon as you could and had kids straight away. Which in Mum’s case was at the ripe old age of 20. Being born to a 20 year old in the 70s was a very different parenting dynamic than today. There weren’t books or websites or online forums or help-lines or social media communities or parenting shows. 

There was only this... On the job training. 

And, unbeknownst to me, it was during my mum’s on the job training that I cut my own teeth on being a mum. Today, 40 years after she started the ball rolling, I see myself parent in her style. It’s equally as terrifying as comforting. Terrifying because I hated some of what she did and comforting because what she did created some pretty impressive grown-ups [yes, I’m pissing in my own pocket].

  

I hated “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I’ve got something to cry about Mum – that’s why I’m crying!

I hated “If you make that face and the wind changes, your face will stay like that forever.”

What was that parenting technique even for? To discourage kids from making ugly faces? And would that mean that if, after the wind changed and made my face ugly forever, I would have the chance to make it normal again by making a happy face and waiting for the wind to change again?

I hated “Because I said so.”

That's not a reason. Just like it wasn't an answer when I replied 'because I don't want to'. I hate even more that I say it to my own kids now.

I hated “You’ll understand, when you have your own kids.”

Because, of course, I do understand.

I hated "Do you want a smack?"
Yes please Mum. A hard one please and if possible, in public.

Yep, Mum said some stupid shit when I was growing up but it turns out it didn't ruin me. And as for the good stuff? Well that turned out to be the gift that keeps on giving... and I'm now regifting to you.

Lone's Life Lessons

#1 Always wear singlets in winter. It keeps your core warm which means the blood that pumps around your body is warm. Whether that's true or not, I still wear them to this day and my boys are in them whenever it’s cool.

#2 Always dry your hair before you go to bed. Or you will get a chill or catch pneumonia. Or end up in hospital. Anyway, I forget the reason but my kids are under the hairdryer every time they get out of the shower/bath.

#3 Always have a ‘hands towel’ and a ‘dishes towel’ in the kitchen and NEVER mix them up. It's a germ transfer thing. In my house, if the tea towel is visible then it’s a ‘hands towel’. The ‘dishes towel’ is on the rack under the sink.

#4 Always wear a dressing gown on top of your pjs if you’re not in bed. There can be no sitting on the couch [that people put their feet on and their bum on and their unwashed hands on] in the same pjs that you’re going to wear to bed later. It’s dirty and gross.

#5 Always have a rice steamer. It is the only way to cook rice.

#6 Always walk into a room as if you own it, even if you’re shitting yourself.

#7 Always protect your family.

#8 Never talk when Mum's favourite song is on the radio in the car. Either sing along or shut up.

#9 Always squat over a public toilet seat so that your bum doesn’t touch it and if you can’t squat, then LINE the toilet seat with toilet paper. This will reduce the risk of catching a disease like herpes or hepatitis or AIDS or the worst possible option – worms.

#10 Always overcook the chicken. There cannot be even a tinge of pink or you will get salmonella. Or worms.

#11 Always wash your feet before going to bed. Dirty and gross.

#12 Always have good girl friends in your life. Whether you’re married or not. They are the constant.

#13 Dance. Often. Well. Alone or out on the town. Just make sure you dance.

#14 Always be clean. Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re sad. Even if you’re broke. It costs nothing to be clean.

#15 Never apologise for who you are or where you've come from.

#16 Always sort your dirty washing into light colours, dark colours and whites. Towels on their own. Bedding on its own. Tea towels on their own. And if you leave them in the washing machine for 2 days, wash them again or they will smell like old vomit.

#17 Always shake the creases out of every piece of wet washing before you hang it on the line. You need to make it ‘snap’. If you hang it, like a boy, straight from the basket it will dry crunchy.

#18 Always steam your vegetables. Well, if you want flavour that is.

#19 Always make sure the kids are fed. Well.

#20 Never let your kids know you’re scared.

#21 Always trust your instinct. It’s all you have in the world when you’re all alone so listen to it and make it your friend.

#22 Always listen to your mum [if you haven't made friends with your instinct yet] She may do and say things you hate. She may be annoying. She may be too strict. She may be unfair. She may be too tough. But she knows your heart. She knows your smell and your touch and your face. She knows what’s best even when you don’t. Especially when you don’t.

My brother and I did it tough. With only Mum to raise us we missed out on a lot. The newest gadgets. The coolest clothes. The nice house. The new car. Travel. A father. A mother. Because what happens when there’s only one parent is that parent has to spread themselves so thin that you’re really being raised by half a parent.

Yet it never felt like that. My mum did the best and most committed job she could possibly do. Which may not make her the greatest mum in the world. 

But she’s the greatest mum in my world. 

And that, is all we can ever hope our mums to be.