Mother's Day

Mother’s Day was perfect this year. It was the first year that The Boy fully understood the idea of a special day for celebrating mothers. He put a touching amount of thought into buying me a present and he worked hard to make sure my day was a lovely one. I was promised a pancake breakfast and a chocolate cake for after dinner but neither eventuated. I was, however, the joyful recipient of a garden gnome courtesy of the primary school Mother’s Day stall. The Boy handed it over, bouncing on his toes with excitement, bursting with pride at his purchase which he knew I would absolutely love to bits. And he was right of course – how could I not be delighted by something that was given with so much love?

We put together one of our traditional slacker's picnics (a large bag of Baker’s Delight stuff and some bottles of flavoured milk) and went out to Wentworth common for lunch. The Chicken is always at her best when she is outdoors and had a wonderful time crawling around, investigating other people’s picnics, and pointing out every plane that flew overhead. The boy is still thrilled at his newfound ability to ride his bike without training wheels and decided to put it to the ultimate test by riding up the large hill that overlooks the common.

It was lovely to spend the whole day together as a family like that – a whole day blissfully free of the simmering frustration and crankiness that sleep deprivation has made commonplace around here recently.

Remembering

We’re approaching the chicken’s first birthday. It doesn’t feel real – I look at her and she is far too small to be turning one. The past year has an odd condensed feel about it, as if we’ve squashed a lot into a smaller period of time, or as if nowhere near enough has happened to fill a whole year (sometimes it feels like one, sometimes it feels like the other).

But it’s definitely true and if the calendar wasn’t telling me so, other things would be. The past weeks have been full of little things – smells, sounds, sensations, events - that have been triggering vivid, almost visceral memories of how I felt this time last year. The first camellia of the year stopped me in my tracks a few days ago. It was later this year than it was last year because of the warm weather we’ve been having, but I was instantly transported. I remember my son carrying it, floating in a silver cup, into my bedroom and telling me that because I couldn’t go outside to look at it he was bringing it inside to me.

The advertising for our local fire station’s open day and the public school’s kindergarten information night reminded me of missing those events last year. Lying in bed, counting kicks and worrying about the baby but also worrying about not being able to do these things with my son.

The smell of chimney smoke drifting inside as the weather cools reminds me of sitting in the loungeroom with my feet up, directing my mother as she cooked dinner and tidied the kitchen. It reminds me of the weird stress involved in seeing something that needs to be done and not being able to simply get up and do it.

And then there are the other memories. Driving down Lyons road in Autumn’s early morning sunlight has words echoing in my head. My obstetrician peering sympathetically over his steepled fingers as every sentence he says settles into the numb place inside my head. Pack my hospital bags. Could need to deliver at any point from now on. Do I think I can stay in bed if he doesn’t admit me to hospital right now?

Driving down Paramatta road? Well it doesn’t trigger a breastfeeding let down like it used to, but as I pass the turnoff to the RPA it still elicits a feeling that is an odd combination of exhilaration and panic. I quite like that one actually as it always makes me feel like the luckiest person in the world.

And so on, as the memories keep tumbling in. While I am dwelling on them a bit I don’t see this as a bad thing. These memories are precious to me. Some of them are not particularly comfortable and I feel myself becoming a little jittery and unsettled as The Chicken’s birthday draws near, but they are part of my story, and part of The Chicken’s story. What happened last year helped to shape the interesting little person she is and helped to shape the way that I interact with her. They also helped to shape the way I look at the world. So while these memories do make me think of a time in my life that was very scary, they also make me think of a time in my life when I was very, very, lucky.

I think it would be lovely if looking at the first camellia of the year always makes me feel lucky.