Mothers
/My motherhood vanished in the whiff of a soiled nappy; my kids were beautiful little treasures one minute and now suddenly they are huge, hirsute, monosyllabic creatures of rare sightings. They appear suddenly in dimly lit doorways with murmurings and muted music whisping out around them with ghostly tendrils of barely discernible sound. I don't know if someone is in there with them in their rooms or it's just the laptop playing endless music videos and You Tube offerings of hilarious mishaps. It's another world and a universe away from the little voices that constantly sought me out with offerings of what they were thinking in that instant or small grubby fingers pulling at my dress to show me what they'd invented.
It was a fantastic privilege to share their wonders and discoveries. Some days when they were overwhelming me, it was a trail of destruction I saw about the house and at others, when I'd had some sleep, it was transformed into a trail of delightful discovery. It was truly an honour to raise them; the beauty, the joy of them. It's not my fault small pleasure packages turn into great hairy brutes or screeching banshees.
But the anxiety I could have done without; motherhood is constant vigilance. I suffered insomnia, fretting about the myriad ways they could be hurt even while I kept watch. I imagined them wrenching free of my grasp to run out onto the road after a kicked ball that bounced enticingly up and down in the path of an oncoming car, my ineffectual scream the last thing they heard in their tiny shell-like ears. Or drowning in the pool, gasping and flailing, their lovely blue eyes wide with fear, while I had my back turned cursing and squealing at the huge, fat, ugly, slimy cane toad I was trying to remove from the filter basket. Or chopping off a finger with the huge carving knife and quietly bleeding to death on the kitchen floor, their creamy skin draining of colour to alabaster, all because they had been trying to cut a piece of cake I refused to give them before I settled myself on the toilet for a bit of a peaceful read...
But somehow my children managed to make it to adulthood; somehow I didn't completely fuck up and destroy them as some mothers are wont to do. That's something to be proud of isn't it? They can dress themselves, negotiate a street crossing and don't set themselves afire when boiling an egg. It's all good isn't it? Okay, so they don't talk to me; that's boys isn't it? My girls at least, are an absolute delight and talk to me, but sadly are far flung (perhaps that's why they're delights?) No, no I jest.
I am hoping they will come back to me, my boys. When they are older and free of the need to separate from the female influence in their life as they embark on their male initiation into the Male Dominion. That faraway place of testosterone, Rekorderlig, pizza and Paco Raban.
My own childhood was so different and it was steeped in my mother's cultural music; Latin music. Whenever I do Zumba (at least every Saturday morning) I think of her. I remember her shutting out the world and drowning herself in the stereo. The old records spinning on and on as she rocked herself on her bed, humming.
My mother was a miracle.
She was born in 1931, three months premature. Her grandmother, a nurse, built a homemade humidicrib and for several days had kept the tiny infant alive by rotating oven warmed bricks. Born with a hole in her heart, she was a sickly child and expected not to live beyond 13. But as fate would have it, in the early 50’s a German doctor, a specialist in the experimental new open-heart surgery visited the country with the intention of performing several operations on those most in need. He was astounded to find this patient still alive and performed the surgery shortly afterwards.
Then early in 1960 she boarded a plane to Australia to join her long time penpal in marriage. But it was a lacklustre relationship that produced a boy and a girl and not much else. She endured arthritis, asthma, angina, a constricted lung, stomach problems, chronic infections, anxiety attacks and depression.
In 1975 she tried to commit suicide when on a visit back to her homeland.
After a long illness, as they say, she died in 2008.
The whole process of grief seemed sadly marred by the fact that for the few years before her death, she was so ill and her depression had become so debilitating that, in the end there seemed nothing but mum’s infirmity; we found it hard at first to recall the woman behind the despair, misery and mental illness.
Who was she?
She was a woman of extraordinary courage and endurance. She fought hard and long to overcome her many illnesses.
A diminutive 5 foot 2 powerhouse of tremendous energy, she was always changing her beautiful garden or decorating the house. You could come home from school to what you thought was your lounge room only to find you had stumbled into a towering forest glade, a river cascading down the wall onto the carpet with mum standing there triumphantly after spending the day wallpapering. The transformation of our little piece of paradise was a constantly evolving project.
She was funny, she was creative, she was philosophical, she was a hopeless romantic, she was loving and affectionate. She had a vibrant, Latin volatility, spoke with her hands, was fun loving and lit the room with her beautiful smile.
I could discuss her intellect, her exceptional creativity with her culinary expertise, professional tailoring, colourful garden design and flair in interior decoration or dwell on her being a fiercely loving mother who adored my brother and I and her grandchildren with all her heart.
I could tell you she loved Goethe and poetry and was passionate about classical and Latin music…
But it would merely be a list that could nowhere near explain who my mother was.
She was a paradox.
She was compassionate and sensitive and would become distraught about the famines in Ethiopia, lamenting the plight of those wretched people and passionately condemn a paedophile to hanging in the next breath.
She was a brilliant linguist, fluent in Spanish, German and English, conversant in Italian and with a smattering of Russian. Yet she would confuse her subject and predicate and talk about how, when she turned the corner in the old car we had with the drop out indicators, she had “put out her winkie”.
She loved to talk and would hold long conversations about politics, religion, world affairs or the woman next door. She would hold extravagant dinner parties with extraordinary three course banquets she had prepared herself or wild parties with her friends where they danced flamencos and drank til dawn. Yet she was a very private person and sometimes she wouldn’t speak at all and spent long days alone in her room.
She would swear long, loud and colourfully in Spanish, profanities that would have sailors covering their ears but was too prudish to translate what she had said.
She was supremely competent and had a high practical intelligence. Yet she could be so ditzy and naive and was at times so innocent. I remember the first time she proudly and coolly used the “f” word. I looked at her in astonishment. She looked back at me smugly. A horrified dad grabbed her and pulled her away into a closed room. When she emerged a couple of minutes later, suitably chastened, she said, “I didn’t know it meant THAT.”
Or the time when dad was cleaning out the aviary and he’d put his parrot Monty out onto the lawn in a cage. Mum burst out in her explosive style, loudly berating his stupidity at leaving the bird in the middle of the lawn. She picked up the cage and was moving it closer to the house when she suddenly realised there was no Monty within the bars. In surprise she looked down at the bottomless cage and then looked back at the lawn. There was Monty sitting amazed by his sudden freedom. With a screech from the bird and a scream from mum the fun was on as her and dad chased the feathery fright around the yard before returning him to the aviary.
She got on a plane to come to Australia, to go to South Africa, to visit Argentina and to fly to England, each time all by herself. Yet would panic if she had to drive to the local supermarket.
She could be bad tempered and would have colourful tantrums over the smallest thing like a pavlova sinking, yet would spend hours patiently unravelling hopelessly tangled Christmas tree lights.
All I can say in the end is that I have snatches of images of her that are impossible to impart. I have warm feelings, fleeting memories but ultimately, an all encompassing love. And isn’t that all that matters? I love her and she loves me and that will never die or diminish across time or space.
I will remember her fierce loyalty, her unwavering encouragement and support, her deep love, her vitality and vivaciousness, her charm, her humour and her cooking. But most of all I will treasure the quiet moments when we just sat around talking and laughing, even if I no longer recall the content of those conversations; it is the feeling that remains. The shared warmth and affection and acceptance.
Now I guess I'll wait in vain for breakfast in bed this morning. But that's ok. If only one day soon, I can share some of those quiet moments with my kids and make memories that will tide them over till we meet again. Create those feelings of shared warmth and affection and a deep acceptance; one of the few places you can call home of the heart.