At Home last Weekend Me: Can you wipe up please AN HOUR LATER Me: Sweetie, the wiping up needs doing AN HOUR LATER Me: Come on, I need you to wipe up and put away the dishes AN HOUR LATER Me: OK, I’m getting cranky now, I’ve got better things to do than nag you all weekend AN HOUR LATER Me: Put the washing up away, or there’ll be no dinner!
Him: Mum, I really need to cleanse and do a facial; my skin feels dirty from all the pollution… [after one week in Sydney] LATER [having worked his way systematically through a variety of my locally-made, organic skin-care products] Him: Feel my face now, how soft is it hey? I don’t like the smell of all your creams though; they actually smell of nothing, but in a health food store kinda way
Me: So how’s it going with your new, internet-free phone Honey? My blog readers loved it! They’re very proud of you; we have “Teenage Tuesday” now, so they’re all up to date on you. Him: [*smirks and rolls eyes, but obviously kinda pleased] PAUSE Him: [*staring at me in a way that I know means he’s up to something…] You know Mum, if ever you ‘monetize’ your blog, I want 50%. Oh, and that’s backdated, OK.
The scene: Kitchen, breakfast routine underway before school, radio playing Him [suddenly lunging at radio & turning it up loud]: I love this band! Me [having heard only 2 notes of song]: Who’s this? And how did you know who it was so fast? Him: Because it was the beat that says ‘This is totally this song’.
I slept so badly last night, here in Australia, acutely aware that back in England, my Mum was [hopefully] being assessed by a community health care team (previous post explains HERE). I’m writing this now as I wait to hear outcomes from my cousin ‘C’, who kindly took the day off work to be there as well. I woke up to scroll my Facebook feed, which is full of #MeToo. SO MANY WOMEN. I keep saying ‘Not you too? And you! OMG it’s nearly everyone.’ Then I see the hurricane has hit Ireland, the wildfires blaze on in California, Puerto Ricans are drinking contaminated water, and North Korea has threatened Australia for aligning with America. For fuck’s sake, this is NOT normal. Or rather, this is NOT what I want my ‘normal’ to be. I can feel the anxiety squeezing my head and chest; I have a low-grade churning in my belly that’s been there for days now. And yes, I’m still cooking dinner, feeding the cat, helping with English homework, and making vague plans …
Did he have a party while I was away, like I worried HERE? I don’t believe he did. (And there was a small search for evidence, I admit). However, my bedroom door was open (I’d left it closed), and the bed was made (I’d left it stripped to air). Me: So what happened in my room? Him: Nothing Mum I swear! I’d never let anyone in there, that’s gross. But I was really tired from the party the night before at ‘B’s’ house, and I wanted a good sleep, so I got into your bed… I slept so well, and it smelt of you too… It was very cosy. Me *Can’t continue conversation- gone all soft and gooey*
I’ve written before about Mum, who’s 81 and lives in the UK, most recently HERE- ‘Mother and daughter out for a walk’ , and a longer one last year about the health situation HERE- ‘Down the long lane’. This morning I opened the late-night email I’ve been half dreading for at least 18 months: “I need to let you know that your mum is not too well… her dementia has deteriorated. She had not been eating well and not been taking her medication for the dementia and is in a very confused state…” F*ck! There’s no other response. I feel sick. And kinda helpless. I’m in Australia, with a son who’s just started his final year of school, a home to run which includes a cat, a self-employed performing business to take care of, and Pilates clients to teach every week as well. Plus my interstate beloved ‘H’ to connect with regularly. I look at my diary, flicking pages back and forth. Can I cancel everything to jump on a plane? Is that the best idea? For …
A hand strokes her back as they walk down the hill on this warm morning, heading away from me. Giving reassurance, or seeking it? The road is steep, and the frailer figure is definitely an old woman. Her back is stroked again, and I assume that’s her daughter, with the cherry red sunhat and white runners. Similar body shapes, similar height. I’m walking into a mall in England with Mum, July 2017, and we realize the shop she wants is up on the second floor. I know her anxiety and claustrophobia won’t let her get in a lift, and she hates escalators too. “Shall we walk up the stairs Mum? It’s not far. I can hold your arm, or you can hold the railing?” “Ooh, I don’t know, I hate heights. Will you help me?” “Yes of course. Just don’t look down. Let’s talk about something to keep your mind off the height, and definitely don’t look down OK?” The red hat leans in to whisper something, and the older woman laughs; I hear it …
Him: “Mum, I’d like you to try and control some of your sassy replies; there’s no need to always be so feisty.” Me: [deep breathing through half a dozen sassy replies, and a proud Feminist rave about smashing the patriarchy] “Perhaps you could try choosing not to react to them?” Him: [after pausing for a moment to consider this] “But if you weren’t so sassy, I wouldn’t have to choose that, so nice try Mum, but it’s back to you I’m afraid.” *Disclaimer: longer post with statistics and his true Feminism HERE
… along our favourite sunset beach, talking. Somehow I lose the thread of the conversation (maybe it was yet another rave about surfing?), and tune out a bit. He suddenly says ‘Mum, what are you doing?’. I answer ‘Sorry Sweetie, I didn’t understand what you meant, so I started daydreaming…’ He replies, with that knowing sigh only teenagers can truly master: ‘Well, you’re not going to understand by not listening are you?’
bone&silver 