jmgoyder

wings and things

Enough is enough

I have been struggling to write about something for a couple of days because, despite the fact that I am fine with being honest and open about stuff in this blog, on Sunday our family situation became, for me, unbearable and I gave up. I couldn’t write about it except metaphorically (the ‘despair’ post for eg.)

That’s what happens, I think, when you have been enoughed enough – ha! But, on Sunday night, I realized that being this cringing wimp wasn’t helping so I gave up giving up and got angry instead.

I became Godzilla and it was very satisfying! I said NO, I said I am the boss, not you, I said enough is enough.

The teenager from hell suddenly reverted to his usual angelic personality and it has now lasted 48 hours. There is hope.

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Despair

Despair came to visit today even though I had already told it to go way so many times and thought it had finally given up. It knocks on the door a lot and I ignore it and feel safe because the door is locked. But today, it picked the lock and broke in and, whammo, smashed me just as I was putting the kettle on. And when I fell down, it kicked me and kicked me until I begged it to stop, to please go away. It stopped kicking me but it didn’t go away.

So that was a few hours ago and I have since gotten up, washed the tears off my face and am now developing a plan of how to get rid of it because it’s sitting in the living room, waiting. Do I play the waiting game too and hope, in time, it will give up and go away? Or do I go into the living room and confront it. Despair has the advantage of course because it stopped me from doing all of the things I wanted to do today by snaking its way into my conversations with my son and non-conversations with my husband. It burned the kettle dry and whipped the wind up to blow all of the clean clothes off the line and into the dust of the driveway.

It’s pretty clever, this despair, because it has positioned itself in the middle of the house and created a sort of dividing line between my son’s room and my office, so every time he and I have tried to have a chat, it whips into the conversation and, with incredible skill, turns all the good words into corpses, turns our blue eyes black and laughs derisively when we both slam our doors and give up.

The trouble with banishing despair is that it might simply go somewhere else and inflict itself on someone else, so I have to figure out how to kill it. It has never been so presumptuous before, never made itself so at home before and, when I last sneaked a peek, it was dozing comfortably in the living room, waiting. Waiting for what though? Is it waiting for another mother/son argument, for another wife/husband disappointment, for another bird to be killed by the fox, for another glass of my tears?

How will I kill it before it kills me? I know it hates me laughing because once I saw it shrivel when I laughed. And I know it hates me loving because once I saw it vomit when I hugged Ming and Ants at the same time so maybe I can kill it with more laughter, with more love. But somehow I don’t think that will be enough. After all, this despair has already been able to permeate all of our laughter and love with little drops of dead fly poison.

I wish I had the solution to this predicament.

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First crush

It was mid-semester break at the local university where I worked so I took Ming in with me. He was nearly four. I’d only done this once before and it’d been a disaster because there was nothing for him to do except run up and down the hallway, vrooming, which wasn’t really appropriate at exam time.

This time I had a drawer full of paper, textas, finger puppets, matchbox cars and chocolate frogs ready, and for awhile this worked really well. I closed my office door and started preparing for the following semester while Ming played and drew pictures happily on the floor.

Inevitably, Ming got bored, so finally I opened my office door and told him he could go up and down the hallway quietly. He raced out.

After a few minutes I realised it was just a bit too quiet and, worried he’d wandered outside, I darted into the hallway just in time to see him dragging a chair from one of empty lecture rooms into the hallway and across to another lecture room. This was a big job for a little guy and I retreated to my doorway and watched, unnoticed, while, grunting with exertion, he finally propped the chair up against the closed door.

I knew there was some sort of community seminar going on in that room and earlier I’d bumped into the woman conducting it and said a quick hello. She’d seen Ming and crouched down at his eye-level and ruffled his hair, saying, “You’re a handsome devil aren’t you!” But it wasn’t until I saw him clambering onto the chair to look through the small window into the room where she was giving some sort of presentation that I realised how much impact she’d had on him.

I tip-toed up behind him to watch this woman through Ming’s ‘little-boy’ eyes. She was certainly beautiful; she was young, slim, olive-skinned and her black hair fell to her waist. Ming was so transfixed that he had no idea I was there until she suddenly noticed us peering in. She was so startled that I whisked Ming off the chair and back into my office, embarrassed.

But, much to my surprise, he ran straight back and picked up the chair, which had fallen over, and clambered onto it again to have another look. I quietly left him to it.

A few minutes later, I heard voices in the hallway, indicating that the seminar had finished. Ming toddled back into my office, an ecstatic smile on his face.

“Come an’ look, Mummy,” he said, pulling me away from my desk and into the hallway. The woman was walking away but, for some reason, she turned back and saw us watching her. She waved, and Ming waved back. Then she was gone. He sighed.

“That’s a bootiful womin, isint it, Mummy,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes full of light. I was flabbergasted. Was he in love?

It took weeks to wear off!

…..

Now that Ming is 18 he has experienced a few more crushes and been crushed by them as we all are at that age. It is strange to think that I was, at his age, falling in love with Anthony. I wonder who Ming will end up forming a relationship with and I hope she will be kind to him like the woman in the story above. If she isn’t, I will bop her!

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The happy tears!

[I love remembering this kind of thing!]

Ming and I had gone to Bunbury specifically to search out and buy the latest Beyblades DVD, number 2, which had just come out. He already had number 1 so he was terribly excited that I was going to buy the next one for him. He loved these not-too-often, special occasions which he called “shopping spwee days.”

As usual it took a couple of hours to find it as two of the three mains shops that stocked that sort of thing had already sold out. But when we hit the third shop, hurray! Not only did they have Beyblades 2, they even had Beyblades 3!

Then came the crunch. As Ming held the two DVDs in his hot little hands, I told him that he had to choose one. He looked up at me longingly, a deep frown creasing his little forehead, then he looked back at the DVDs. “It’s a vewy differcult desishun, Mummy, isint it?”

I explained that I couldn’t afford both of them and that, even if I could, I didn’t want him to turn into a spoiled brat.

“But I haven’t been nawdy for millions of days, Mummy!” he said, trying to outmaneuver me with a winning smile. But it didn’t work. Well, not at first.

“One DVD and that is that!” I said in a mock stern voice.

“Okay,” he said with a big sigh. “But I havta siddown to fink.” With that, he plonked himself onto the ground and studied every detail of each DVD case for a good ten minutes.

Finally he leapt up and yelled, “Quick Mummy, I done my desishun!” He was obviously wanting to move fast before he changed his mind, which had happened on other occasions – sometimes too late.

Ming had chosen Beyblades 2,but his expression of deep regret as he put back Beyblades 3 got to me, so I secretly picked it up again when he wasn’t looking. I told him to go and check out the other DVDs while I made the purchase. I’d decided to surprise him by buying both.

After putting the package of DVDs in the car, we went to Hungry Jacks which was always part of the “shopping swee day.” Munching on his chips, Ming looked at me thoughtfully. “I fink I shoulda got numba 3, Mummy”. Again the frown.

“Maybe next time,” I said.

“Someone else’s widdle boy’ll get it,” he said sadly.

In the car, before we took off for home, I suggested he take a look at the DVD, so, excited again, he opened up the package. I glanced over to see the shock of his discovery washing over his face, but he didn’t say anything. He just looked up at me, bewildered.

I wondered why he was so quiet, then I saw that his eyes were filled with tears. “Ming!” I exclaimed, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m cwying from happiness, Mummy, look!” He wiped his eyes with the collar of his shirt and showed me the wet patch.

“Weal dwops! That never happened to me before!”

Ming was so blown away by his happy teardrops, that he nearly forgot the extra DVD. I was quite touched.

But as I started the car, he recovered (with remarkable speed, I thought later) and said, “When is numba 4 coming, Mummy?” with a mischievous grin.

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Payback

It was the Mother’s Day morning tea at kindy. I’d never been to one, so I wasn’t sure what to expect.

All I knew was that Ming was excited about a “poortrit” he’d done of me. “It’s deesplayed,” he said, twinkly-eyed.

Well, five-year-olds are always twinkly, aren’t they? Never devious, surely. Or so I thought.

The day arrived and I wandered through the classroom, searching the walls for an image of myself. Having given me a general tour of the room, Ming had abandoned me to go and play.

We were all given a cup of tea and asked to sit down while the children passed around plates of scones, cake, timtams and twisties.

Once everyone was comfortable, the kids were summoned to sing their Mother’s Day song. By then I’d found Dillan’s and Danny’s mothers and we all got a bit choked up when those twelve five-year-olds sang the last line – “Mum, you aaaarrrre the best.”

Once the performance was over, we were then allowed to roam free once again. Mrs Segal told us all to take special notice of the wonderful portraits drawn by the children.

“Have you found yours yet?” Danny’s mum, Heidi, asked me, grinning strangely.

“It’s a real winner, Julie,” said Dillan’s mother, Sandra, giggling.

“No, I haven’t found it. Ming never stops drawing – he’s become very accurate,” I said, pleased they were impressed.

“Oh, it’s definitely very good,” said Heidi, with what seemed decidedly like a smirk.

“It might not be quite accurate though,” said Sandra.

Were they being sarcastic about my little Picasso? How dare they! But all I managed was a defensive, “Oh, well, he’s really keen, he’s trying hard. Maybe he just didn’t get exactly what he was supposed to do.”

Their laugher still echoes.

Heidi and Sandra took me by each arm and led me back to the portrait wall. Suddenly, several of Ming’s friends surrounded me. One of them whispered to me, “It’s the next one, Mrs Goyder,” then ran off, laughing. I looked around to find Ming behind me, pointing and smiling proudly, but somewhat sheepishly.

I looked back at the drawings, still unable to find me, until Dillan grabbed my hand and took me directly to Ming’s ‘Mum’ portrait.

The shock of it! The freckles were exaggerated, but I put that down to the Ming’s artistic immaturity. The slash of red lipstick was crookedly accurate though.

It was the thick, arrow-like eyebrows that struck me most. They were like backwards ticks. I’d seen Ming do this a thousand times when he was drawing his monsters.

That evening I tactfully complimented Ming on his superb portrait. “You made me look extremely cross,” I mentioned, pretending to be light-hearted.

“You got cross with me.”

“When?”

“When I was ownee two – with the pillow.”

“That was ages ago!” I couldn’t believe he was bringing up the incident when I had banged my head against the wall and told him to put the stuffing back into the pillow.

“Payback,” he said smugly.

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Love story 94 – Fireworks

Oh how I love remembering the early years of my marriage to Anthony and the joy of our little Ming:

Ming was just a toddler when Anthony and I took him into Bunbury, the nearest town, to see the Australia Day fireworks. It would be his first time. We went in early in order to get a parking space at a place called Boulter’s Heights, where we knew we would be able to view the fireworks from up high and from a slight distance, rather than being in the midst of the throng of revellers down in the main street.

Ming found even the waiting-for-the-fiyaworks exciting (although of course he wasn’t quite sure what fireworks were, except that it needed to be dark). He played with the rapidly increasing group of other little children, while what was a small gathering of adults gradually became huge.

As dusk fell and the crowd of big and little children grew, I kept my eyes trained carefully on Ming in that instinctive “mother bear” way, making sure he wasn’t being bullied or feeling lost. Finally, I retrieved him from a barely visible group of kids and he was safely perched half on my knee and half on Anthony’s when the first fireworks exploded.

The brightness of that very first fireworks “taster” was much more intense – and much closer – than I had expected. Ming flung himself violently backwards against my chest at the visual impact. Silently shocked, he clutched at Anthony’s leg just before the second explosion of enormous light and colour. and the noise!

Ming’s silence made me wonder if perhaps this event was too scary for him. As kaboom followed kaboom, and with the colour, light and people’s shouts of glee surrounding us, I held tight to Ming’s trembling body. Oh no! Maybe he was too little to appreciate fireworks, I thought, as I bent my head into the crook of his neck to see if he was okay.

But I needn’t have worried. Yes, he was briefly mesmerised and frightened. But as the fireworks became more intense, so did the crowd’s pauses become longer and a communal bated breath replaced the noises of impatient anticipation.

It was into one of those pauses that Ming suddenly began to shout, over and over and over again, “DOYALUVITMUMMYDADDY???!!!” And then, “ANDONY, ANDONY, ANDONY!!!DONTCHALUVITMUMMYDADDY???!!!”

Each time Ming yelled this, it was in one of those hushed moments of awe immediately after a fireworks explosion. Within the relatively small hilltop crowd we’d formed, Ming’s exclamations seemed to ring out as clearly as the noise of the fireworks and the people around us started to laugh and clap at his contagious glee.

Eventually, Ming became quieter, disconcerted by the adult attention. Then he got off my lap and toddled awkwardly around me until he was behind me with his chubby little arms around my neck. As the last firework shone out lingeringly, Ming bent his face to my ear.

“DoyaluvitMummy?” he asked again, this time solemnly.

“I love it all right, Ming,” I said, squeezing his hands and grinning at Anthony.

“Mummy,” Ming whispered very softly, as if it were a very important secret. “My tummy is cubbling [cuddling] me!!”

I knew exactly what he meant!

The beautiful thing is that Ants remembers this night too, despite the PDD.

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Love story 92 – Upbringingness, Andony and popcorn

“Danny and me is gonna get marrieded, Andony,” Ming pronounced after watching Three Weddings and a Funeral with us one Saturday afternoon.

“Are you just?” Anthony said, bemused. “When?”

“When we get all growed up – probly next year.”

“Who’s Danny?” I asked. Ming had never mentioned him before.

“He’s my bestest, bestest friend in the whole wide world.”

“I thought Dillan was your best friend,” said Anthony, passing me the popcorn.

“He is, Andony!”

“So why are you marrying Danny?” I asked.

“Because Danny and me hates girls.”

“But I’m a girl,” I said, indignantly.

Ming giggled, hysterically. “No you’re not, Mummy – you’re a woooomin.”

“Girls grow up into women, you know,” I said, passing Ming the popcorn.

“Oh.” It took Ming awhile to absorb this, but even when the penny dropped, he resumed laughing – (rather unkindly, I thought later.)

“Is Danny a new boy?” asked Anthony.

“He ownee comeded yesterday, Andony,” Ming said, his eyes alight with the elation of having made this new friend.

“Pretty quick courtship, then,” Anthony muttered to me, grinning.

“We don’t wanna do it like that vidido .”

“So how are you going to do it – the wedding?” I asked, intrigued.

“Jus out in the forest, just in a fort. We can build it.”

“Sounds quite nice,” I said. “You better invite him over.”

“NO!” Ming exclaimed, looking worried, and passing Anthony the popcorn.

Anthony and I glanced at each other, mystified. “Why not?” we said, in unison.

“He’s too special.”

I told my friend, Sue, the next day, over coffee, thinking that she, too, would see this as cute. I’d forgotten about her conservative streak.

“You need to put him straight, Julie,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not natural, is it?” She frowned.

“It seems okay to me. He’s only four. Actually I think it’s quite beautiful,” I said.

“But what about, you know, the implications? Don’t you think you should explain that marriage is between a man and a woman and not … you know?”

“For goodness sake, Sue, he has a little-boy crush on another little boy. You’re making it sound like it’s somehow wrong.” I was getting annoyed.

“There are issues here, Julie,” Sue retorted.

“What – like he and Danny might grow up and find they still want to get married?” I laughed. “It’s not likely is it? And who cares if it is!”

“Well it’s much likelier if you don’t put a stop to it,” she said adamantly.

We finished our coffees and parted, agreeing to disagree.

When I told Anthony about Sue’s disapproval he roared with laughter. “Probably a bit homophobic, poor thing,” he said.

I hadn’t even thought it through to that extent – it seemed ridiculous to do so, but the really great thing Anthony and I discovered inside ourselves was an acceptance of whatever path Ming chose to take, sexually.

But I’ll never forget Ming’s words to me, back when he told us about getting married.

“I reeeelly love Danny, Mummy – way up to the sky.”

[Note: Sue doesn’t like popcorn]

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Spring has sprung

It’s the first day of Spring over here and I want my heart to gallop with excitement but it won’t cooperate. Yesterday afternoon Ming and I had one of our serious talks. These always resemble the kind of discussion a grandfather might have with a small child (Ming = the grandfather; Julie = the small child).

Now it’s not particularly pleasant to be scolded by your teenage son but after much to-ing and fro-ing of our discussion, Ming finally summarized things by saying, “Mum, I just want you back the way you were. I want us to have fun again, I want you to be happy again.” (This was after he told me my office was an appalling mess).

“Is it Dad or me who is stopping you?” Ming asked.

“It’s Anthony, Ming. I just can’t seem to adjust. Come on, give me a break – he’s only been in the nursing lodge for six months. Give me a chance to breathe my grief!”

“You’ve been doing that for too long already, Mum. Please stop. We have to get this place in order – you have to help me!”

“Oh you’re not going to say that dreadful word again are you?”

“Yes, Mum. Teamwork, teamwork, teamwork!”

“Poo, poo, poo!” I retaliated (Ming loathes that word).

Anyway that was yesterday and now it is today. I just saw a blue wren and I am going to vacuum the inside veranda and it’s raining but sunny and later on I will go see Anthony and I will not cry when I get home again because if I do I will have to suffer another Ming discussion.

It’s the first day of Spring here and my heart has begun to walk again. I hope Ming doesn’t get too much of a shock!

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Teaspoons and anger management

Son is, understandably, having a few problems with anger. His dad is in a nursing lodge, he himself is in a back brace and can’t do much for awhile, and his mother (me) always leaves the teaspoon, that she stirs her morning coffee with, on the kitchen table, making a little mark that needs to be wiped off with a sponge.

Yes, the teaspoon situation is very like the toothpaste lid on/off problem that apparently drives many previously happy couples, friends, partners etc. either to drink, divorce or dissolution – or all three!

So, why do I do this teaspoon thing? Usually I am not provocative, feisty, rebellious, contrary or uncooperative. Usually I would do anything to keep the peace but, for some perverse reason, the fact that leaving the teaspoon on the table enrages Son (he can be a bit of a neat freak, just like Husband), keeps me doing it. In fact, I now make it my job to leave that teaspoon right in the centre of the nice clean white table just to see what will happen. It’s the closest I have been to adventure for some time.

Sometimes it takes awhile for Son to notice. I’ll be out in my little office writing, or at the back doorstep feeding the peafowl, or doing the laundry, and I will hear him emerge from his bedroom, yawn, yell good morning to me, get his weetbix, turn the morning news on and so on. I wait with a sense of adrenaline-fuelled anticipation for his outburst because I now have the best weapon ever to combat his rage – laughter. Oh yes (or maybe that should be oh no), I am not going to be in fear and trembling any more.

Now, obviously I don’t do this every morning, or it would lose its impact. Mostly, I put the stupid teaspoon on the sink to be washed as I have been instructed to do by Son and, when you think about it, he is only copying Husband’s and my own breakfast routines drilled into him when he was a placid little boy. But, when I do leave the teaspoon on the table, I feel a wonderful sense of glee while I wait for the reaction.

“MUM! YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN – I’VE TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES AND I’M SICK OF YOU LEAVING THE TEASPOON….” Blah, blah, blah.

This brings an immediate grin to my face and I race into the kitchen and pretend to be all apologetic and then cannot stop laughing at the look on his face – oh it is wonderful! He stomps off, I continue to laugh until he re-emerges from his room laughing too. I love it but realize that we will soon have to find another form of entertainment.

Don’t worry – we have an appointment at the local Sanitorium next week. It’s right next door to the nursing lodge where nobody can even find a pen, let alone a teaspoon!Okay, that last bit was rubbish but laughing things off has definitely been better than saying “There are worse things….”

The three of us are learning a lot and that’s a very good thing, but sometimes I wish I could go back, just a little bit, in time….

For any newcomers to this blog, Husband is now in a nursing lodge due to advanced Parkinson’s disease and prostate cancer, and six weeks ago Son had major surgery on his spine for a severe scoliosis. The turkey chick in the picture was our first ‘Bubble’. As for me, I love teaspoons!

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Anchorage

Husband and I have been married nearly 20 years – our 19th anniversary is coming up soon but we both always forget about it and my mum inevitably reminds us with a phonecall! Anyway, for most of those years of marriage, he has been an anchor for my flightiness, so I find it a little strange now to be his anchor, when I don’t feel anchored myself.

He is home now. It was supposed to be for one night but yesterday afternoon, despite my intentions to keep this ‘visit’ upbeat, he and I both became emotional and I rang the nursing lodge to say he would be staying home an extra night. His sigh of relief made the difficulty of this extra night worth it, but, because, like the first night, it was a difficult night of getting up and down, we have both realized that the nursing lodge was a good decision.

As usual, we were very honest with each other and Son’s occasional interjections were bitingly honest: “Dad, Mum and I can’t look after you as well as they do in the nursing lodge – can’t you see that?” He added a few adolescent expletives to emphasize his opinion which we forgave him because, after all, he is still trapped in his back splint and can’t help me tend to Husband.

The guilt associated with having to ‘place’ the love of your life into care, despite that person’s agreement to do so, is something difficult to describe. So many friends have expressed to me how terrible this felt for them in terms of their parents, and their empathy and commiserations are much appreciated. However, what many people forget is that Husband is not my parent – he is my husband. It even took awhile for the nursing staff at the lodge to realize this because he is 23 years older than I am, so it was assumed that I was his doting daughter! This kind of mistaken identity thing has happened many times over the years and is a source of much hilarity – well, it used to be!

Five weeks ago, while Son was in intensive care, I took this photo from my hotel balcony in Perth. I was actually trying to get a picture of the elusive swans!

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