The Cerebral Mum

This isn’t the most uplifting blog and even without my current state of mind, It will probably never be. I’m a serious person and, when I’m at my best, I have serious things to say. Intense, exhausting and emotional are probably the three most common criticisms of my character. The first two I accept but as criticisms go, I often consider the things I care about more important than them. The third one I reject as entirely mistaken. Having a passion for ideas is not the same as being emotional.

Having made that grandiose - and serious, and not uplifting - statement, that doesn’t mean that I don’t smile, or laugh, or feel happy. Sometimes I am am full of glee, like a child. So tonight, before I start playing in my theming sandbox (it is my night off after all), I’m going to take a leaf out of Lightening’s book, and have a Smiley Saturday.

I love rolling down hills.

In fact, anything that children take pleasure in, from climbing trees to fairy floss, gives me unadulterated joy.

I like how that word begins with “un-adult”. It should tell us something.

The word adulterate actually comes from the latin ad., “to”, and alterare, “alter”. The resultant latin verb, adulterare, means “to corrupt” and the word adult does not have the same etymology. It’s from adultus, the past particle of the Latin adolescere, “to mature”. Why am I telling you this, when this post is supposed to be smiley? Because that’s the kind of thing that makes me laugh.

I like my sense of humour.

The jokes I tell that I enjoy the most are silly plays on words and often nobody understands why I’m giggling. Someone will say some commonplace phrase and I’ll complete their sentence by finishing the quote from so long-forgotten poet they didn’t realise they were quoting. And I laugh because of the games that language plays. It’s weird contradictions, it’s accidental conflations. I laugh because they are looking at me blankly and I realise the odd, quixotic nature of my mind. I laugh at myself.

Un-adult isn’t really a particularly funny one but it does bring me to something that really does make me smile. A person. He’s not an adult and he makes me smile all the time, no matter how I feel.

He makes me smile when I ask him, What does a fish say?, and he pop-pops with his mouth, almost making the sound.

He makes me smile when he throws himself face down into the froth of my doona, with complete trust that there will be a soft landing, in spite of the bruise he got mis-aiming not so long ago.

He makes me smile when he sees the cat and leans down to rest his head on the its belly, giving it a cuddle.

He makes me smile every time he awakens and wants me to lift him to “touch the moons”, the mobile above his bed, still wondrously tracing their outlines when he catches one although he sleeps beneath them every night.

Those words make me smile: I like my son touching the moon.

He makes me smile because whenever he hears music he dances.

He makes me smile because he cannot get enough of pointing at things for me to name for him.

He makes me smile because he knows far more words than I am even aware of.

He makes me smile because he is purely himself. He is unadulterated.

And I plan on doing everything I can to keep him that way.

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He’s not quite so fair of face any more.

He’s now The Elephant Man…

This is what to expect when you have boys, right?

He thought launching himself into the bed head was a great idea. Until he hit it. Then the screaming and me grabbing him to see how how badly he’d hurt himself only to find that within seconds there was a mean looking bruise and a rock hard lump beneath that hair that needs cutting.

Never having seen anything come up that fast before I was glad Big Sis’ boyfriend hadn’t taken the car and dashed off in a frenzy to the doctor’s. I’m really not a panicky mum, but it was wicked. Luckily, my doc checked him out immediately and wasn’t concerned at all. Believe me, if I’d had to pay that $40 out of my own pocket (my doctor bulk bills for children) it would have been worth every single penny. This one freaked me out.

Now, I’ll just be taking proud rainbow shots for the rest of the week.

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Just a poem tonight. I have no idea when I wrote it. I barely remember it. But there it was, hidden in the old computer files I still need to sort out. So here it is…

You Begin

When your soft fingers
flex against the walls
of my deep cavern,
you begin.
Or is it sooner?

When you first feel
the pulse of my hot
blood in your own veins,
is it then?
Or is it when

I feel him still
beneath me, still
enclosed by flesh,
but still.
Is it then
that you first move?

Almost you.

Or when I run
screaming
to my own mother,
blood on hands,
wanting to swim
with the bloodless girls,
already ashamed
of my blue bra?

Is that you then,
new, impatient?
Or is it when

my own fingers
flex against the wall
of her deep cavern
and further inside
I drum life patterns
into waiting rooms
and you begin.

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I think Caspar must be having a growth spurt. It’s only 1:14pm and he’s already gone done for his second nap. In spite of it looking like her would be done to just one nap a day soon, it’s now gone back up to 3. Or perhaps I’m just not as “present” for him and he’s bored and having no fun. I don’t think that’s it though. I think that really would be a self-pitying, un-motherlike thought.

Well, maybe not un-motherlike. Mothers worry. Mothers try to do what’s best and there is never a real answer to that. I think we’re fine, though. I know I don’t have the energy and zest that I would like, and if that was going to be some lifetime thing I think that would upset me. But I don’t think that it is a lifetime thing. I don’t I am scarring him for life because I am sad right now. And I do my best to keep our days busy for him. Or busy enough. I still enjoy him. He still makes my heart light up. Right now, the light is a little dim, but it is a light nonetheless. So it’s okay.

He probably has become a little more demanding than usual in the last few days, which is evidence that he is very aware that I am not as focussed as usual, but he is such an easy, placid boy that it is not unbearable. It is not making me feel more stressed or pressured or overwhelmed. It is not making me feel like a failure. And that’s good.

Really, it’s just a reminder when I drift into my head to snap out of it, to be in the day as best I can. Knowing that there are many mothers out there suffering depression whose depression is tied up with their young children, I think that I am fortunate that mine is not. At some stage, I guess, I will have to consider how becoming a mother has effected me, my psyche, because I need to question everything I think I know. My thinking has become rigid. I think I have less capacity for empathy at the moment. I think I have become judgemental.

But when I do examine it, although I think I will still feel as i do now, that our relationship is an easy one, that he is a wonderful human being, and that I am a good mother for him. That I have the resources to make good choices, that I have the capacity to love him as needs to be loved. That it is easy to love him. I do not have the same expectations of perfection for my child or for me as a mother that I seem to have for myself alone, or for other people. Those expectations for “them” - that nebulous, imaginary “them” - need to go.

I think that when I speak about the world and social issues I am careful with my words. I don’t make accusations or use ad hominums to bolster my opinion. But I think that somewhere in me there is some sense of self-righteousness that takes away the good part of doing that.

And now it is 1:42pm. And he’s is crying to get up. Just a little nap. So off I go to be in his day.

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So now, after writing about my neurotic lack of coping with the first birthday party, I should probably record here what the party was actually like.

It was held here at Big Sis’ house in the front yard and there was no need to worry about rain. The weather caused a me a little concern, though. 33° (92° fahrenheit) is way above the average for October and raised the spectre of last year’s bushfire season, which burned out 1.1 million hectares. Later, watching California burn, I couldn’t help but think of the continuing drought and what may come with the summer.

After collapsing into bed the night before without finishing all my preparations, there was a lot to do in the morning but between Big Sis, B and I, nearly everything was done on time and Caspar was kept amused outside by B’s twins and the Jolly Jumper Big Sis and B had bought him for his birthday. The kids were impatient for the party to start and I locked them out of the house while I decorated the cake I shouldn’t have put off making to the day of the party.

When P (the other half of The Odd Couple in the house behind us) arrived with his two girls, we fired up the BBQ straight away although nobody else was here yet. The kids had been patient and were hungry. I had taken the little red table I bought secondhand as part of Caspar’s birthday gift of crayons and drawing pads outside and all the children sat around him there, fussing over him and playing with his hair, as girls are wont to do.

Caspar, like the far-too-advanced boy he is, sat on his yellow chair and fed himself, not at all bemused by the female attention. He has become accustomed to it. Indeed, I think he expects it. Not long after that a couple of my friends arrived and took a seat in our circle of big-people chairs. I, of course, flapped around a little trying to make sure everyone had something to eat and drink, not quite relaxed yet.

One thing I have been consistently amazed by since becoming a mother is how many hands and eyes are there to divert and watch over Caspar while I try to get things done. This assistance seems to be instinctual on the part of parents and non-parents alike and it is carried out so graciously that there is no need for words. I read so often of mothers, especially single mothers, overwhelmed by their parenthood so I must believe myself fortunate in this respect but I can’t help thinking that this is the way it should be. I do not think the days of community in childrearing are dead and gone.

So I had a chance to sit and talk and eat while Caspar belonged to everybody.

And then, of course, the cake. With the wind, it was impossible to keep the lone candle lit but it didn’t matter. Caspar would not have been able to blow it out anyway. He could, however, recognise that the slightly sad looking giraffe with its bright yellow icing was something good to eat and we had to move it away to be dished out as he tried to grab the whole lot of it for himself.

Not long after that, the children went home and Caspar went down for a nap, pink in spite of slathers of sunscreen and warm in just his nappie and a singlet. My friends and I cleared away the dishes outside and sat in the lounge talking over a glass of wine. Later, K, the friend that I had lost, arrived and I woke Cas from his sleep so they could meet each other. A bit bleary eyed and wobbly, it didn’t take him long to start turning on his charm and show off all his skills, running around, waving, clapping his hands and putting his hands on his head. And my favourite… Dancing. He’s been head-banging since before he could sit up, and his repertoire of moves just keeps growing. He can move up and down, shift his weigh from foot to foot as he sways, stomp, writhe and spin around in circles. He’s got rhythm and whenever he hears music, he starts rocking.

And then of course, the afternoon grew late and it was time for people to leave but it was lovely having that quiet time with my three friends, and Caspar loved having all the company. There were no tears and no stress on his part.

We had a quiet evening, B cooking up the last of the meat on the BBQ and Big Sis and Cas and I eating with him at the table in the garage as the sun went down and the air cooled. Caspar sat at the big table with us, for the first time in the portable booster seat which was my first birthday present from Big Sis and B.

I tasted the cake then, a recipe I hadn’t used before but I had been assured by the party guests that it was good. I wasn’t too impressed with the giraffe I had made, but for a first effort, without any guiding instructions, it was good enough. I’m sure the cakes I make will get fancier as the years go by. Until the day Caspar tells me to stop making him such silly things. One day he will be protective of his young man’s dignity.

The cake was good! I mean, really good! And so easy. I used a simple tea cake recipe (3 quantities) and blended it in the food processor. It only took 5 minutes. Try it at home and just brush it with some butter then sprinkle on a layer of cinnamon or coffee sugar. Because, really, virulent yellow icing is not that appealing to adults.

Tea Cake

60g butter
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup castor sugar
1 egg
1 cup self raising flour
1/3 cup milk

Cream butter and essence. Add sugar, then egg, and mix until creamy. Add flour and milk and mix until smooth. Bake in a moderate oven for 25 minutes.

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Yes. He’s turning one. It’s wonderful. And it’s too fast.

A party date is set. The 21st. I’ve let people know but it’s time to get those invitations out. I ditched my picnic idea - it is too inconvenient to get us to a location convenient for everyone else. If only a few people come, well, that’s a bit depressing but it is the way things are until we move.

So a yard and a barbeque and a birthday cake. Home made, of course. And no balloons. Caspar is terrified of balloons. It is the first thing he has ever really been afraid of. He cries and clings and buries his head on my shoulder briefly before turning back to make sure that round and colourful air monster isn’t coming for him.

So definitely no balloons.

I bought some invitations yesterday and some 90 cent crayons as his present. Today I’m off to get some nice paper to print off as Wishes to send along with the invitations so that everyone who can’t make it can fill them out and send a birthday message for him. I’m hoping that I will also find a secondhand, Caspar-height table for him to sit and scribble at and I will get some colouring paper. After that, and the beer and the meat, all the preparations are done. It’s not the best party I have ever planned (And a generic invitation pad? Who does that?) but it will do.

So now I just have to deal with the fact that this first year almost over. Just the other day when I dressed him, I thought I’d try on one of the oversized polo shirts that my Mum had bought for him in July. Contrary to my expectation, it fit perfectly. It almost made me cry. Some of the welling tears were of pride. (Pride that he is growing? Does that count as an achievement? Well, yes. When you’re a mother.) The rest of the tears were for being forced to acknowledge that there is not a lot of baby left in him.

I remember when he was a baby and I went to the the supermarket and placed him in the infant seat as I usually did. Looking at him there and trying to do the straps up, I realised he was far too big to be in the infant seat any more and was ready for a real trolley. But I felt so silly for not realising this that I left him there and did my shopping with some chagrin. And it was just the other day that I realised I no longer have to carry him from the car to the house and then go back for my shopping bags.

He can walk, stoopid!

I can carry my bags and he can hold my finger and we can walk into the house together. Change just happens in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it takes me a while to catch up.

So on his first birthday he will wear his big clothes, feed himself cake, put his hands on his head, clap, dance, say dah-gah, play catch, lead everyone else around by the hand and tear the paper off his presents himself. As he should.

It freaks me out and bring tears to my eyes.

And that is how it should be as well.

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I admit I’m an addict.

I told myself and told myself that I was not going to post this weekend. I was not going to turn on my computer. And yet here I am.

I actually have a lot of posts in my head right now, but they require too much work with links and research to get them exactly right so this is my filler.

I’m going to write about my mother. And, yes, she is the best mother.

While succesfully avoiding my blog for the last couple of days, I haven’t avoided my computer. In my list of ten random things, I mentioned my mother’s blog. If you visited it, you would have seen that it isn’t very pretty and hasn’t been touched for a while. So I have been building her a new one. Adding many of her old Chronicles (her monthly newsletters to friends and family and even some strangers who just wanted to be added to her mailing list) necessitated a lot of reading so she has been at the forefront of my mind over the weekend.

She is 55. She lives a life that many envy and some do not understand. For the last 10 years she has worked as a teacher in many countries, some of them not likely to top anyone’s “dream holiday” list. She was in Pakistan when September 11 happened. She was in Qatar when the war on Iraq was launched from there. She was in Indonesia when the Australian Embassy was attacked only a few buildings away from where she sat in her office. She was in Afghanistan when, well, when it was as it is now: a military quagmire. She is currently teaching in Sudan.

To fill out her resume, add Nicaragua, Thailand, Mozambique, Estonia and Algeria to that list.

Are you one of those who envies her or asks yourself, Why? I know which one I am.

To paint a picture for you, I could tell you some anecdotes. How in Jakarta, when she heard the explosion and her building shook, the other teachers rushed to the windows asking, What the hell was that?, she said, It was a bomb, and kept typing. How in Kabul, when there were riots and her security detail had her and the other teachers confined to a safe house all day she said to me on the phone, Security won’t be able to keep me here if I run out of cigarettes.

She is a sanguine woman. With my disorderly passions, I am not like her at all.

Except I am.

She has the courage to live a life of her own choosing. She is generous with her love and her love is unconditional. She is staunchly independent, probably to a fault. She carries her own burdens and expects nothing from anyone. (As I said… to a fault.) She works hard and she quietly does what needs to be done.

She is always, and has ever been, just who she is.

In some ways, she has that very old-fashioned woman’s strength. A Portrait of a Lady type, who gracefully accepts the things she cannot change. In other ways, she is still the youthful, hopeful mother of my childhood. Age closes no doors for her. Life remains full of possibilities.

I always considered myself fortunate because my mother was young. (She had married, had two kids and divorced by the time she was 21.) I knew nothing else, so how could I compare, but watching the way my friends could not communicate with their parents, seeing some have to deal with heart attacks and death before they even finished high school, I thought her age was a wonderful thing. I now realise that it was her character more than her age I was fortunate in.

Many people who have young mothers talk about the ways in which their relationship was more like a friendship. I never had that. There was always a line and I think that line was a good thing. She was always a mother. But there was also no gap between us; no subject was taboo and there was nothing in my life I could not trust her with. She never cried in front of my sister and me when we were children. I never knew there might be things she could not handle.

I think that there is an obligation of dishonesty in parenthood in this respect. To a point only, but it is still an obligation. My mother was the rock of my childhood, and my childhood was not easy. I needed a mother like my mother.

Reading back over what I have written, and knowing that I have only described her goodness and not her greys, I still recognise her as my safe harbour. Even though I am grown and I know that she is human. Even though learning she was human was hard - a kind of disillusionment - I am grateful I did not have to face that fact before I was ready to.

And I am grateful that, despite our very different characters, I can see her strengths in me; not so well-formed, not so steadfast, and speaking in a different language, but there nonetheless.

It is passed midnight now and I have not even begun to do her justice. You cannot write about your mother as a filler. So I will end here, with the gratitude I cannot express fully and a song I wrote years ago, during that time when I was learning she was human, when I was learning to stand alone as she did.

Mother

somewhere
there’s someone
who means
something

maybe
she’s not all of you
maybe
she’s who you used to be
maybe
she’s not real at all
maybe
I’m just greedy, I just wanted…

woman woman
child me baby mine

last night
a roof fell
I saw
a shadow

wendy
sew her back on me
she said
that love is always free
it was
my own choice to leave
I know
I am stronger, I just wanted…

woman woman
child me baby mine

last night
a chain broke
I heard
a cock crow

this time
I have lost the game
it feels like
I have missed the last train
once more
life won’t stay the same
I know
you can’t help this, I just wanted…

woman woman
child me baby mine (x2)

somewhere
there’s some word
which means
something

maybe
she’s not all of you
maybe
she’s who you used to be
maybe
she’s not real at all

mother

sometimes I’m greedy, I just wanted…
sometimes I’m needy, I just wanted…
sometimes I’m greedy, I just want you all

Thank you, Mum, for being my rock, and for teaching me to be one.

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