Breakthrough

Sock, said Téo out of the blue, at the airport in Abu Dhabi on our way to Sydney in March.

Sock starts with S.

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Last year, whenever I thought about Téo going to school, I'd feel a tightness in my chest. Not because mah baybee was all grown up and going to school, but because he is going to school to do... nothing.

Nothing. NOTHING.

For his first two years at school, he will be expected to:

1. Learn to count to 10.
2. Learn the names of some colours.
3. Learn to sit still and do an activity for 15 minutes.

Two years. That's all he'll be learning. Things he's been able to do since he was 3. Nothing more until he's 7.

Only the thought that this country is a highly successful one not known for a poorly educated population kept a full blown panic attack at bay.

Because I like the Australian system better. I do think this age (and even younger) is a good age to start real teaching - now, when they are so eager to learn. Now, so any problems can be picked up early. Now, so that their experiences and interests can already be broadened.

I've found it hard going back to Sydney and seeing my niece reading since she was 4, seeing how much other stuff she's learning. I've worried and fretted that Téo is missing out on this. And admitted I'll find it hard to see Téo fall behind his Australian peers once my friends' kids his age start school.

I've ranted and felt frustrated... and then I got over myself. It's not like he'll never learn anything, it's just going to be later. And actually, it gives me a chance I otherwise would not have had - the chance to teach him to read in English (which I wouldn't have done if he were simultaneously learning to read in French at school).

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I had already made this decision by the time of the airport proclamation - which came as a bit of a surprise given how little I had done to teach Téo anything about reading. Even his recitation of the alphabet was still pretty sketchy.

But this proclamation - realisation - signalled the start of a definite interest in letters and words. And it came at a good time - his Australian cousin of the same age was doing the same thing and just starting to read, which served as good reinforcement.

I bought a heap of work books in Sydney, with the intention that we would start our lessons once he started school.

But Téo had other ideas. After I explained to him that I would teach him to read, he wanted lessons straight away. Some of this was a ploy to have my attention, I am sure, but still, he was definitely interested.

A couple of weeks ago, we started. C S T O A. The five most commonly used letters in English.

The first three times, he was nearly there, but not quite. He could say the sound each letter made, but not really put the sounds together to make a word unless I said the sounds first. And even once he'd sounded out then said a word, he didn't seem to recognise it the next time he saw it. He'd guess, or try to fit the words to what he wanted them to be. He stayed on the cusp of getting it.

Yesterday he came to my office again. Mummy, can I have a weading lesson?

He wasn't interested in the preliminary stuff, the practising of individual letter sounds. Go straight to the big words mummy.

The first page, he sounded out the letters perfectly and then said the words, without me doing anything. The second page, he read. He read!

a cat sat at a cot.

I clearly remember the moment I realised I could read, 35 years ago in Kindergarten. Little man, I hope you remember your moment too.

Reality reading

Most of you know I like to read. Love to read. A lot. A lot a lot.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I went through books like I went through peanut butter. I had an excellent librarian, and I bought lots of my own. Sometimes it was even a problem - I wouldn't be able to get on with life until I had finished the book I was reading. Or I'd feel a bit panicked if I didn't have anything new to start. Books, books, books, I couldn't ever have enough books.

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My dad didn't like fiction so much - in books, TV, or movies. I couldn't really understand it. Books were such a wonderful escape! And a way to see things from a different point of view! And the language, it could be so beautiful! And the characters, you could get so drawn into them!

But no, he preferred historical accounts, or informative articles about reality.

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When I was in Sydney, my brother said he was becoming like dad - less and less tolerant of fiction, and more interested in non-fiction.

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A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked what I'd read lately.

Nothing.

Which is true, I haven't read a book for ages.

But actually, I have read a lot. A lot a lot. It's just that I find myself embarrassed to say what.

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If I think about it, I haven't read a good book - a really really good book - in a very long time. I'm always finding fault with the premise, or the plot, or the writing itself, or else I don't feel anything for the characters or their situation.

Like my brother. Like my dad.

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Blogs.

That's what I've been reading. The stories that other people write - well-written, thoughtful, provocative real stories from their real lives - reach into me and affect me far more than books. These open my eyes to other situations, other possibilities. These make me feel the full sum of what it is to be human - the positions we get ourselves into, the consequences of the choices we make, the random, tragic shit that can happen. These make me think about my own choices, my own life. These make me laugh out loud, cry, shake my head in disbelief, feel humble.

Fiction seems contrived in comparison. It's not real enough.

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I find it really really hard to admit to what I've been reading though. Because even though they are real, blogs somehow seem less real, less worthy than a book.

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I once worked with someone who, whenever there was a general conversation about something, would join in giving examples from a show she'd seen on TV. Not from her own experience, like everyone else was doing. I always thought this was very sad, this regurgitating of a made up story as if it were a real life experience.

I guess I fear being judged in the same way, if I talk about a blog post I read?

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So I tend to say nothing, even though I haven't thought so much about so many different things for a long time.

Untitled

Last week, C and I had a talk.

The whole not trying, but also not not trying, was no longer working for me. I needed clarity. With only three conceptions in the six years and 2 months since we stopped using contraception, it's fairly clear that we don't make a baby unless we really really try to. So do we want another one, or do we not? Because time is running out if we do - we'd already agreed we didn't want more than 3 years between Lukan and any younger sibling. That leaves only five more chances.

Five more chances. I almost can't breathe writing that, it's so definite. So definitely unlikely.

C is clear. Any baby that comes is very welcome, but I don't want to try.

I am less clear. Or maybe, just more reluctantly clear.

I want a girl. I really really want a baby girl.

And that is not right. If we have another child, it is to have another child. With Téo and Lukan, we wanted a child. We wished for a healthy child. I cannot let myself wish for a girl. Because what if we make a boy? I do not want to look at my child and think, I did not wish for you. And what if we make an unhealthy girl? I do not want to look at my child and think, I wished for the wrong thing.

If we try to make another baby, I know I will be hoping with all my heart for a girl. I will actively do everything I can for a girl, even if it's all bogus (I've looked it up on Google, people). Knowing this is wrong, I cannot allow myself to try.

It's more than an intellectual exercise, though. A couple of months ago, a sudden bout of nausea made me wonder if I was pregnant - and what I felt was a jolt of absolute terror. I didn't want to go through pregnancy again. I didn't want to go through that first year again.

I'm happy with the two children I have. They are perfect. They are enough.

So, that night last week, I agreed I should get my tubes tied. It's time to admit I am done with baby-making.

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Even though I know it's the right decision, I'm still reluctant. I'm grieving for Kaia, my imagined third child, my daughter.

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This week, my period was late. My period is never late. I couldn't quite believe what this suggested - it would almost be the immaculate conception if I was in fact pregnant. But one day passed, then another, then another, then another. I became quietly hopeful.

I was hopeful I was pregnant. I was hopeful it was a stayer. I wouldn't let my mind go any further, but I knew I would be hopeful the baby would be OK, would be born alive, would not die of SIDS. One hope at a time, but not one of them about its gender.

I'm not pregnant.

I'm not gutted. I'm not relieved. I'm accepting better that there will be no third child. I'm happy I wanted a baby more than a girl. I'm still grieving for Kaia. I'm so looking forward to all we can do with older children, so soon now. I'm clucky when I see a newborn. There's contradictions everywhere. But strangely, right now, I feel at peace.

Whatever will be, will be.

Double trouble

- MUMMY! COME!

And from the little parrot, two seconds later:

- MAH-MEE! CUH!

Hoo boy.

Explanation

This was me for the few weeks. Droopy.

Every night I went to bed hoping the next day would be different, but it wasn't. I was unmotivated. Uninspired. Couldn't be bothered. Chronically tired. For two whole weeks.

Finally, on Tuesday, whatever it was passed. I made a list of things to do work-wise, and crossed them all off! I opened a recipe book and cooked a different dinner! I recommenced work on the photobook/diary I am doing for the kids! I was back!

And now I am panicked - we're going a way in 3 weeks and, thanks to my droopiness, I'm way behind in my work.

So posting may still be light here.

Moments

I said hurry up.

Impatient, rude. Intolerable. I immediately snap back Don't speak to me like that Téo, and as the words leave my mouth, I simultaneously recognize his perfect mimic of my own rude, impatient tone, and remember how as a kid I hated this same hypocrisy.

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Sitting in the trolley at the supermarket, Lukan reaches out for me, puts his arms around my neck, pulls me close, hugs me tight, lets me go with a wide grin, kisses my cheek.

Later, driving home, I realize my weekly shopping trips with Lukan will be over once he starts at the garderie in August. I already start to miss this time with him.

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Téo has woken, after being asleep in Nani's car, which she left outside the house. He comes inside and collapses in tears, his neck sore, his head still groggy. He climbs into my lap, sobbing, and I hold him until he feels better.

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I'm on the toilet. Lukan is wailing into my lap, upset that I won't let him sit on the couch to eat his rice cake, smearing said rice cake, now mushy with tears, into my clothes. Téo has squeezed himself between the toilet and the wall, demanding a hug. I feel crowded and stifled. I'd just like a minute, half a minute even, to go to the toilet alone.

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Apropos of nothing, Téo calls down the stairs: I love you mummy! You're the best mummy in the whole world!

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I show Téo a grasshopper, perfectly camouflaged as an old brown leaf, in his new sticker book, telling him how this protects the grasshopper from being eaten by birds. He doesn't seem that interested, barely waiting for me to finish speaking before he's clutching the book away, wanting to look at something else.

But then afterwards, he shows the grasshopper to everyone who comes to our house, explaining how it looks like a leaf so the birds won't eat it.

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We're going upstairs. Téo races ahead to hide behind the bathroom door. Lukan toddles after him, giggling. When I get there, they leap out gleefully, shouting BOOOOO!!!!!

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We're talking about Téo's first day at school. I'm going to ride my bike to school, all by myself, he says. Not with you mummy, all by myself.

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Lukan is in bed. Goo-nigh tractor bom bom bom bom he sings, his rendition of "Goodnight Sweetheart", which we have sung to him every night. Good night mummy, sleep well, see you in the morning Téo says as I leave the room, preempting my own ritualistic repeating of these words.

Good night my boys.

High school angst

I didn't enjoy my time at high school. Not at all, not a bit. I remember when Year 9 ended, when I was 15, thinking Oh God, there's still three more years to go. A heavy weight descended at that realisation, and didn't lift until school was finally over.

What was wrong? Well, I wasn't that engaged in the classes (even though I did OK), it felt like torture having to go back and study the same things over and over for 2 whole years in preparation for the final exams, I hated the way the school treated us like children, I hated the whole crappy line (and numerous threats) that how we did at school would determine the rest of our lives, the uniform sucked, and I didn't like the caste system where you had your group of friends and that was that, even if the group didn't really get along. Toss in a regular dose of teen angst, the whole cool kids vs dags thing, and some teenage girl bitchiness (it was a girls' school), and, well, you get the picture.

Since leaving, I have kept in touch with just one school friend. There were a few more at first, I even went to a couple of weddings, but eventually we lost contact. We didn't seem to have anything in common. I had no desire to go to any reunions. I can't even remember the bulk of the girls in my year.

Which makes it kind of odd that, every now and again, I become intensely curious about how people turned out. I'd love to be a fly on the wall at a reunion. I'd jump at the chance to spy, with no way for anyone to see me. I can't figure out the motivation for this... do I want to mock? To gloat? To buzz in the ears of the girls I didn't like?

So anyway, this week, out of the blue, I got the chance to be that fly. Another friend from school, who I am actually very happy found me through Facebook last year, sent me an invitation to join the Facebook group for my year.

Only, I'm a fly trapped outside. I can see tiny faces of a few people, get small tantalizing glimpses of their lives now, but can't do a good close-up snoop. For that, I'd need to friend these people. And then they'd be able to snoop on me, too.

Oh the angst. Do I join the group? Do I friend? Do I just keep coming back to the window every now and again to see what I can glean?

And most pressing of all: why is a group of middle-aged women I haven't seen for half my life taking up so much of my thinking time?