Chrysalis

She sits silently, wrapped in pain

Gazing at the milky remains of coffee long gone cold,

Images of the past laid out before her

Like a mocking parade of beauty, seem to be

Silently laughing at her and her unrealized

Aspirations and hopes.

The chrysalis of youth is long gone

Ravaged by pain and bitterness,

Torn by misfortunes and failed dreams.

Smiling sadly she stares at a fading photograph

Taken in her youth, the sparkling eyes now dulled by pain;

The coquettish smile now gone and the joy on

The clear unlined face now vanished amid the

Ravages of wrinkles, pockmarked and marred by

Scares and sores from who knows when or why.

The chitter of little voices blend with the brash harshness

Of the television and the soothing rumbling hum of

The overworked washing machine.

It wasn’t that long ago that the photograph was

Who she was; young, laughing, smiling, happy and the

World at her feet.  But oh so fleeting.  Beyond her reach

Except by memories from captured moments,

Times now dissolved by time itself.

She glances at the clock; time again for yet more pills

To keep the burning in her body at bay.

Time for something to make her feel normal –

Or is it the something that gives the oblivion of sleep?

Either way, there is still more work to be done.

She picks up another photo, one taken more recently.

Her wedding dress glorious as such a gown should be.

Not a professionally taken image, just a snapshot really

As she waits, shows more peace than she now feels

Or has felt for a long time.

Where did she go?

Lost amid the years of pain and pills and rejections.

She pushes her c up away

And sweeps the photo’s to the floor,  uncaring, unwilling

To look at them any longer.

Let the children do what they will, she thinks silently.

Later, a little voice penetrates her solitude 

As she washes yet more dishes.

“Mummy, I do so love you.  Who’s the lady in the pictures?”

She grimaces to herself and turns to the beautiful little boy

Standing looking up at her waiting for a response.

“Just mummy when she was young and another person.”

The little boy wraps his arms around her legs

And stares up adoringly.  “She’s pretty, but I like you bestest.

You’re beautiful”

Her heart tears, like the chrysalis that hides the ugly grub

That grows inside, and out flutters a butterfly of emotion.

As she is wrapped in the soft wings of

Pure, unadulterated love for her son.

Have you ever had those days when you think…why can’t I do this like everyone else?  Why does everyone else make it seem so simple? Then comes the day or, evening as the case may be, when you attend a training course (in my case I gave in and attended a Magic 1, 2, 3 course) and you find out that those you thought had it all together, may only seem like they have it all together – they have the same issues with their children as you do.  Or, while waiting for school to let out you overhear one parent chatting to another about the latest tantrum, breakage etcetera that has occurred and they’re bemoaning the fact that their children just don’t seem to ‘get it’!  You suddenly feel NORMAL! That’s N.O.R.M.A.L.

 Granted, not a lot of parents, mothers in particular, are inclined to let just anybody know that their children aren’t the little darlings they seem to be. Take my four for instance.  All have the XY chromosome (the Y explains the “why, why, why do they do this?” factor) and they range in age from eight down to three and a half (going on 25).  Out of these four children, the three year old is the most useful, followed by the eight year old, should he be so inclined.  The seven year old is the only one who will make his bed, followed by the three year old who at least tries to do so.  The five year old, who is counting the days until he turns six will happily wash dishes, however the three year old likes to do that as well, so usually there are arguments and fighting and much water on the floor when the flour bucket gets dragged to the sink so the three year old can stand on it to ‘help’ at doing dishes.  As I said, the three year old is the most helpful.  He just adores vacuuming.   His Grandma brought a catalogue around one day that was just filled with vacuum cleaners.  This kid was in raptures with ear piercing and glass shattering squeals and screams of delight resounding throughout the house at the many, many vacuum cleaners on offer…..all out of our budget range.

I should have gotten an idea with regards to my temperament and my potential mothering skills, when I put my hand up (what was I thinking!!??!) about twelve years ago to coach – yes coach – the Under 11’s netball team.  What was I thinking?  What was I thinking???? Well, all I can say is I was in a state of rampant stupidity, happy in a long term temping job that I – and my supervisors – hoped might become permanent, I had a relationship that I thought might last a little longer than it did, and aside from hangovers which I decided were only appropriate when I wasn’t working or playing netball the next day, generally in good health.  Well, I was in better health than I had been physically.  I really should have known better, but that’s life.

So when I had my own children I thought – I could do this – truly I can do this no sweat.  I mean – breastfeeding was a cinch, my son knew exactly what he had to do to get his meal and all the while I breastfed him, if I were eating at the same time, he would eyeball every spoon/forkful that entered my mouth…from the time he was one day old.  He still loves his food and is this tall skinny streak of boyhood.  The GP told me the other week that I need to stop feeding him – he’s growing too fast.  My husband, who had children from a previous marriage almost threw a spanner in the works by trying to tell me how to do various things and I must admit – all those cloth nappies I would fold and put on everyone else’s babies all those years ago would not do as they were told. They would not fold! They were too big…crooked or whatever.  Thankfully it became apparent that cloth nappies gave him serious nappy rash and believe me – I was quite assiduous in my nappy changing. He never went very long at all in a wet (or even slightly damp) nappy. But he still got quite serious nappy rash, so – over to the disposables. 

Baby number two was somewhat of a surprise and made it even more so when he came three months early…disposable nappies were the only option and even they swam on him. They were huge. With him I suffered three months of breast pumping and driving in and out of the city to go to the hospital and home and back and home and back. I say suffered because that’s all I can say it was. Result, I didn’t really ever bond with him and I guess in a lot of ways I over compensated.  It didn’t help that as he grew I noticed, just some little odd things about him and as it turned out, my concerns were justified and he was eventually diagnosed as being on the Autism Spectrum.  I have a question to ask all those makers of baby clothes.  Why, why, why, when you make 0000 and 00000 and 000000 size clothes are the legs and arms next to nothing? I mean – these teeny weeny babies do have these limbs and they’re quite usually long when compared to their body. In fact I’m positive Number Two’s legs made up half the length, if not more, of his 930-gram body.  Needless to say, his teeny tiny jumpsuits – or onesies if that’s what you prefer to call them – looked totally ridiculous and were way too short for him. So I was quite happy to dress him in nightgowns. So much easier to change any tiny babies bottoms in the middle of the night as well.

Baby three was my little boy blue.  He was, absolutely and without a shadow of a doubt the most painful of all three labours.  Oh but he looked angelic! With a shock of dark possum fluff hair and these little pursed lips – adorable.  And he was my boy. The others were their father’s sons but this one was his mum’s boy.   Plagued with reflux and colic I spent two years on a mattress on the floor in the lounge-room either co-sleeping when he was older or with his bassinette at arms length away.  This has caused a rod for my own back….he hates sleeping in his own bed and will find a way into our bed at any given opportunity.  But – he gives great back scratches and there have been times where I’ve gone for a rest with a pounding migraine and he’s come in and snuggled up and just rested his hand on my head and voila….the pain is gone.  He’s done the same thing with his father.  This child is special.

 Aside from that –at one point I actually had a spare baby!  My husband’s boss had a son about a month younger than my number three and he had to go to New Zealand on business so he took the mother of his child with him.  Baby was a little unwell with a cold and seriously colicky and he was left with his grandparents.  Alas, grandmother found she could not look after the little chappie with his constant crying and tummy rubbing requirements and his upchucking I got a stressed phone call from New Zealand asking if I would please take on the task.  So I had a 5 and a 6 month old to handle – pretty much like twins.  First thing I did was take him off the formula he was on and put him on lactose free, simply because my understanding of colic (and my number 3 was on the same formula by this time) was that it was lactose fermenting in the underdeveloped intestine that caused a lot of this pain.  Poor baby still had reflux but with a little trial and error on various things to help with that I almost had it under control.  Sadly, he was a child used to being picked up whenever he whimpered and my husband really could not cope with an extra child in the house that was not only not his, but who required more attention than our own son.  So, poor “spare baby” was handed on once again to a friend of his mother. 

Number Four was also mummy’s boy and he WAS angelic.  He was the gentlest of labours…the nicest of all.  I’d actually been in labour a full day before we went to the hospital, and it really wasn’t until my waters broke that I decided, after a day of thinking I might be in labour and people saying that I should know because I’d had three babies before and me saying, well, really, I’m not sure at all!  He was born to the strains of Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” (I might add that three out of four babies were c-sections, due to a concern regarding a certain aneurysm clip on an artery in my brain), and this child, unlike the others who were all yucky and mucky with blood and in once case meconium, had only a small smudge of blood on him where his cord bled a bit when cut – otherwise he was covered in vernix and that was that.  He was handed to my dear friend who was honoured to be there for the big event – my husband was at home looking after the other three children – but even though she held him first, his head turned in my direction and his mouth opened and we tongue peeped out – searching for food.  Considering my now three year old is bigger height wise than his brothers at the same age and he eats like a horse, has the constitution of an ox and will eat almost anything…that should have been a warning.  When left un-rugged his hands and feet would automatically go into a prayerful pose.  As I said, angelic.

He is a very ‘useful engine’. He is the most independent, strongest, stubbornest, and useful child I’ve ever met at the tender age of three.  He loves to help do the housework.  He loves to stack wood – which he does correctly much to daddy’s awe – he wasn’t told how to do it, he just saw how daddy had stacked the wood already there and he continued to do it that way.  Same with the dishes once they’re dry; he just knows how to stack them, unlike his siblings who just throw things together any old how.  As previously mentioned, vacuuming is his forte and the biggest tantrums of the day will come when you won’t let him do it.  I will admit I find some of his help somewhat tiring, especially when I end up having to fold the washing (sometimes 7 or more loads of it) three or four times over when he’s in a silly mood and starts throwing it at me.  But – he will voluntarily carry/push/drag his own washing basket to his room and put his own washing away.  I do it one way – he does it the other and he doesn’t like me doing it my way so it’s his way or not at all.  Heaven help his kindergarten teacher next year.  Heaven help the school! All four boys will be there at the same time.  Do you think they can not kill each other for those hours they will be at school together? How many times will I be called to the Principal’s office?

That’s my brood.  You know, one day I’ll remember to have images all ready to upload instead of gads and gads of text.  But again – who has the time?  My fingers to the talking and the typing and the thinking!

MM.