letter #5
we're all making our own sense of things My dad once said to me, 'You think you've got all the time in the world to teach your kids, but then it's gone.'
It's not that I didn't listen to him, it's that I didn't understand. And then, for a little while I thought I understood, but now I realise I only got half his meaning.
My eldest boy had his last day of school on Friday. Today I've been at the kitchen table, my calendar and planners and notebooks spread around. I'm getting my thinking in order before we plunge into the end of this year and the beginning of next. On the calendar, concentrated in one small space, is a bunch of enormous events. One boy flying out for a student exchange to Europe (where he'll be for Christmas); another finishing school, turning eighteen, and starting university; and me turning fifty. So much change, so much transition.
In the lead-up to the final day of school I was taken completely by surprise at the extent to which my emotions overtook my body. I could hardly think beyond the most superficial of thoughts without starting to cry. Not a sobbing kind of crying, and not even a grieving kind of crying. It's just that my emotions were so deeply and so fully felt that my body had no choice. I had to cry. (Something to think about another day: Isn't this connection between the cerebral and the physical quite amazing? Thoughts transformed.) I don't remember ever feeling quite this way before. (And something else to think about another day: I do think that the older I grow, the more deeply I feel. In which case, no wonder getting older is exhausting.)
For a while I understood Dad's words on the simplest level. I thought it was simply another way of giving me the cliched: it's amazing how quickly they grow, the nights are long but the years are fast. I did try to follow what I thought was his advice. This time two years ago I looked ahead and thought, 'Only two years left, what do I need to teach him?' I got him tennis lessons, I booked us our final family holiday, I made him a list of classics (none of which he's read).
'It's like a switch goes off,' I said when I was talking about it with my uncle. 'And everything changes.'
But it's not like a switch at all. When a switch gets flicked you know immediately that something has changed because all of a sudden you're standing in the dark. That's not what happens as children grow. I mean sure, we had the last day of school, but most of life is a series of lasts we don't even know we've had until we look back. When was the last time I tied my boy's shoes or buttoned his shirt? When was the last time I sang the mockingbird song or carried his bag at the end of a school day? When was the last day he ran towards me, his arms out wide?
That's what Dad was trying to tell me that, but I couldn't hear him because I didn't understand. Which I guess just proves his point.
And now, here I am on this strange almost-November, Sunday evening. It is not quite warm and not quite cool. The sky is clear in one direction, but in the other the sun is behind a cloud. Only one of my children will go to school tomorrow. And I'm wondering what else there was in dad's words. How many more layers are there for me to excavate. Life, eh?
Have you watched The Dectectorists? I came across it on Netflix and watched it all in a couple of nights (the episodes are short, not even half an hour) and now I'm watching it again because I knew the mister would love it so I'm watching it with him. I have also been trying to watch Wentworth but my goodness the violence is more than I can take. Also did you hear Channel 9 is bringing back Seachange? So far no word on whether or not it's got Diver Dan, but if it hasn't then what's the point?