It's been a week for reminiscing. Not exactly the fluffy romantic sort, more a dip into a murkier part of my past. I look on it with a fondness all the same, like the affection you have for an old book, no matter how painful its story may be to read.
My beautiful daughter turned 12 last week, lets take a moment for that to sink in. 12. In half that again plus 1 she'll be the age I was when I had her. Stupid and scared, full of unfounded confidence, "knowing" everything already. Waiting for this little creature to come along and change my life forever. She was tiny, but her impact was enormous. I'd like to say I became the model responsible parent overnight, but I didn't. I decided it was fairest to move out and make it on my own, possibly the least selfish decision I've ever made regarding my parents, even if it was made more for my freedom than for theirs. I moved out when I was pregnant, into a shoebox, one room divided in 4. You could touch both walls from the centre of the room. Obviously this wouldn't do for fitting tiny babies and their huge amount of paraphernalia. I moved again 2 weeks before she was born. This was to become my home for the next 4 years. The paint peeling away, water trickling down the walls, a petri dish of mould and fluff.
I came across this poem this week, the author is a friend of my cousins, it feels familiar somehow so I thought I should share it. The collection is called The View From Here and it's by Sara Berkeley:
Dark Summer Days
I have written my daughter to sleep.
She lies in the other bed among her books and toys,
the bowed and weathered instruments of her navigation.
In fragile possession of her course
and her own short set of ship's orders
she steps bravely out with me onto the burning waters.
We travel in this single room
where the nails are growing out of the wood
and the paint flakes off the window ledge.
On dark summer days when rising is difficult
this is my Parisian garret, my narrow turret,
my writers attic with its high beams and precious dust;
it is here I hunker down and shout into the dark,
some nights nothing, some nights
starbursts of language, jubilant at their release.
Across the fearless moon
hastens what little sky we can see; what few trees
stand in the mornings with their arms out;
through every time zone their same song
fills the loudness of being alone,
together, in the gentle rocking of our sea-glass room.
In her sleep my girl is made of sand,
but at first light she's a young redwood
driving up like a mast through the sea foam;
and as for me, even if no words come,
I'll be here waiting by the window in the pre-dawn
before the birds.
Here we existed, here we slept, here we ate. The park was our garden, the city our living room. Raised on the go you could say. My little companion, my sidekick. She may have been small but her mind had to grow, she had to talk, she had to excite and entertain, survival depends on these things. To be seen, to be noticed, to break through the chatter of 20-somethings in coffee shops, she sang her heart out, she amazed and intrigued with her ever widening vocabulary. My shadow, ever at my feet, I carried on regardless, living much the same life as I would have, minus the college part I had planned. Weekends saw her shipped off to adoring relatives, otherwise she was with me, with friends, hanging out, having party after party, she sang or slept through it all. Her resilience astounds me now, it meant nothing to me then.
You may notice I've been a bit singular in my description of the whole experience. It takes two to tango you might say, where does mister sperm donor extrordinaire feature in all of this?? Not exactly the immaculate conception then. He lasted the first year, there he existed too, and slept, but little else. Our lives and our hearts separated when she came along. He disappeared in a puff of smoke before she was out of nappies, never to be seen again. But his story, that story is another post, perhaps, or perhaps not.
Hubby, or Rock God (I felt he deserved his own name by now, hardly fair him being only described by his relationship to me) was there always, he always had been. My lovely friend, who I was very fond of, but I'd never go out with him, eeew, would be like kissing your brother, I mean he is cute, and I do love him, but not like that....ah youth, how stupidly blind it can be.
It is my belief that you can't exist without family, they brought you here, they make up who you are, for some they are responsible for it. They are every bit of what makes you, You. There to be loved and admired or hated and feared. For spending time with or remembering, good or bad they have to feature somewhere. Mine were everything I could ever have asked for and more besides. She never would be who she is today without them. All of them hold a huge importance but none so much as magical Grandad. He made the world sparkle for her, he showed her everything there was to see and taught her everything there was to learn. He made her laugh, but never cry. His stories became her stories, his effect on her continues to this day, despite the inevitable I know he'll always be there, in her mind, and her heart. He has more to show her yet before he's done, although she fast approaches her time for knowing everything already.
He wrote her this beautiful poem for her birthday. I cried when I read it, huge wet dollops of tears. I cried for the past, for jampot jaws and pudgy legs, for incy wincy spiders and whispy curls. I cried for relief too, for being on the other side of that seemingly insurmountable hill, or for digging myself out of the pit, or whatever metaphor you're having yourself. But I too will never forget her that very first day. He'd rather hide his light under a bushel so I won't post his name, and he never gave it a name either, so this is Beautiful Poem for Smarty Pants, by My Dad:
Twelve years since we met, you were small for your size
They were counting your fingers, your toes (and your eyes)
You melted my insides (we grandads are tough)
I knew you were made out of my kind of stuff.
We crept on the floor, and we hid, and we ran.
And I made a good horse for a nearly old man.
We bounced on the beds (when your Nana was out)
Then we opened the presses and took the stuff out.
I took out my marker and drew little men,
You took out your marker and drew them again
We counted the numbers, the letters made words
We made a nest box and we watched the young birds.
The ice-cream in Teddies, the chips out in Howth.
The barely susceptible signs of your growth.
To Hamleys at Christmas - the bigger kids stuff
No longer the bears and the "Billy Goats Gruff"
Well you're growing up at a fair rate of knots
You've come a long way from wet nappies and sn...ts
You'll soon be a woman, too soon some might say.
But I'll never forget you that very first day.
I'm typing through the tears again as I read over it. Her path has veered off a little from mine. We don't do everything together any more, she doesn't follow me about quite as much. She still likes to ask me the usual difficult questions, although why is the sky blue has moved on to more adult subjects. She makes more decisions than I do about her life these days, as is perfectly right.
It's different for Monkey Boy, he travels with me through my 30's, a much smoother journey all told. The Concrete Box is equipped with all the comforts you might expect, including a tank that holds enough water for a whole shower and a front door you can't open with a well placed elbow, there's posh!! He'll have his mum and dad, his big sister, he'll be warm and comfortable and fussed over. He'll most likely never have to change his name, or wonder where exactly he comes from. His journey will still be exciting, and it will be his own. I feel more like I'm following him along, but I think that's the way it's supposed to be....
