I’m pretty sure I say this every year, but I retell a lot of stories so here it is anyway: Mother’s Day at the boys’ school is celebrated with a stall where the kids can hand over a $2 coin and, in return, gain access to a treasure trove of mum-related gift items. The presents are, naturally, donated by the mothers themselves, who are encouraged to provide something they would like to receive themselves. This doesn’t stop people from donating things like used and unwashed coffee mugs or packets of tissues, apparently, but luckily I didn’t receive either of those hot-ticket items.
One friend of mine was given a mug with #mumlife printed on it. Another was given a (hideous) necklace, and the winner this year may have been the mom whose son gave her an obviously-regifted-from-a-kid’s-birthday party unicorn and mermaid face-painting set.
In comparison, I lucked out, receiving two mugs, one with pastel leopard print and one with a sweet message, both smaller than the amount of caffeine I need but chosen and given with love. After I opened them, we headed to lunch at the local chicken schnitzel chain, where I had a glass of champagne. Doesn’t get much better than that, I suppose.
The day before, I’d gone to the ballet matinee with some friends and took the ferry back–the ferry that sells drinks–and enjoyed some cheap sparkling on the top of the boat. I watched the sun set behind me and the water lap beside me and thought, again, of how ridiculous it is that this is our life. Ridiculous that we live surrounded by this beauty every day. Ridiculous that we are touring high schools for The Kid (and, eventually, Little Brother) because when you live as a dual citizen, you have to plan for everything.
Ridiculous that we’re about to be dual citizens–if The Husband and I pass the test and interview we just received an email notification for, that now has us studying a booklet of Australian history.
Ridiculous that as I climbed off that ferry, I traversed in heels the same path I’d pounded in running shoes that morning. Ridiculous that a smaller amount of coffee in a smaller mug actually tastes stronger–and better. Ridiculous that the Mother’s Day event at their school left me claustrophobic in the crowd while it lasted, and catatonic on the couch afterward as I recovered. Ridiculous that the show-stopping song performed at the end stayed in my head all day long. And the day after. And the day after.
Ridiculous that little expressions of ours tend to seep into the boys’ language–foul and otherwise–and that, in a frustrated moment the other day, TK said “fucking” and LB said “I can’t handle this” and honestly? I’m pretty sure there’s a time and a place for both so I’m not sweating it too much. Because I can’t handle it–the ups and downs, the crowds, the demands, the hormones, the emotions. I can’t handle, either, the joys, the love, the sunlight that pierced the windshield and nearly blinded me on our way to school this morning.
That mug that one of the boys brought home from the stall? Printed on it was another expression the boys commonly hear from me: “YOU ARE LOVED.” I can’t even handle it.