Well-meaning

Dear Mavis,

This Sunday will be your kids' first Mothers Day without you. I know, I know, that Mothers Day is primarily a retailer-generated celebration (buy Mum an expensive present to show you love her!) and therefore not to be taken too seriously, but it is so very all-pervading at the moment. Your poor boys can't help but notice it.

I was looking after your big boy earlier in the week, in between swimming lessons and soccer training, and I suddenly remembered about the Mothers Day Stall at school. See, I've volunteered at that stall in previous years, and I know what happens. All the kids troop down by class and pick out a gift for their mum. I thought to myself that it could be a truly horrible time for your boys, particularly if they weren't prepared for it. You know? Anyway. I dithered, I didn't know what to do but in the end I thought that I ought to say something about it to your big boy.

I approached it delicately, I explained that I knew the stall was going on and that I was worried it might make him feel a bit rotten to suddenly find himself in the middle of this Mothers Day frenzy, particularly if it took him by surprise. I said that sometimes it can help to be prepared, to have a plan. Maybe he'd like to buy a little gift for his aunt or au pair instead, maybe he just needed to arm his mental defences (I'm not sure what that means but it sounds like the sort of thing a boy might get) for what could be a sad time.

He didn't want to discuss it, he really didn't want to. Not that he said that, but the shutters came down and he was deflecting like a force-field. That's fair enough, I reckon. You were a very private person too, when I think about it. (Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him at a certain angle and he looks so much like you that it wallops me.) I backed off immediately. Then I ended up emailing their Dad to confess my meddling. I was concerned I might have made it all worse. For good measure I also told your boy's lovely teacher, and so she had a gentle word to him too. She promised to let your younger boy's teacher know as well, because he might have been in even more difficulties really; the junior grades often make cards and such-like. So I guess we did what we could, to try and smooth their way a little bit.

It's so hard, this first year, isn't it? The path just really can't be smoothed to any great degree. They're probably far too young to even take comfort from well-meant attempts at kindness. They just have to deal with all those horrible firsts in the wake of your death.

The boys are going to take some flowers on Sunday to the tree where your ashes rest. I hope they have a cry and let the sadness out. Meantime, we had your big boy round on Thursday and he was fine and not at all resentful or withholding so that is a relief.

Today was the day of The Stall, and I kept an eye on him. He sat alone while the other kids shopped and he coped, but I thought it looked hard for him. Fortunately their class came in just as the bell rang for recess so it was all over very quickly for him. I hope he put it all behind him with a vigorous game of Four-square.


I'll be thinking of them on Sunday. I'll also be thinking of my Mum, who, like your boys, is walking that rocky path of the First Year.

To make you laugh, I'll just point out that we have to be at soccer at 8.15am on Mothers Day, so you wouldn't have got a luxurious sleep-in if you had still been here.

love
Caroline x

Life, Going On.

Grief is a strange thing, isn't it? I left the school assembly in tears this Monday because Mavis' son won the Caught Being Good Award and I so badly wanted to tell her. And last Saturday I found myself googling my step-father because I felt sad I'd never hear him barking my mother's name if I rang up their house. And my grief is I think small grief, nothing compared to how it must feel to lose your husband or a member of your immediate family. I almost feel guilty to be so affected. But there I am, getting along with everyday life, and suddenly I'm struck by someone's absence and the irrevocability of that absence, and the sadness kicks in.

Meanwhile, in our everyday life ...

Climber has started soccer. playing in a proper team this year - he has to train TWICE a week plus a Sunday game, which is going to test our one-car-family and me working-the-same-nights-he-trains status. Coping so far. Working out lift-sharing with Mavis' children's father actually.

Basil has been catching mice which would be good except he keeps bringing them in the house for the death-by-play routine, meaning Fixit or I have to scoop up the rodent in a plastic container. This makes Basil bewildered and cranky and Climber anxious; if Climber is bearing witness the mouse has to be released to the wild, however much it goes against the grain.

My brother has been going through some bad stuff, to do with his kids and his ex. But today, with the support of the courts and the police and my sister, he got the kids back and this is really good news.

My Monday night Gentle Beginners class has been, rather fittingly, christened Nanna Tap by my lovely friend Jenny. She is one of several non-Nannas in the class, but allegedly enjoying the [much] gentler pace. If only I wasn't worried about the potential for offence (particularly to the 2 bona-fide Nannas in the class) I would love to re-brand. I think it has a certain je ne sais quoi.



I think this photo of Jenny's youngest (aka the Mooch) should be my new poster for the Kids Tap Classes. I was taking shots of kids doing different moves (stamps, digs, knocks) for wall displays but this photo of her twirling is so lovely. The Mooch is the owner of the shoes in my previous tap fliers, so that would make her the official Miss Caroline Poster Girl. I also like this picture of Climber jumping out of the frame.



I'm off to Crarf Camp on the weekend. Yay! For a change, I'm actually doing some project preparation. I've cut out 3 dresses/tops for me and 5 pairs of boys pants. I'm planning to sew my butt off.

And did those feet, in ancient times

Today was Mavis' funeral.  We took Climber & Cherub, because they knew Mavis well and because we thought it would be good for Mavis' two boys to have some friends there.  I'd had a chat with my boys yesterday to prime them for what they could expect, and they were terrific, but of course sad.  Indeed, Cherub started weeping heavily as soon as the service opened with Mavis' favourite song, Dancing Queen by Abba.  It was as though he was a little conduit for all the grief in the room, and he really didn't stop looking sad until we left the chapel.   Fixit was sad but stoic, Climber had slow tears rolling down his face on and off, and I was a mess.  But as I said to the boys in preparation, it's important to let the sadness out at this time. 

Afterwards, back at Mavis' house, we had a cheerful wake with plenty of drinking and laughing.  I was enormously comforted by the presence of friends from school, as kind and caring and funny a bunch of people as you could ever hope to meet. 

Mavis requested that people wear green and pink to her funeral, and this inspired me to make some crochet brooches; first one for me, then one each for Fixit and the boys, then another 3 for Mavis' children and her sister. Plus some spares. Really this whole week has been about trying to do stuff, because making and baking and having the kids over, in other words trying to throw some practical help at a sad situation, seems to be a therapy in itself.



Now that it's over I feel wrung out, but more at peace.  I think we sent her off in style and I think she would have been happy with it.

Mavis

This morning my friend Mavis died peacefully in the hospice with her devoted sister at her side. She was 46 years old. I'm glad her suffering is finally over, because this last year has been awful for her. She never really let on though, she was brave and full of hope and chirpy through so much of it. But I will miss her.

I'm not sure how her two young sons will cope, frankly. Since the secondary cancers appeared and started causing havoc, I think Mavis' normal place at the centre of the family was gradually eroded. She was often in her bed, battling pain and illness and tiredness. So although Mummy was there for the boys last year, she wasn't really there in lots of ways. I think they've had an acclimatisation process, if that makes sense. I'm thinking back now to how she made a supreme effort and came along to the Grade 4 Concert in September last year and the School Fete in November, the last school things she ever did, and I feel glad and proud of her that she did that. There seems to be this awful dilemma of making choices whether to reserve your strength to fight the disease or using it so that you can still be part of the life that's going on around you.

Anyway. I will miss Mavis and her cheeky sense of humour, and her posh British accent, her forthright views and her kindness and generosity. I will think of her whenever I see a particular shade of green because it was her favourite. And I will keep an eye out and arms open to her poor motherless boys. Good-bye dear Mavis, rest well.

Sun and Sorrow

We had a beautiful 2 day stay with my Aunt and Uncle at Barwon Heads, where we discovered the wonderful surf beach at Ocean Grove, possibly the best beach for boogie-boarding ever.  The kids' faces as they caught those long waves all the way to shore were a perfect picture of happiness and exhilaration.

Tomorrow morning we are heading off for the much-anticipated Mothers Group holiday in Rosebud.  Jenny, Astrid and I and all the husbands and chillun, in one big house by a beach.  It will be awesome.

And in between and indeed across these two idylls, is my pain at losing my friend Mavis, who has only days to live.  She has fought breast cancer for 5 years now, but at Christmas time, the secondary cancers, which had been mostly in control, suddenly turned feral and in the blink of an eye there was nothing anyone could do anymore.  Mavis has two children, boys the exact same age as mine, and the eldest one is Climber's best friend.  The boys have been on holiday with their father (the one who left her this year when she was having chemo): they came home today to an empty house and the news that Mummy was in the hospice, and when they asked the inevitable question they were told the terrible truth.  So the next few days will be a saying of goodbyes for her family.  The rest of us, knowing that she is in too much pain and too wretched about saying goodbye to her children to cope with anything more than this, are putting our farewells into writing and waiting for the news.