Grown-up

Motherhood amplifies my mistakes. I'm not sure if I can ever truly forgive myself for them, or apologise enough to my children for being their mother.

I like to crawl into my son’s bed in the dead of night when Melbourne is in between yesterday and tomorrow. He never wakes up, the poor baby. He squirms and readjusts his little body and I hold my breath until he’s at peace again. This routine officially makes me a grown-up because grown-ups do strange things. They wear long faces all week and become different people on the weekend. They kiss each other on the lips and panic when you catch them crying. They climb into your bed in the dead of night looking for redemption.

Remember when you were a kid and grown-ups would stare at you like they were actually looking at themselves? You’d tell them about your hockey game or the cereal cupboard at your friend’s house and they’d look beyond you, not at you. Where were they looking? When my face touches my son’s curls in the dark I’m a grown-up trying to warp time and space. I’m here and somewhere else, remembering the smell of his leave-in conditioner, the sliver of amber light coming through the bedroom window, and the wilderness of early motherhood.

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Last week we attended a parent-teacher conference at my son’s primary school. At just 6 years old it’s his fifth school in his third country of residence. He’s in a bilingual English/Mandarin programme split evenly between the two languages and he’s thriving. Despite missing an entire term of school due to a tough move from Abu Dhabi to Melbourne, he’s speaking and writing confidently in Mandarin and reading with the kids in the grade above him in English. During the conferences his teachers sang his praises and encouraged us to “keep doing what we’re doing.” On the way home, we told him how proud we were of him and applauded his courage.

That night with my head in his curls, I fell apart thinking about his first day of school in Australia. I started writing daily lunch box notes when we moved here to help ease the transition. His first-day note was simple: I love you, James. Have a wonderful day. <3 Mom. It sat waiting for him alongside a sandwich, popcorn, grapes, and a gummy worm. When we picked him up, he walked out of the classroom with his shoulders slumped. I asked how his day was and his eyes welled up. We didn’t pack a hat (we didn’t know he needed to bring a hat every day) so he wasn’t allowed to play outside during recess. I closed the popcorn container too tight so he couldn’t open it during snack time. He didn’t know lunch break was so short, so he didn’t eat quickly enough and spent the day hungry. Worst of all, my note made him cry.

I’m sorry, kid.

I’m sorry for all the first days of school so far. I’m sorry for the empty apartments and new furniture. I’m sorry for the confusing weather and unreliable seasons. I’m sorry for the temporary friends and the faint faces. I’m sorry I’m in the dark holding on tight to the moment. I’m sorry for being here and somewhere else.

This song about motherhood reminds me that it’s okay to be a grown-up.