‘We’re going to be late! Get up!!’ she would yell as the toddler literally and figuratively dug her heels in. She would scoop her up, deafened by two-year old protests, and head out the door, and then our son would realise he had forgotten something. It was the same routine, and while she allowed more and more time each day to get ready and to try to keep the stress levels down, there was always something, always some kind of drama.
‘I must be the worst mother in the world!’ she would sigh to herself as they left the house, everybody stressed and nobody smiling. She would see other kids skipping towards the school gate while she carried the weight of a grumpy toddler and a ball of lead in her stomach. ‘How come other mothers can manage, what is wrong with me?’ she would say to me as we climbed into bed at night. It was her mantra and she practiced it daily and nightly. She would repeat over and over that she was a bad mother, she was not doing the right thing for the children, she was not able to stay calm and manage things lovingly. She thought she would ruin our kids and their chance later in life by her impatience and her anger and her exhaustion.
She was afraid of repeating the mistakes her parents had made with her. But aren’t we all? She convinced herself of the negatives, and in so doing, blocked herself from seeing the positives. The way she could calmly soothe an upset or a child-size injustice, how she would relish her time reading to the kids in bed each night, sharing in their delight as they heard tales from other lands, and as they discussed ideas they heard in the stories. What if she had taken a step back each night to really examine what had happened that day. How she may have yelled at the children three times but hugged them twenty times. How she had said a cross word or barked a command five times but laughed out loud at their silly antics fifteen times. What if she had changed her mantra to a positive one by telling herself every night that she was a fantastic mother, she was the exact mother her children needed, that she was the most loving mother in the world? I believe by so doing she would have allowed the transgressions in emotions to be seen as invaluable lessons for her children, as a wonderful way to teach them about the world and their own emotions.
The perfect mother would never be able to teach her children the gift of forgiveness as she would never have to ask it of them. The perfect mother would not have prepared her children for the disappointment that comes hand-in-hand with a bad grade at school, or a failed entrance to university or a terrible boss who never gave praise. A friend who was mean or a moment in life that pulls out tears and strong emotions. The simple act of losing patience but then recovering, or yelling but then apologising, teaches children so much more than perfect balance. Perfect balance does not exist in the real world, but emotions do.
To me a perfect mother is one who can listen to their child and be their point of stability and security. Who can sympathise with their feelings but teach them how to move on. Who can react appropriately to their child’s demands which sometimes means saying no. Who doesn’t feel the need to constantly entertain their children, who values boredom for the gift that it is and who teaches their children that everything in life needs balance, and sometimes the parent needs to rebalance their own life by doing their own things and by putting themselves first. The perfect mother teaches resilience and independence and sometimes this comes through difficult moments with our children and not through perfectly orchestrated, picture-perfect moments of domestic bliss.
This is why the ‘perfect mother’ does not exist. God knew what he was doing when he created women.
I dread to think what it is like for parents who live day to day with social media. We luckily never had that added burden, but no wonder everyone is secretly miserable! Everyone nowadays holds themselves up to an even higher vision of perfection, falsely created by what they see on their social media accounts. The photos of perfectly turned out children smiling next to their relaxed and happy parents. Holiday destinations flashed around, or scenes of wonderful weekends spent together as a family. No-one sees the fight that occurred just before the photo was taken, the bribes it took to get the children to stand still for just long enough to take the photo. The tiredness felt by the parents because of a toddler who had been up five times during the previous night, or the absent husband who puts his arm quickly around his wife’s shoulders for the photo but then removes it just as quickly once the photo is taken. It is too easy to fall for the untruths of the moments we see before us in these carefully selected and orchestrated snapshots placed not-so-casually on a social media account. I am so glad that was not our reality as young parents.
As I look at my wife now, as she takes her makeup off, I see how beautiful she is. I watch her curls unfold and fold up again as she passes the brush through them. I watch as she puts toothpaste on her toothbrush, never squeezing up the remaining paste to the top of the tube as I used to wish she would do. We had different habits, my wife and I, different idiosyncrasies I guess I would now call them. Little things that we would do that unintentionally annoyed the other. I used to like the taps to shine. I would polish them every day and yet every time I went into the bathroom there would be water marks on the tap again.
I remember we had quite a fight about it one day. It was silly looking back on it now, but I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t accommodate what I thought was a simple request, and she couldn’t understand why I didn’t let it go. They were taps. They were due to get wet, and why did it matter if they were not sparkling clean all the time? She kept a very tidy house, and I must say I never had to worry about cleanliness, but instead of focusing on her good points, and the things she did to make my life easier, I chose that day to nitpick. I exploded what was an insignificant thing into something that I believed represented a total lack of concern for me and my needs.
How silly looking back, and if I could turn back time I would take that moment as an opportunity to thank her for all she did for us rather than focusing on what she didn’t do. It took us a long time to come down from our high horses after that. It’s easy to get up there but not always easy to come down. We chose not to talk about it anymore after that day but I could see that it hurt her far deeper than she let on.
So here she is now, as beautiful as ever, having one last look at herself in the mirror and what does she do but pick up the hand towel and wipe down the tap! ‘Goodnight Darling’ she says to the air as she turns around and turns out the bathroom light and heads towards the bed. I notice her wipe a tear from her eye as a small sob escapes from her mouth.
I watch her as she pulls back the covers and slowly climbs into her side of the bed. She picks up her tube of hand cream and rubs a dollop into her now-aging hands. Hands that have held our newborn babies, hands that have wiped away tears from faces freshly fallen off bicycles, hands that have protectively held together the broken hearts of teenagers. Who lovingly and shakily pinned the flower to our son’s lapel as he prepared to walk down the aisle, who buttoned up our daughter’s dress as she prepared to fly the nest to start her own life.
I couldn’t have had the life I had without her. I loved her with all my heart but I never really knew how to say it. I assumed she knew, but assumptions can be dangerous and lead us into false beliefs.
As my wife snuggles down under the covers she picks up the photo frame next to the bed that contains a photo of us on our wedding day. She kisses it and her eyes linger over it a moment before she places it back down carefully on the bedside table, her moist eyes shining in the lamplight. She reaches towards the lamp and turns it out.
We lie on our backs and I place my hand on hers. We weren’t very affectionate during the day but at night we would lean towards each other for comfort. We allowed our vulnerabilities to come through as we lay safely tucked up in bed. Why we couldn’t do that during the day I cannot figure out, but there is something about the tough face you have to show to the world while you think the world is looking that forces those vulnerabilities and sensibilities down and out of sight. It is the security and warmth of bed that seem
s to draw them back out again.
I remember when we met. She was working in her father’s grocery store and as I walked in there to buy the apples my mother needed for dessert, I noticed her beauty. She was not what I would call a classic beauty, but the beauty on her inside clearly shone out for everyone to see. She had her hair tied up in the bouffant hairstyle that was popular in those days, an apron firmly tied around her waist. She was helping a customer choose the best lemons and she didn’t notice me enter the shop. When she finally looked up and saw me standing at the counter, she gave me the warmest smile and I was hooked. Here was the creature I had been looking for all my life and instead of finding her in a magazine or on the silver screen, she was standing right in front of me in all her unglamorous glory. What a vision she was! She walked over to the counter and said she would be with me shortly. She very kindly helped her customer count out coins from a frail hand, wished her a wonderful day and told her to mind her step on the way out. Then she turned to me.
All I could do was stammer something about needing apples and my mind went blank when she asked me what type. I just stared at her open mouthed and she laughed her tinkling laugh and gently asked me to follow her. I would have followed her to the ends of the earth but I found myself in front of a large pile of red and green apples. I asked for the green ones and was soon on my way home feeling a lightness in my step I hadn’t experienced before. I suppose that is what it feels like when you give away your heart. I never knew mine had been so heavy.
I went back the next day and the next. Mother couldn’t understand why I was so keen to suddenly help her with the groceries, but as she came with me one day, under great protests on my part, the penny dropped.
‘Ask her out!’ she whispered as her rounded elbow met with my side.
My mouth went dry, I mumbled my excuses and left. As I got outside I leant against the wall, one foot up behind me for support. I let out a huge sigh and silently berated myself for lost opportunities.
I went back the next day to buy some lettuce that I am certain Mother did not need, and there she was, my Venus, my beauty that I was too shy and nervous to reach out and touch. I took a deep breath. ‘Come on, you can do this. COME ON!’ I softly yelled to myself. Never had anything been so hard in all my life! With my stomach tossing and turning like a boat on a rough sea I quickly spat out ‘I-would-like-one-lettuce-please-and-would-you-like-to-come-to-the-picture-show-with-me-this-Saturday.’ Phew. It was done. And then I had to wait for what felt like forever as her eyes drifted off to the side to help her think. What is taking her so long?! I thought in a panic. I wanted to run as fast as I could out of that shop to never return. I think I stopped breathing as the room started to blur and my lungs involuntarily took in a huge gulp of air.
‘I have something on this Saturday but I hear that there is a new James Bond film coming out next week. Why don’t we go together next weekend?’
‘YES!’ I silently screamed, my insides doing my best impression of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I tried to act a bit more mature on the outside as I smiled and said I would like that.
‘Here’s the lettuce. You don’t have to pay for it. It’s my treat as you are our best customer,’ she said very kindly. I thanked her and took the lettuce with shaking hands. When I got outside I started to run, but this time not out of fear and a means of escape but because a wave of pure joy had taken over my body and I wanted to run and sing and scream and punch the air!
I ran through the front door bursting with the news I was about to share with Mother. She smiled as I handed over the lettuce and told her she had said yes. It was then that I realised I didn’t even know her name, but it didn’t matter. I had found my angel and I would simply ask her the next time I saw her.
We went on several dates after that and it didn’t take long before we were engaged to be married. I had saved up all my money to buy her a ring, and while it wasn’t much of a ring, I knew that she would appreciate it. I wrote to her father asking for a meeting. As I walked up to the house, I felt my stomach flipping and turning over again, but I said to myself that no matter what, I would marry that girl, and so as I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, I focused on her becoming my wife.
It was over a glass of Scotch that the deal was done. What a funny tradition! As if the woman herself had no say in the matter. But there is also something very respectful in the tradition that nods to the role a father plays in his daughter’s life.
Our wedding was a simple affair. We were young, way too young by today’s standards, but when you are young you feel like love conquers all. We had thirty people celebrate with us and held our reception afterwards in the local pub. She wore a plain yet stylish pale blue dress and had tiny white flowers pinned to her hair. I wore a brown suit and matching tie and bought new shoes for the occasion. I had forgotten to wear them in and so my feet ached as we stood before the vicar in the local church to say our vows.
A friend had loaned us his car. An Austin-Healey Sprite. It was decorated with empty tin cans and someone had written ‘Just Married’ across the back windscreen with lipstick. What a day that was! We felt on top of the world, a world full of hope and promise, like nothing bad could reach us up there!
I suppose time changes a relationship and as we settled into married life and learned we were to have a baby, routine installed itself and we fell into our daily rhythm. She was a wonderful mother to our newborn son but I could see she was a bit anxious. She told me one night that she never seemed to be able to get rid of that fine layer of nervousness that had installed itself in the pit of her stomach. She was never the best sleeper and her sleeping became even worse as she would lie awake at night keeping an ear out for that unmistakable newborn cry.
She had problems settling our son and he would cry for hours, quite often joined by his mother. I suppose this is when the guilt set in and it never really left her. Mother’s guilt is such a terrible and unnecessary thing.
She turns over and I hear her breathing change as she falls asleep. She must be lonely now that I’m gone and I hope that she finds comfort in her dreams. I watch as her shoulders move up and down in time to her breathing and notice how her face has now relaxed and the tension lines around her eyes and her mouth have started to soften. I catch a glimpse of her glasses on the bedside table and they remind me of how much the children would laugh when my wife would make spaghetti for dinner. As she tipped the hot water into the colander in the sink, the steam from the hot spaghetti would fog up her glasses which would make the children laugh hysterically. How they managed to find it so funny each time it happened I will never know, but they sure did love it!
I loved my wife in so many ways and for so many things. I loved her with all my heart and could not imagine a life without her. I am so grateful to have found my courage the day I asked her out, as it was bravery and lettuce that brought us together. I feel such a regret now welling up inside me. I never really showed her how much I loved her. I suppose I did in my funny sort of a way, but sometimes it is best to say these things and not assume that one knows them.
As I continue to lie next to my wife, I am grateful for these last moments together. I want to savour them as I know they will be our last. As she continues to sleep peacefully next to me, I surround her with as much love as I possibly can, unable to physically hold her but knowing I can share my soul with her.
The morning has come now. It is time for me to leave. I lean over and delicately kiss her cheek and place my hand on her still-warm and sleepy head. ‘Goodbye my darling,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘Thank you for a lifetime of happiness, a lifetime of sacrifice. A lifetime of always putting others before yourself. I hope you aren’t lonely. I couldn’t think of anything worse than you being lonely. Surround yourself with friends. You have been very loved in this life and deserve others to look after you for a change. I wish I had told you how much I love you. I wish with all my heart that I could hold you just one more time and tell you how much I truly a
nd deeply love you. We have had our struggles and our difficult moments, but my life was so wonderful with you by my side. What I would give to feel your hands holding my face one more time, to see your beautiful smile as I walk through the door after a long day apart. To share a comment and a slice of toast with you as we read the Sunday paper in bed. How I long to smell your perfume just one last time as it lingers on my shirt after my quick peck of a kiss goodbye in the morning. How your face lights up with pure joy as our grandchildren run in the door to see their Nana and Pop. You are my everything my Sweetheart, the great love of my life, the one constant that never disappointed me but was always there for me. I have to be content now with the hope that you know this. Hope is all I have now for there is nothing more I can do as my time has run out.’
I lean over one more time and delicately kiss her mouth, her nose, her forehead. ‘I love you,’ I say with every ounce of my remaining strength. A light has appeared in the room now to counteract the sunlight starting to stream in through the window. The light is calling me and I want to walk towards it. I know I am safe and loved and protected by that light and that is where my heart and soul must now go.
I take one more long look at my sleeping love and whisper goodbye.
A Lifetime of Goodbyes Page 14
