On tears and motherhood

Well it was all good until we got to the departure gates.

To say I held it together would be somewhat of an exaggeration, but we were doing ok, Lil Blondie and I. But I can comprehensively say, nothing kills you more than watching your tearful child go through those gates with only an air hostess and seven other kids she’s never met for company. As a mother, you start to question who you are and every decision you've ever made in your life.

And walking back to the car was a hazardous experience as well, as I couldn't see through the haze of tears, but I knew I had to get a grip because I had highways to tackle to get home. And I knew the Kevman would be there, waiting for me on Skype, to tell me it’s ok and I'm not a bad mother for choosing to live in another country from my youngest child. In reality though, there wasn't a lot he could say to allay the temporary grief that is now part and parcel of my parenting life.

It had been a grand three weeks, though; we visited Fremantle, went bowling, Lil Blondie tried her hand at golfing at the driving range (wasn't too shabby either for a first time eight year old) and we also took the resident Gypsy Niece with us to go pottery painting. Shopping was also done and a fair amount of game playing, Uno and Monopoly Deal being the favourites.

Lil Blondie getting her golf game sorted.

But come the final day more cuddles than normal were had; brave faces put on and reminders given of what awaited the youngest member the family once she got home: her Daddy, her cats Bella and Trix and all her school friends. Mummy would be fine I said: “And before you know it, it will be next school holidays and you’ll be back here again!”

And Mummy will be fine...maybe tomorrow, or the next day when the Kevman flies in from his island. But for right now, I'm busy trying to pull positivity from the fact that I'm snivelling and missing her little blonde head and goofy grin; the droopy morning look and the dementedly excited look of one about to go somewhere exciting; the mess in the room; the insanely repetitive Animal Jam tunes emanating from the office....ok maybe I don’t miss that...but basically everything that reminds me that I'm a mother..

I miss her

And reconciling one's heart and soul with one's head is never easy.

But this is good...to be reminded so profoundly that I love my kids so terribly much. The power of the World Wide Web enable unprecedented contact in this increasingly fragmented world and I know she is cared for well in her New Zealand home where she belongs. I have never been an emotionally connective type and struggled greatly with the intricacies of balancing single parenthood with a full time career and an ever degenerating body. Ironically, I know I am a better mother now. The time I spend with my kids is able to be devoted completely to them and I have time to build a rapport and share humour with them as opposed to going through the motions of a very stressful existence and having it rob me of all that happy parenting can be. In many senses I am very lucky.

Now, like a metaphorical light bulb smashing, shards piercing my consciousness like vaccination needles, I realise completely why I have chosen to write about this today: to remind myself that I made a good decision coming here and I should never allow myself to slip into the gendered abyss of guilt that can come with being a mother intentionally separated from her children. Her father is a good father; we were never that great as husband and wife obviously, but he provides well (better than I could) the day to day stability and calm she needs for a healthy life.

I am the rebel, the adventurer, the alternative. I always have been and I like to think I am the fuel for my daughters’ dreams, the catalyst for them believing that anything possible if they keep exploring and believing all the while being a decent person and doing the best they can.

I refused then, as I do now, to let society’s ideas of what a perfect mother should be dictate my parenting role in my children’s life. I played life (and still do) by my own rules, ones that work best for me mentally and physically and thus, by extrapolation, are best for my girls. The way they love me back is confirmation enough that I am on a perfectly acceptable track.

And if I do this right....my daughters will grow up knowing they have the right to live exactly the same way.