Hero

Sometimes people wonder if, were they to be caught up in something awful, they would be the one to leap forward and take the bullet, restrain the aggressor, save the masses. Alas not I. Not by instinct anyway.

Quite often when I’m walking home from school with Myrtle and she is zooming along on her scooter I come to a stop and have to consciously urge my legs to move. Heavy legs they are. The reason is that in my mind I have imagined that Myrtle is going to crash and my instinct is to stop dead. My halting progress must be mysterious should anyone look long enough to notice. She never does crash, or at least not in the way I’m expecting but it has led me to the conclusion that if I were caught up in a disaster my instinct would be to freeze.

There’s something similar when a job is multi faceted and seems enormous. My brain freezes and I don’t know what to do. The word for that is overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed by the enormity of a task and my instinct is to freeze.

Things have felt a bit like that this last week, getting all the things out of the old house and into two different places; things we need now to my parents’ house, things we will need later into a friend’s garage. It has been useful to understand how I respond to a big job like that. The most useful thing for me is to ask for a smaller task. Someone tell me where to begin and the ice melts and I can be useful.

I have yet to see Ben overwhelmed. We work well together. He dissects the problem, I’m pleased to do the bits I can do once I can see how to begin. Good teamwork. I think we will need to do some good teamwork on this journey. I’m glad not to be faced with a bullet.

Fly away

We moved out today. So many feelings. More than I expected. There have been so many good things in that house. The best thing was the next door neighbours. The worst thing was maybe the other neighbours. The ones who didn’t like the wood pile. Actually, the ones across the street were also really kind, and kindness really makes a difference.

When we moved, Red was 4, Myrtle was 15 months. Very small. They’ve done so much growing. We’ve done so much growing. Now we are 5. That shock made the floor in the kitchen shake. Or I think it did.

If anyone ever had any doubt about the quality of A.A.Milne’s writing they should read the last chapter of Winnie the Pooh. We can’t read that chapter. We listen to it and wail. There is no stopping those tears. Oh my. Just thinking about it, especially on the day we moved out, starts that off all over again. I know, time moves on. Children grow, spread their wings. It’s what we work for, what we are aiming for and we know it’s what we are watching as the days trickle by in monotony. But stopping to notice sears. Every time. Actually every time. Not literally every time. I hate what the word literally has become. That’s probably the subject of another blog post sometime. For now, time is passing. They are growing up. That’s a wonderful, lovely thing. It is extraordinarily tragic when it’s not the case. Still it hurts.

This is an exciting opportunity, a fantastic family adventure. It will mark our lives and we will mark time in relation to it. “Oh that was just before we started building the house”; “I remember that, it was when we were living at Nan and Dap’s”; “haha yeh, that was just before that big disaster”. Oh hang on, I don’t know about that yet. At least in my future imagination we are laughing at misfortune. Seems positive.

It feels really odd this evening. Home is someone else’s house. I will not say we are homeless. That is a very much more serious thing.

My parents sold the home I grew up in about 18 months ago. That felt odd. Then I realised home is where the people are, so their new house feels like home. Like their home. I expect soon it will feel like our home but we have been spending a lot of time thinking about what our home would be like and those thoughts have made me realise I have changed too. I spread my wings and flew away, but I didn’t really notice what was behind me, focusing only on what was ahead. That’s probably how it should be. Ben and I met when we were 16. Just coming up to 20 years ago. We met and I flew away. In his wedding speech my Dad sounded really pleased. Someone else to bear this burden. I didn’t really notice what now I understand lay behind the smile. It would have been a terrible, sad thing if I didn’t have wings in which to fly in whatever direction I chose. But A.A.Milne captured it again in the poem my Dad wrote out for me:

“Is this the little girl I carried,

Is this the little boy at play?

I don’t remember growing older.

When did they?”

I hope my children grow beautiful wings that will take them to wonderful places. I hope they come back sometimes. I hope it is not too soon. I know it will be too soon.