By the light of 3 candles

“My dearest sweet son, Daniel.  I write to you on May 16 at 11.15 p.m. by the light of three candles.  I finished work in the evening and had a big hot bath when I got home.

I love you deeply in my heart.  I marvel at you.  I marvel at your beautiful character, regularly.  I beg to do the best by you.  I thank you so much for coming through me into this life.

God bless you, God bless us.  Amen.”

.

The sun rose on the next day; Time’s promise kept.

Sunshine warmed the souls of Daniel, me and Pathos the cat three, as I stood in bare feet at the clothesline, pegging our wet clothes for drying.  Daniel keenly provided me with pegs from the plastic bag I kept them in, and Pathos just as eagerly dived in to sniff out any that he dropped, lest it be alive and he could scare it to death with his enormous hazel eyes and intensity.

The simple joy of my boy was contagious, and it seemed that in the simplicity of the moment, lasted our lifetimes.  Yet, it would be forgotten, this moment – unless someone photographed us or I wrote it down.  Lives are lost to memories passed.

.

I smiled down at Daniel, offering me a red peg, but to keep his mind alive I said I needed a green peg for my top.  At 18 months, he needed guidance, but we played the game nonetheless. I squatted to join him at level of his age, and rifled through the bag of pegs to find the peg whose colour he would learn was green.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, ever the actor.  “That one is green! Could you find me another green peg please, sweetheart?”

Pathos seemed never to tire of Daniel and my antics about the block of flats. He accompanied us on all excursions – from the letterbox to the garbage bins, witnessing our lives.

We still trundled down the lane occasionally to our old block of flats, to visit Cornelius.   Daniel had a little cart he would pull by the rope attached to it, and loved to trundle it anywhere important that we might be going.  Cornelius was important, and I am sure he could hear the cart as soon as we set off from our unit.  Sometimes we put a bit of dried food wrapped in a present for him and placed it on Daniel’s cart, for him to deliver.  We would have to carry the cart up to Cornelius’ prime position on the top level of our old flats, but all the effort was essential to the journey.  Pathos never followed us to Cornelius’ territory.  Animals seem to know, then respect, boundaries infinitely better than humans.

.

It was the day of the court hearing.  Despite the DNA test results stating, “…the likelihood that ChrisX is the father of DanielX is in excess of 99.9999%”, Chris still refused to sign acknowledgment that Daniel is his son (acknowledging financial liability).  Packing up the pegs, throwing them into my wash basket and opening the laundry gate for Daniel to race Pathos through, I recalled what offence it felt to me that not even the test results could be brought to acknowledge Chris is Daniel’s father.  In aversion of open truth, the report would only concede the likelihood of Chris’ paternity, and that likelihood was not 100%.

Was I not Daniel’s mother 100%?  Why do They, then, stop short of stating Chris is Daniel’s father 100%?  What is that measure of .0001%?  Is it doubt, or allowance granted Chris that maybe, just maybe he is not entirely responsible to this new life we brought into being?  I did not understand it, and pulling Daniel’s top over his head, brushing his silken locks down around his face, I remained offended that the law would stop short of declaring the whole truth.

.

As I drove toward the Family Court, us streaming by the chill fresh waters of the Swan River, I recalled my despair at school that I never received 10/10 in an essay or assignment – only ever 9/10, at best.  I tried for a year or two earnestly, to effect perfection of score; finding crevices in my broken home life in which to retreat and focus on writing which I so loved.  But I was never perfect.  Then, as my father whipped me with his illness mental and abuses, it became less important to obtain a 10/10 at school.  Mere survival would be good.  Years later, when I was holding my own ground in life, I decided that it wasn’t in the nature of probably 99.9999% of teachers to concede a student’s endeavour and production ‘perfect’.

.

I delivered Daniel to the court room child care centre, signing him in.  It was stressful and tiresome to run these miles in pursuit of Daniel’s human right of support by two parents, but I did not want to be like “the other mother” Chris spoke of; the mother of Daniel’s half-sister who did not receive support.  I would bring Chris to face his responsibility, and possibly he would think twice before impregnating other women.  Money has most people think through their behavior.

I announced my arrival to the desk clerk, and was told what court I would be in.  I saw Chris on the outside of the court room, wearing his khaki army style shirt with ‘Feng shui – Happy, Healthy, Wealthy’ embroidered in red on the front pocket.  It was his favourite shirt, that he wore to appointments.

Our eyes met but averted, and I felt sad to be there.  The mixture of feelings – that I was doing Chris wrong; that I should raise Daniel on whatever finance I could manage to gather alone, and whatever cash jobs Tom saved the day with, that I exhausted my last drops of energy on regularly, and by my work, absolve Chris from responsibility like “the other mother” did…but that I should show Chris he can’t “do this”, not to my boy; all churned like debris from broken trust in my guts.  I felt nervous, bad, wrong – but also like I couldn’t just let this happen to us.

Mary Soper of Legal Aid intercepted my mental pains, to tell me that she would approach Chris and give him one last chance to sign Consent Orders, stating he is Daniel’s father.  If he didn’t sign, she said, the Magistrate “wouldn’t be too pleased”.  In the face of the evidence, she said, he really had to.  She offered me to read the Orders:

“…agreed between the parties hereto that the following declaration be made by consent:

1.      The Applicant and the Respondent are the parents of the child, Daniel…

2.     That there be a declaration pursuant to s.106(1) of the Child Support (Assessment) Act 1989 that NoeleenX was entitled to an administrative assessment of child support for the said Child, payable by ChrisX.

3.     The hearing set down for the 6^th day of August 1997 be dismissed.”

It was true, Chris really had to sign.  I wanted so much to not have to go to court on the 6^th of August and continue pursuing Daniel’s rights.

.

On Cottesloe Beach, our retreat from everyday life, Daniel and me sat wet in our clothes.  I had neglected to bring bathers because I didn’t plan to end up there after court – and neglected to bring a towel and sun hats and a change of clothes.  But there we sat at the water’s edge, the cool ocean and salt cleansing us.

My long black pants were wet and stiff.  Daniel was plopping glugs of sand on my thighs, looking for my attention, my laughter, hugs and love, my animated joy and play.  But I felt troubled and bad inside, that I had done Chris wrong.  He had signed the Consent Orders before the Magistrate could tell him off. Mary gave us each a copy, and we went our own ways.  However, I was left laden with that horrible affliction, the blessing of religion:  guilt.

I knew Chris saw it as a matter of power that I had “won” today.  I had not meant to win anything.  I had only sought cover of Daniel’s rights, with a hopeful side effect of consciousness by Chris before he had future children.  That was ill of my character I knew, but a hope nonetheless.

I knew this would change things.  I could not count on being able to go to work next week because it was now uncertain that Chris would look after Daniel.  I would have to ring him and ask, which I didn’t want to do because I felt so bad – so, so bad.

I looked at the mess of wet sand over my long pants, and at Daniel looking up at me, needing love.  I needed love.  I wanted love.

As I reached to bring Daniel to me, begging an embrace, a wave rushed in and covered us both with froth and foam.  We tumbled backwards.  I gasped. Daniel instinctively struggled back to his feet, and I helped to right him.  A seagull squawked, cutting across our gaze.  The sun twinkled – or was it winked, at us.

 

 

Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

To vote me to win the Big Block Exchange,

please click here.  You can only vote once,

so THANK YOU, those who have.  Here’s hoping!

My closer folk who know I was born on 3 March, know Mum suicided on 5 March.

I made this video in 2010, a little over a year before I tried – I tried so damned hard – to murder my Self.  My son saved my life.

This video says “I didn’t do it“, and urges you to take charge and not be a victim of all you have suffered before this very day that you are there now and reading this.  Then a year later, I did attempt it, and if I were not discovered in time, I would have accomplished it.

How many, then, die but could have been saved?

This video is a bit of a perfect example of both the MANIC of manic-depression (or bipolar as we call it these days) and the endurance of an individual – for strong as my message is, and hard as I tried to remain upright and forward moving, I fell deep, deeper, deeper into darkness, blindness.  I actually worked every day through it too – 9-5, mental mental 9-5…

At this time, I could not even think sufficiently  to know at the core of my heart how my ‘accomplishing’ self-murder would affect my son.  See the little girl on the left of the b/w photograph?  She doesn’t know her Mum’s going to die soon.

My anti-suicide message is strong and urgent.  

I plan to bring this video to light every year in memorial of my Mother (r.i.p.).  I also plan to be more spiritually advanced , personally accomplished, each year that I do.

Life is possible.  

Try something today you have not tried before.  

One year from now, You could be looking back at this – perhaps as you are blogging your own heart out, and You could be knowing (not hoping, wishing) that life can be joy.

Sincerely,

N’n.

Copyright, Noeleen

(Latest Subscribers, in case you don’t yet realise:

My son and me are grown beyond this time I am writing this novel about – this time of when he was infant, and I wrote tearfully in journals as I had no-one to talk to, no-one.  No-one.  We have survived it all, yes, but I write to reach those ‘still there’.   I care truly about you and your child, for you are humans being and this time near killed us, and I don’t want same to kill you.  Life is possible, and it’s better than death [we can do death later]). 

A chapter reading by the author: Chapter Gullible

Woohee!  

My mac is back!  My life is back!

Off track.

My ‘puter had a stack & the guys out the back

didn’t know what

but cleaned out the lot.

Final theory : “May be a corrupt file“.

“Life?”

“File.”

“Phile…”

And flashbacks brought the tear that drove me here

and nothing mattered again but to speak aloud, to yell and beat

upon the hearts with no conscience meter.

Paeda.

Thank you for coming by WordsFallFromMyEyes.  And they have.  Still do.

Below is a video reading, with asides, of the chapter far below.  

The chapter is in print for beautiful people like LadyWithATruck, Carrie, who can’t get video on their contraption.

Long live

life lived love.

~

“Beloved Daniel, my son,

It is near midday.  You’re asleep in your cot.  We had a big morning, including going to the pool where first I put you in the crèche, do laps, then come out and get you and we play together.  In the car on the way home you babbled animatedly with some authority on whatever it is you were on about.  By your tone, as we drove the sunny streets of Perth, you seemed to be giving a dissertation on something which, I have to confess, was completely beyond my comprehension.

…

We then hung the washing and I chased you, giggling, all the way up the path to our door.  When I put you to bed you didn’t want to sleep and cried a bit, because it was so much fun being up with mama.

Anyway, I knew you were tired and visited you three times, calming you, before I didn’t return.  After about two minutes of protest this last time, you’ve finally crashed.” 

.

It was clear the cop was a rookie.  He looked scared in the eyes when I asked why the fuck should I get into his paddy wagon; I hadn’t done anything wrong.  He looked briefly at his partner, who jumped at the opportunity to assert herself and told me in manner of order, “Because you’re under arrest!  Now get in the wagon!”

“What am I under arrest for?  He was ASKING for it!  HE assaulted ME!  How come you’re not arresting HIM?”

With no tolerance for civil questioning, let alone disobedience, the female Officer physically forced me into the rear of the police wagon.  When the lock clunked shut behind me, I was hit by a deluge of claustrophobia.  I didn’t see that coming.

“LET ME OUT!” I screamed with all of the rage and rampant recall of all that was wrong with my life.  I heard the two officers close their doors, and the ignition start. 

“I’m a royal subject of the Queen Mother’s Tongue of England!  LET ME OUT!  LET ME OUT!” I screamed, for continuum.

“The other night your daddy and me took you to the beach playground.  I like the man who is your daddy, but not entirely.  I didn’t feel comfortable with him as I do with others, feeling that we are on a different wavelength.

When we first met he was a blessing to my jaded spirit for we swapped massage giving, and ate well and went to the pictures, but slowly I came to realize an arrogance and a surfaceness and showmanship I don’t like a bit, but yet his spirit I do respect.

We are not enemies, your father and me, and we will together always do good, do our joint best, for you.“

.

The Officers were doing a good job of ignoring me, and the drive was brief before we arrived at the police station. 

When they unlocked the rear of the paddy wagon, I made sure to eye the Officers each with insolence, before duly stepping out, punk boots stomping on the pavement.  The heavy pounding of my feet was near enough to hit the beat, then playing in some dingy basement bar deep in England’s dark night, spiked hairdos of clef-stompers spraying sweat across the concrete walls.

I was led into the police station, the recruit assessor shadowing us, watching all our conduct and ticking boxes addressing The Law.

“A letter came to say the results of DNA tests came through.  We have to see that lady at the Child Support Unit again.  The letter says, ‘Please arrange an appointment to see Ms Soper, when convenient, to arrange to receive your copy of the report.’ 

It annoys me that the doctor didn’t simply give me a copy of the report with the letter he sent.  Why are the people the centre of an action always swept to the perimeter of an action when you involve professionals?  I mean, I am your Mother: I paid half for the tests: I deserve a copy of the results outright.  It’s just annoying.”

.

Waiting in the police station to be processed, I began to feel bored.  I looked at my arresting officers and they seemed to be stuck on some paperwork issue.  Another recruit had joined in their concern and they were fumbling and questioning each other about the “right” thing to do.  The assessor remained in the background, watching them, but I could see irritation alive in his expression.  It was like invisible ants were running all over his face, twitching his muscles.

I looked at other recruits behind the station desk.  They were sort of tripping over each other trying to look busy.  I could see they were all a bit lost.  My job as an actor was to be real, to give them an experience in dealing with the public.  I began to consider:  how many assaulting teens would wait quietly on the bench like I was?  A thought crossed my mind on how to shake things up.  But dare I? 

What I like about being me is that more often than not in life, I dare. 

“I rang your father to ask if he would sign a concession that you are his son, now that the results prove it.  If he did this, it would avoid us going to court, but he would not sign admittance that you are his son.  So we must go to court.  

How can he bother – why does he bother – to string along the inevitable (being ‘made’ to support you) like this?  chris is avoiding financial responsibility of you, just like every other man.  Why he won’t contribute is so purely selfish.

Everyone protects their money.  And yet then he takes me to a Mother’s Day breakfast with his family and girlfriend, openly saying you are his son..?  I do these things occasionally – get together – because I believe it’s important for you to see your mum and dad together.  Things are not perfect in the reality, but I will make well of ill – you’ll see.

The DNA tests prove you are unique.  You are totally unique.  There is no-one else in the world even like you.  You’re just unique.” 

.

Sitting on the bench in the front of the police station, waiting to be processed, I took a few deep breaths, quietly.  I then imagined I had been on drugs that day, and they were wearing off.  I was feeling agitated.  It was time for more drugs.  Time to get out of this shit-hole and get back to my life.  What was I there for, what was I waiting for?  WAITING!  These guys were keeping ME waiting! 

“I could have claimed money from your dad for nine months of pregnancy plus all the way to now but I will not.  I can’t, really, for it is work who supplied you with all those gifts in the baby shower.  I cannot pretend we never received that avalanche of goodwill, and claim I bought them, and claim it as due from your father. It feels too wrong in my heart, and as such, not possible for me to do. 

I am exhausted sometimes.  Other times I feel great.  We have great times together, Daniel.

You walk very fast.  You look very proud and sure. 

I am tired now.  Here are more papers about your life. 

Love, xxx Mama”

 

With my last deep yoga breath I screamed with all the energy I had banked up against the dam, simultaneously standing up, squaring my shoulders and eyeing my arresting officers, “WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR?????”

The whole population of the police station froze.  Even the other actors on the bench, after jolting, looked up at me in horror – and froze.  I was afraid of what effect I had had, but I could not back out now.

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR????”

I screamed again, intoning demand that the officers answer me.

“I’VE GOT A LIFE, YA KNOW.  I GOT THINGS TA DO PEOPLE TA SEE! 

AN YOU GOT ME JUST SITTING HERE LIKE A

FUCKING DUCK

WAITING TO BE SHOT DOWN BY YOUR FUCKING PAPER PLANES!”

No-one knew what to do.  Even I didn’t know what to do.  I wouldn’t make a run for it, because I wasn’t sure if anyone really would.  It would just complicate things for them when they were finally caught.

The assessor was the first to move.  I was enormously relieved.

“Go on!  That’s a fair question!” he barked at his recruits.  “Why is she waiting?  You’re standing there debating over Form A or Form B and you’ve got a live one on the bench there ready to do God knows what!  Get her into the cells!  Now!”

The male Officer jumped into action, practically dived over the counter, and took me by the wrist to the recruits at another desk, ink pads at the ready, forms in order.  They with command told me how to present my thumb, roll it without pressing too hard, inside the square – not smart-arsed on the line of the square, guiding me.  I mumbled a bit under my breath during the process, while the rest of the recruits recovered their senses and everyone was suddenly genuinely busy keeping law and order there in the little cubicle at Maylands Police Academy, Western Australia.

.

Life appeared to be going well.  I was fully enjoying my casual working hours, Chris seemed to be maintaining his responsibility as Daniel’s other parent/carer, and Daniel seemed well when I collected him alternatively from Chris or from his sister Karen.

Daniel’s aunty, Karen, gave me written reports of Daniel’s food intake and bowel movements.  I found this sweet, going the extra yard.

“12.30pm Poo

1:00pm Sleep

2.30pm Pea and potato and pork meant porrich one bowl”

I noticed she headed the page with Daniel’s first name but his father’s last name.  It appeared either Aunty Karen did not accept Daniel was born into my name, or Chris had maintained his charade that he and I were married and Daniel was our beloved son, together.  I thought this was a charade Chris wanted to present only on that first day we together met his family when Daniel was newborn.  I had told him on that day I could not answer the question “Are you Chris’ wife?” dishonestly, so no-one better ask me (despite his earnestness I say we are married).  I don’t know why, I thought it was a convenience to Chris he lent to that day.  I did not imagine he would carry it into the future.

I was conscious that when Chris – for instance, on Mother’s Day – was seated at yum cha with Tracy his mistress on one side and me his… what did he call me?… on the other side, that he must look so well set, in his family’s eyes.  Yet, I attended these occasions so Daniel could hear his father’s tongue amongst his family, be amongst his kin, and see his father and me not in argument but accordance.  We were after all the leaders of his life.  We were the beacons lighting Daniel’s way.

Within, however, remained an unsettling.  Was I, allowing Chris to present in “his” world this illusion of prosperity, as fool I thought Tracy to be, allowing Chris to meander through various women’s lives and most intimate walls while he remained “promised” to her?

 

 Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

but thanks Etsy the clef pic 

& thanks especial to

Des Hicowe’s student film ‘Mere Mortals‘

- for the  aside shots I’ve aired,

which lent comment to where I was at

upon a time,

once.

Another Asian person sat next to me on the bus. Now people probably think he’s my dad.

So said Rebelspy on First-World Problems, when I checked the web to see what other awful, so awful first-world problems people are suffering out there.  For alas, Subbers, my mac is STILL in the repair shop – since Wednesday lunch time:  can you believe this?  HOW is one meant to write a novel?   What, with a fountain pen??!    !??       No, see, my problem here is that the novel is in the mac and I reread where I last left us, to walk the next steps up the path in recall/emotional recoil. 

.

I wanted to let Rebelspy and the first-world problem share launchpad know I’ve quoted them, but they’re on the Tumble-thing and I couldn’t leave comment (trying to avoid the T word being hyperlinked here, for MY newfound first-world problem is Big Bro hyperlinking what I scribe, to point to her advertising foundations out there).

.

Bollocks

…which reminds me:  thanks Johnny for your  email with linked suggestions on how to fix my mac.   I forwarded it to the repair guys (deleting identifiers). They had an open mind, and I appreciate that – they said they’d read what you suggested.

“I want to enjoy my beer in the garden, but the wifi doesn’t work out there.”

First-world proflem sufferer LoveIsEveryone (no link available)

.

So I read that problem of Rebelspy’s and thought, ‘Oh mercy, I hope my son Daniel has never “SUFFERED” such a thing – Asian dude sitting next to him on the bus and people thinking the dude is his dad’ ‘!!!   - for as you know, Daniel is Polish-Irish, Indonesian-Chinese Australian. 

Tha, in turn reminded me of – which I think I may have expressed in my draft(?) – when Daniel’s father thought to reassure me, “Don’t worry; Daniel will look more like you as he gets older.”   I was stupefied by Chris’ comment, completely did not comprehend where he was coming from, and it only served to demonstrate – again – he did not know the person with whom he had lain, sweat over and come upon, his lifetime.  

I do not need my child to look like me, think like me or be like me for me to love him, let alone respect and see with what wonder I do, the individual that he is.

.

So not having the mac which holds my novel, alongside a comment by Willow and others, some in sympathy, butwhich sympathy had me realise how ridiculous is my ”problem – all that inspired the first-world problem theme of this post/update

.

I took out my detachable hard drive to see how much of the novel I had saved , and got to reading my old diaries – my earlier life as a teen, hiding under my bed as my father stomps into my room, or writing under a tree in Wattle Park, writing my heart out as I had no-one to turn to in my existence, writing thoughts dark,  including thoughts of that girl, a year or two up, who was raped…

Excerpt from my teen diary:

“We were locked in gaze, I don’t know for how long, when Zorran made a move. I could not have escaped if I wanted to,  for I was held entirely by the energy of the moment, was hooked on the life of it.

As Zorran approached me, I watched in awe the advance of man.

My eyes never left him as he tread the bridge of our energy, across the room.

Zorran then knelt before me, placed a hand on each of my knees, and slowly opened them. I resisted at first, I guess by reflex, but then surrendered as he opened them wide, so very wide. My legs open to receive Zorran into their fold, he crept forward, and soon he was before me, eyes directly before me, energy and body 100% before me.

I was wholly, wholly taken.“

Doh! Soz (as my son would txt) – wrong moment in my teen diary…

” ‘You’re not going through Wattle Park now, are you?” Kathy’s mother asks, and I have learned to say no, of course not to the seemingly caring adults, but Wattle Park is just outside Kathy’s door and it doesn’t make sense to walk around it.

I feel the nervousness returning and feel in a rush to get “home” so as to lie in bed under the musty blankets with the stray cat. I hope with all my heart that dad and his rage will bypass me tonight, going straight to the RSL.

A girl 2 years up from my class was raped in Wattle Park by a man known as the Silver Gun Rapist.  I wonder how often she walked through the park because I walk it twice a day.  I feel he should have chosen me, but have mixed feelings about that. I just want someone to handle me, that’s all, someone to touch, to want me desperately, because all I can see is my father’s foaming loth of me, and no-one ever touches me.   Yet they say that rapists don’t care about their victim; they just rip them from their path, destroy them, leave them for dead. I know I am wrong in this brief deluded fantasy, know that the rapist does not want you – he hates you, and that would just mean two men hating me instead of just one.

When I look at that girl’s eyes now, although everyone’s trying not to stare, I know that rapist took something which cannot be restored and I feel such immense anger that I choke in rage, silent though it is, sitting still as I am on the outskirts of the playground.

I want to cut his dick off, look him in the eyes, say, ‘How the fuck dare you change this girl’s whole outlook, how the fuck dare you alter her so’.   I am so enraged on her behalf and she has no idea because she just looks away from me, another person staring, trying not to stare.

When I get to our place it is dark.  I put my hand through the broken glass at the front, unlatch the window, climb through. I  stand in the darkness, moonlight on the scabby old furniture, all quiet but the hum of the fridge.“

.

Those were the yesterdays of my life, the years which brought me to this moment; the times alone, wagging school and writing under a tree in Wattle Park, or visiting my sister in the locked ward at Willismere Mental Hospital… to face teachers the next day and their irritation, sigh, that ‘Noeleen has missed MORE classes’ and she just may not remember – on the occasion in my life it becomes essential to recall – that the Battle of Hastings happened in 1066.

“I cant find the right balance between my fan and my electric blanket.”

First-world problem victim ConnorMackenzie

.

How irrelevant school was to me, when I needed more to speak through my pen, to be unhassled by humans/alone, to try not to contemplate suicide so habitually.   So, so bad I willed to die – right up until 2011 when I finally in a fit faced that fantasy, and nearly succeeded…thrice.

.

Subbers, by way of update:   today Saturday has dawned no opoortunity with my mac, therefore secret and stolen moments on my son’s desktop.  But obviously, first-world problems and ”suffer” them I may, I will survive..

I count my blessings, even the most simple basic one of all:  I no longer will to die.

.

The novel will continue upon return of my mac, but in the meantime I wish you all so well, sun, prosperity of heart and life. 

Whatever the problem is you’re experiencing today, or these days:  all storms pass, as you know, but not before you pass through them.  I wish you wellness to weather whatever storms are in your life right now.

*** Hope you all have an AWESOME day  

(I would say ‘life’, but that sounds like we’re breaking up…) ***

.

And for your viewing pleasure (ha ha – don’t you just love my sense of humour?) a wee video I did upon a time, once, a few years ago..

Copyright, Noeleen

Wait for Me

aside…

They say socially, “How was your weekend?“

How to say…

You just want more money$

The moment lulled, our cheer subsided. 

Standing in Tracy’s front foyer, my backpack slung over my shoulder and Daniel in my arms, it was obvious I should now leave.

“Um Chris,” I ventured.

“Yeah.”

Why did I feel a need to be gentle with this man, to coerce this man, to “bring him around” to the idea of supporting his son’s wellbeing by keeping Daniel’s care within the family?  It was strange.  I could not be normal with Chris, I always had to “deal with” Chris.

“I’ve got – ahem (I cleared my throat).  I’ve got some work coming up.”

“What work?”

“Acting work!”

“Yeah yeah, an actor.”

“Yes.  Well, the thing is, it’s three days one week then four days the next week.”

“So you want me to look after the baby.”

I looked at Tracy, standing alongside Chris.  I wondered what she thought.  Was caring for her boyfriend’s child troublesome to her?  Did she indulge in the utter beauty of Daniel’s buoyant spirit, or did she resent each swipe of shit, changing his nappies.  Did she have giggles with Daniel, or was Daniel a hassle to her?  Tracy was a parent single who did not have paid work, so her days were open.  Was she an energetic person, or a lazy person?

“I can’t promise nothing,” Chris said.  That was no surprise.

“But, do you think – do you think it’s a possibility?”

“Why don’t you just put him in daycare?”

“I can, of course I can, but the cost of placing him in care causes, in effect, that I work for extremely low wage.  To receive the most of the wage handed to me, it would be best to have family support.  I mean, you’re not my family – but the other parent’s support.”

Tracy and Chris looked at each other.  I could read neither of their faces.  Phong, I could hear in the background in his bedroom, got up from what sounded like a bean bag, changed a game in his Xbox or whatever he had, and sat back down again.  Punching, kicking and excitable music played.

“I try, we see.”

“It would be in two weeks time,” I said.

“Oh, not yet?”

“No.  The thing is, it could be ongoing work.  That’s the best thing.  The agency have a contract with this… place.  I could get work forever through them!”

“Regular work?”

“Well, if they like me, yes.  For this whole year, I would get work for a few weeks, break a week or two, and work for a few weeks.   Never five days – just one to four days in any week.”

“You see:  you don’t need child support.  You just want more money.”

This threw me completely.  It must have been forefront of Chris’ mind.

“Chris,” I said gently, “I don’t want ‘more money’.  I want to earn sufficient to afford Daniel’s life and, with the support of you, the father, to even afford him prosperity in life.”

“The government give you money too.  You’re lucky in Australia.”

I was riled, deeply.  I had worked during my school years – paid for my books in the final year, and I had worked nonstop after that – well, basically nonstop.  I constantly left jobs when I could cope no more, go underground, survive a depression, and come out acting smiles and confidence to win another job.  But I had worked “forever” and now, because I had a child whose father was denying parenthood in the justice system, I was brought to accept government money.

“The government gives me less money if I work.  The government only keeps me – your son – on the bread line.  Because I don’t want to raise Daniel poorly, to afford Daniel great experiences – excursions, a good home, quality food – I –“

“Yeah yeah, you want more money.”

I was being baited horribly.  This was a mindset of Chris’ which was abhorrent to me:  that others – the government, and secondly me – are financially responsible for Daniel…anyone but him.

“Don’t you want Daniel raised in prosperous circumstances?”

Tracey was completely silent.  I absolutely knew Phong could hear us.  Chris threw back his head and laughed fully at me.  He opened the door.

“Chris?!” I said, taking a step toward the flywire, obviously not welcome any more.  

“Chris, I need to know so that I can plan.”

I felt anxiety inside, felt as if I need to preserve Chris’ good temper.  I felt I needed to negotiate this man, pander to his clear self belief that his job was number one (it was, after all, going to make him ‘rich and famous’ one day).  My job could be useful as it would cause him to (have to) pay less money to Daniel, but my job was not useful as it was asking support from him.

“I think about it” he said, as we stepped onto his patio.

I would not beg.  I would state my request.  I would leave and find another way without his support.  And if I could not find a way, then simply I would not take the opportunity for work – an opportunity to work in what I really enjoy, an opportunity to get a name in what I really enjoy and future work by it.  I wanted to cry at the wrongness, and desperation, I felt in this moment.  But I would not beg, I would not beg.

I had to put Daniel down, so I could slip my shoes on, which were at Tracy’s front door.

“I need to know pretty soon,” I said to Chris, tying up my runners.

“When?”

“As soon as possible.  I start in two weeks – the Wednesday.”

“I see what I can do.”

I guessed he wanted to speak about it with Tracy.  I had to respect that.  I just hoped he wouldn’t take long.

“Thanks for having Daniel” I said, straightening up and slinging my backback over my other shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tracy said.  She never said much.

“And you’ll let me know as soon as possible, Chris?”

“Yeah yeah, I tell you soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” I said, and walked down Tracy’s path.  As I opened the gate, I turned for a last goodbye, but they were gone.

That was Chris.  

 

Copyright Noeleen&

Daniel 50

/50

Inspector

Daniel’s joy was palpable when I entered Tracy’s home to collect him. 

Like a swan dives from above, glides elegantly upon a lake to a still; so Daniel ran into my arms and stilled as I smelled his washed baby hair, silken.  

 

 

 

In that moment, was re-engraved into both of our hearts our bond by love.

 

.

“How was he, Chris?  What did you do?”

It wasn’t as if Daniel had never stayed overnight with Chris before – he had in fact slept over only days before the court date when Chris told the Magistrate Daniel is not his son, in avoidance of financial duty. 

It was just that I wanted to feel sure before I asked Daniel’s father would he accept more charge of his son over two weeks, to enable me to work.  And if Chris accepted more responsibility temporarily – perhaps he may even further, if I got more jobs as an actor – for the contracts at the Police Academy were ongoing, my agent had said.

It was an exciting thought:  a father, as well as a mother, seeing to the needs  of their child; both parents – not just one – surrendering furtherance of their careers for furtherance of their own blood; man, as well as woman, caring hands-on.

.

I was possibly guilty of cynicsm, but my father had not raised me to expect much from men.  Consequently I presented in life with not only low boundaries, but also low expectation of the capacity of men to live with honour – of family at the very least – with sincerity, loyalty, support of woman the bearer of child.

“Single mothers…” hiss, sneer and disdain at some news item on the TV.

Dad never spoke of Mum with gentleness, only ever said somehow bitingly that she was a stunner, every man in the room turned to look at her when she walked in.

.

He didn’t quite say that single mothers were the reason for high taxes, waste of government resources, crying babies on trains, the cost of booze, vandalism, the ill manners of sullen youth idling about street corners, all the teen girls with their taut tits, his boner at the hint of womanly flesh when mothers breastfed in public, exposing nothing but love, his lack of “success” with western women – “Australian women are too difficult”,  he explained is why he obtained a Filipina from a magazine after his emotionally scarred Polish refugee wife suicided. 

But you knew that’s what dad meant when he spoke of all of those issues with his mates, and with his brothers our uncles.

“And she drank – yer mother drank”, dad had said not less than a billion times, slugging back the dark spirit, in case – just in case any of us should end up an alcoholic.

I did not know it then but would realize in later years by wisdom, the gift of experience, that as I presented in life, as I expected:  so I received.

~

“We call him Inspector!” Chris smiled, coming toward us.

“What?”

Him and Tracy laughed.

“Yeah.  The Godfather, everyone at Good-One Restaurant, they laugh at him and call him inspector!”

My quizzical look brought explanation from Chris.  “He walk so tall and proud, he march around like he own the place!”

I could not help but laugh with them. 

Yes, that was our Daniel:  tall and proud:  possessor of all the potential in the world.

 

.

.

Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel

                    50/50

Trust?

The first time I left Daniel with Chris and Tracy overnight, I felt I was betraying Daniel by leaving him with them.

.

I sat and spoke with Tracy and Chris for a few polite minutes, but when I picked up my bag to leave, Daniel hastened to come with me.  I squatted down to be eye level with him, and say face to face that I would be back the next day, but that evening he would be hanging out with Chris and Tracy.

“Mama”, Daniel said, gesturing to come with me.

“Let him be”, Chris said brusquely.  “You walk away, he get used to.”

“Come on Daniel”, Tracy said kindly, “Let’s go see what Phong’s doing.”

.

Tracy’s son Phong had made no effort to be polite during my visit, only presenting when Chris demanded him to, to say hello.  He then returned to his room to do I did not know what.  Daniel looked up at me – should he go with Tracy to Phong?  His whole being was at the mercy of me, an adult:  my adult decisions, soul’s leaning, capability of parenting.

Yet I did not feel like an adult.  Adult women say “NO” to men (and men abide their will); grown women say, “No, I paid for a fresh pie, not a stale one you’ve been keeping aside to score a few dollars off a sucker like me”; women progressed are not afraid to embrace their whole, beautiful, intelligent selves – wouldn’t dream of dousing their spirits in alcohol to slur their rhyme and wit, render it untimed and ill-placed; or dream of eating litres of ice cream, chocolate, biscuits, chips so as to hide behind soft rolls of fat and not even attract an opportunity to say “NO” to men.  I felt not adult at all.  

In fact, having never been to counseling – through Mum’s suicide, the orphanage, my torturous years with dad, when Deana splintered schizophrenic and I spent days in the mental hospital in company with her, when I left my marriage or when I discovered pregnancy…really, I felt a ruin of my childhood.

.

I looked at my sweet boy who was fine going to child care and the pool crèche, and always received me back, smiling, and wondered why I felt so much anxiety about leaving him with Chris.  First years of life, so preciously important, shape the life, I had heard.

I suddenly recalled the first lines of prose I’d once coughed up some rainy day:

Somebody kicked the jigsaw when I was 6 years old.  Mum died then and the pieces went flying around my psyche.

I stared, stunned as my father the raving adult expressed through wretched red eyes, contorted wet skinny face, white froth foaming from his mouth, and spittle raining on my parade, my joy.

I didn’t pick up the scattered pieces of my psyche, just sat odd-legged and staring at the wall, my father’s voice a punctured wolve’s howl in the background.

Suddenly, near dusk, relative adults flooded into the room, praying, picking up errant bits of the scattered jigsaw-was-me, and stuffing them back into my head.  The caring adults shoved the pieces where they thought they should go – back in my gut, through my ears to equilibrium, down my throat for we “don’t want to talk about that”.  And they shoved those pieces sorrow through my eyes so hard that they forced the tears back into my heart.

.

“Yeah, yeah go with Tracy”, Chris said.  Daniel looked at his father.

“Phong might play with you”, I spoke to Daniel’s uncertainty.  “Do you think?”  I looked up at Tracy.

“Phong!” she called. 

He begrudgingly appeared.

.

I really wondered the story of Phong, and wondered if Chris had taken him on like a son or like an irritation.  I wondered how many times Phong had seen his mother beaten by his father before their escape, and wondered how he felt inside.  I didn’t want to impose Daniel upon him.  In one way I thought Daniel could be delightful distraction to Phong, and in another way I feared Phong might view Daniel with jealousy – for now not only did Chris take his mother’s time and love – but would Daniel too?

“It’s okay”, I said to Chris, and then looked at Tracy.  “Hi Phong!” I smiled.  “You don’t have to play with Daniel!”  My words deflected off his solemn mien, spun into tiny Chinese daggers and flew right back in my face.  I blinked, stood up.  “It’s fine, Chris, Tracy – really it is.”

“You go!” Chris barked at me.  “You make it too hard.  I told you, you bring him up a mother’s boy!”

I’m sure Daniel didn’t comprehend Chris’ words, but Chris’ manner caused him to flinch and edge closer to the safety of me.  “Chris”, I said, “It’s just that I don’t want you to make Phong play with Daniel if he doesn’t want to.”  Chris strode past me and opened Tracy’s front door.

“It all right”, he said.  “He do what I say.  Go.  You go now.”

I didn’t want to end things so uncomfortably and bent down to Daniel again.

“It’s fine, sweet heart.  I will see you tomorrow, when I pick you up.  You’ll be doing things with Chris and Tracy tonight!”  I gave Daniel an enormous kiss and hug, which clearly irritated Chris for the time it took, and left Tracy non-plussed with a look on her face as if I was over-indulging my son.  Phong turned and returned to his room.

“He fine, he fine”, Chris said.  “You soft, soft.”  As I passed Tracey’s threshold and Chris closed the door behind me, I gulped back an emotion, with a stammering reply chaser.

.

As I got into my Holden Torana, I wondered why I felt so much uncertainty, emotion and anxiety.  Surely it was normal, wasn’t it, that two parents have time with their child?  Chris wanted time with Daniel – that was a good sign from a father, wasn’t it?  I turned over the engine.  I looked up at Tracy’s house.  No faces were peering out any windows.   I was forgotten.  I put my car into gear, and drove off.

.

It was somewhere between the entrance to the freeway and my approach of the University of Western Australia that it became clearly obvious to me why I was uncomfortable leaving Chris with Daniel:  because I did not know Chris.  And I did not know Tracy.  And I did not know Phong.  Yet, as Chris is a father interested in overnight stays with his son, I am meant to trust that, in like tune, he is interested in his son’s wellbeing (?).

I had to trust.  Though I had been so betrayed in childhood, I had to learn trust. 

Yet, I did not know Chris other than “both my parents are dead” and, as to why he had each a Buddha, Jesus Christ and Princess Diana on his altar? – that crazy conversation we’d had where I came out still not knowing him deeply.  In our three months of togetherness, he seemed to deflect my reaches to touch him.  Yet he fucked me bluntly –  “Imagine how we’ll fuck when I’m rich and famous”.  

.

Chris clearly preferred neither to hold nor to grasp a woman, but to let them many slip through his fingers like a string of pearls shimmer after shimmy, after droplet of beauty.  Would he ever stop at one with love, I wondered, or let them flow through his fingers like prayer beads counting to his dying day?
~
~
Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

The One Called Out

By April the 6^th, the year following Daniel’s birth, his feet had become big enough for shoes.    Our excursion to the supermarket to buy his first pair, was momentous.

.

Had truly my own feet once been so little that not a shoe in the world fit them?  Had truly I once been so keen and proud as Daniel, holding the shopping bag containing his first pair of sandals, walking alongside the pram up Stirling Highway, Cottesloe with the all the posture of a dog carrying a thick, roasted thigh bone?

.

I decided on impulse to stop in at the park just before our apartment block, with the hope that Daniel would expend sufficient energy to drop to sleep when we got home.   Necessary as it was for the young to have boundless energy by which to force through their sprouting inquiring minds, burgeoning personalities, budding grasp of life, it seemed a rotten misalignment of energies that just as I was fatiguing of my existence, a sprite should appear on my calendar, to announce itself into my life, to challenge my attempted surrender to the commonality of non-accomplishment.

.

Daniel’s eyes sparkled as we turned the corner toward the playground and he ran ahead to not miss a millisecond of opportunity to play.  I had to call him back and temper him, as he began to ascend the rungs of the ladder to the enormous slide, still holding the bag with his new sandals in it.  How it could not cross his mind that there was danger in climbing some 12 rungs alone, I did not understand.  The only instinct of danger I had ever witnessed in his little being was the first time we were atop the slide and he clung to my thigh as I positioned myself to seated.  For just one moment while I was not sturdily behind him, fear betrayed his spirit; but which innate wisdom lapsed to abandonment as we whizzed down the slippery incline.

.

Daniel obediently, but impatiently, doubled back to watch me settle our belongings under a tree.  He allowed me to steal the bag with sandals from his possession, on the understanding I would nestle that proof he was growing up safely beneath his blanket with the other valuables – my purse and keys.

.

I joined Daniel as he ran to the foot of the slide and stood watch as he scaled the structure with all the confidence of a lemming off a cliff.  When he had made his way to the top, I stood ready to catch him should he fall, until he sat and allowed gravity to pull him pink feet first down to the ground.  With giggles erupting abundantly like champagne on new year’s eve, he ran to the back of the slide to climb it again.

.

There were other kids at the slide, and I had to teach Daniel to wait his turn, during which it did not escape my notice that the two other babes about Daniel’s age were each under heavy guard of doting parents.  I felt overwhelmingly that the other parents were viewing me in their peripheral with horror at my carelessness.  I did not think I was careless, but conceded I was perhaps daring with Daniel.  However, we had been down the slide together often before and he was ready to go it alone.  I felt, perhaps dumbly, that if he believed he could go it alone, I should at least allow him to try.

.

Despite my logic, albeit of timorous conviction, I felt inferior to the other parents who were playing with their children so much more carefully.  As Daniel made climb after slide after run back to the ladder, an anxiety began to creep over me.  While on the surface I exclaimed approval and encouragement to Daniel, I began to need urgently to go home – to no longer be under the covert stares of perfect parents.

.

Over time, as Daniel tirelessly repeated his excursion, I began to wonder how I could end it.  I as his mother should be of such authority that he ceases fun at my command, and come.   I did not usually have difficulty with him, but as I grilled hotter and hotter in the company of mothers who had girl friends in support, or their own mothers – and one seemed to be there with her father – I began to panic that Daniel would cause a scene, thus cementing the evidence of my flawed parenting.  It was all of the reason I had not joined a mothers’ club – so that my inability to be a sound parent could not be witnessed, judged, whispered of behind my back, looked down upon, reproached in thoughts, agreed upon by the other mothers… also to not be rejected from the group, excluded as of not good standing in our positions of mother and child.

The anxiety went from nibbling at my toes to running all over my body like fire ants biting me at every doubt, fear, perception of inferiority.

“Daniel!” I suddenly said as he stood behind a little boy making his way up the ladder.  Daniel, together with the other kids in line, turned to look at me with surprise.

“Daniel, it’s time to go.”  I said it as if acting, as if I was acting as a mother.  “You can have this slide, and then two more, and then we have to go.”

.

The other children looked from my face to Daniel’s, to see how The One Called Out would react.  Such a call from a parent can often preface a tantrum, or resistance of some kind which can be interesting to watch – mouths agape, some dribbling, eyes wide at the entertainment.  Daniel’s eyes flickered with comprehension at what I’d said, and then turned back to the slide.  He made his way up the ladder surely as a fireman, slid down, and rushed back to where I stood, two other children now in line.

“That was really fast!” I said, cheerfully.  “Two more, and we go!’

Daniel didn’t respond, just waited in line, and I flitted a quick look at a mother gently pushing her child on the swing.  She wasn’t looking at me, but I was sure she could hear me.  I was sure she was ready to watch me dragging a screaming Daniel from the playground, kicking, red-faced.  I had never had to drag Daniel screaming from any place – he was an extraordinarily wonderfully behaved boy – but that mattered nothing against my fear of being a spectacle of an incompetent parent.

.

When finally Daniel had his last slide, as he ran to the back of the line, I turned and said, “Three!  OK!  Time to go now!”  He ceased his stride and looked at me.  For one second I saw indecision on Daniel’s face, into the very centre of which I fired my only ammunition:  “We’ve got to get home so you can wear your new sandals!”

.

As one boy clambered up the ladder, his turn to slide disintegrating the interest value of Daniel and me, or potential thereof, a little girl stepped forward, her head turned to accommodate a fixated stare at us both.  I looked at her and said, “He got his first pair of shoes today – sandals!” with a big smile on my face.  Daniel took a couple of steps towards me.  “I see your feet are big enough for sandals,” I said to the little girl, and she looked down at her feet that were, indeed, big enough for sandals.  Daniel looked at them too.

“Well, now Daniel is all grown up, he’s able to wear sandals too.”

At these words, Daniel had closed the gap between us.  I turned toward our pram, waving to the little girl.  “Bye!” I said.  The girl said nothing.  They seldom do, which is one of the reasons I don’t really get on with children.  The only way I know how to be with children is animated and smiley.  I think that is how you have to relate to children (or you fail to relate).

.

But for the times I have wept in Daniel’s company, unable to hold on any longer, waiting for him to fall asleep before I allow my secret of deep sadness its necessary expression – but for those times, I am usually overly jolly, sort of hyper-happy.  I just don’t know any other way to be, but facade.

.

We successfully departed the park without any scene, and although I would never see any of those other mothers again, I was relieved that blessed Daniel was of such manageable temperament.  I had felt grateful again and again and again since his birth, all the while fearing what I had heard called ‘the terrible twos’.  I didn’t know what I would do then, but bear it.  Of so, so much in life we have no choice but to grit our teeth and bear it – and of that, I was well practiced.

.

When finally Daniel’s energy conceded it needed rejuvenation – but only on its terms; i.e. by way of a 40 minute nap, as it turned out, I wrote in my journal:

Today your feet became big enough to wear sandals and you walked around and around and around.

I tried to instil pride in you by patting your cheeks, your shoulders, smiling and comparing the sandals on our feet. 

“Now you have sandals, just like Mama.”

Yes, you were proud.

I love you.  xxxN

                          MAMA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

 

Christmas in the Alternative

(A MOMENT ASIDE)

Christmas yes is joyous, and I love all that cheer and well-wishing

- and I mean it all, I do; and appreciate it all, I do -

yet it always occurs to me…

that other Christmas, for those others:

Christmas in the alternative.

~

Before 2012 disintegrates in time and we go about our ways on this planet,

I sought to pause in thought,

and share that thought,

for those

whose life at now

bore

Christmas in the alternative.

~

Flotsam and jetsam, this life

“15/2

I think I myself am growing too.  I realize so many of my thoughts about your father were based in fear and a faith in men that has fallen and soured through experiences.  I seek, my Daniel, from the inside out…”

 

Another day crept to light around me as I lay in bed.  Having done no more than open my eyes, I felt so fatigued.

Existence seemed to require so much energy – or was it that I complicated my existence by excessive thought which, really, drew my energy. 

A tea bag, I am, and daily is drawn to the weakest sip, all my energy.  What sip is left is mine.  What energy I’ve spent is surrendered.

I looked across at Daniel in his cot.  Overwhelming, was the weight of knowing I had to, alone, lead his days to adulthood.  And then let go.  No-one had led me to adulthood.  I was but tumbleweed through teen years, drifting through a lonely town my heart.  I walked so many miles, so many, and never got anywhere. I always returned to my father’s household where tumbling about his feet I willed to be noticed, but too often was caught up in his tread where I innocently irritated him by my existence:  its needs.  He bet, he drank, he absented himself.  And I learned.

I learned mostly by watching Deana’s need of our father, before her schizophrenia raised their ugly head – let alone after.  And I watched our father’s rejection of her.  And I decided, like a slow dawning on the daft, that it was better to not need my father’s love like Deana desperately did, and be rejected.  If I did not need dad’s love, I could not be spurned.

.

“She said I wore my heart on my sleeve,” dad said of Mum.  I never knew what was wrong with that.  A heart would be beautiful on a sleeve, rather than locked in a chamber.

.

So the six year old girl in summer’s dress two days after her birthday when her mother jumped ship, who gravitated toward the only adult left standing in our ragged household, let go of her daddy’s hand and decided she did not need his love.  The six year old verging 16, that is.  And when I had done squeezing my pimples and slugging vodka, I viewed the great depth I saw in my eyes in the mirror – stared into them.  I just stared. 

And then I glazed over.

And so established was the pattern that I did not need men to care for me, to maul me.  To be mauled was sufficient – it was better than being ignored.  And being mauled by men was wonderful, for their sweat and hastening of breath and trembling with the difficulty of undoing their belt:  it all was delicious to me, and it was not uncommon for me to wear a man for a day when I’d left the marriage and was working as a Court Reporter.  Sticky it may be, but the warmth of the human body creates a moist pleasure of the senses that, ever ruefully, I washed off at the end of the day.

No, men did not did not need to love me or anything fairytale like that because I didn’t need their love to justify our sex.   Because have no boundaries, and no boundaries can be crossed, right?

Laugh.

We can reason any dictum.  We are all escape artists, of a degree.

~

~

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

And so the day began

With Daniel’s first birthday destined to evapourate in Time, as our lives all do – near to extinguished by present moments which will take precedence in his days to come; a vaporous memory drifting ghost-like through the pathways of his recall, it will be – I was glad I had captured on video, what I did.

.

Making myself a coffee in the precious peace of my bub sleeping soundly, and contentedly, I prepared toast and thought, staring through my kitchen window, how good life could sometimes be – could always be?

All it took, it seemed, was to choose good people to share the realm of your existence, and your memories would be light like white – not murky slime of molten scars.

I was a bit amazed that I had pulled together so many people for Daniel’s birthday. None of them were close friends. None were people I could collapse in the direction of and know they would catch me. None I saw with any kind of regularity. But they were in our lives to some degree, and while I often left the phone off the hook and took a long time to respond to notes on my door, I reflected as I snapped off the kettle before it could whistle Daniel awake: at least they were good people, not harmful.

With all the people who dropped in and paused within our realm of existence, I felt no uncertainty about Daniel and my wellbeing alongside, but one. Having had a brief relationship with Chris and discovered our souls roamed different levels of consciousness – this was fine, because I could walk away. But four months after turning my back on someone I felt lacked a depth I could dive into, I was made aware his child lay within my womb. After considering adopting out, for fear; when I decided to keep the young being, they had grown two months more substantial. I could not, in accord with the nature of my heart, deny a father at least the opportunity of knowing their child.

And I could not, in my daft naivety, have known Chris was a man who would father several children by several mothers in the years to come, and be father to none.

~

With my coffee and toast at my writing desk, I sat facing the large window which presented the tiny back garden as an animated picture within which a bird chirruped, balanced on a branch, and Pathos the cat snuck in to threaten silently, hunched under cover of bushes and grasses so variously green there was not enough English words to describe them. I picked up my pen, and wrote in my journal to Daniel.

The bird warbled in the background, my memory of Daniel’s giggles the night before trilled in the foreground.

I flowed with capture of our lives, my pen speaking my mind for me as my soul daydreamed in the garden, smelling the purple spray of flowers – this side of summer, straining to remain alive with such vivid violet vigour – floating past the bird, in energy. Free, in life, my soul wafted about the back garden, taking leave of my body hunched over the journal at my writing desk and I looked in on me, from outside the garden; saw myself, was with myself. And I was one.

Time, as is wont to do, escaped me, and just as I wrote,

“And now, Chinese New Year, your father gives us a red envelope with $20 in it. So generous this, it seems. He gave us money for a babysitter this week because he couldn’t look after you. It’s thoughtful and generous and I appreciated it so, and yet he does those other odd things. I can’t figure him at times, and so it is no wonder I don’t balance into a relationship with him”

- as I lay those words down in history, I heard Daniel escape the railing which once kept him safe from his own abundant energy, heard his little feet hit the ground and his 1 year and 1 day old being grunt-sigh before he made his way – oh so independently – to the writing desk in our lounge.

.

I quickly finished my capture of our lives – “Love you, my son x N” – and turned just in time to find Daniel at my feet, looking up at me both expectantly and curiously. What had Mother been doing without him? What does she do, alone?

.

I looked at the clock. It was 8:12 am. For the next 15 hours I would feed, bathe, clothe, entertain, teach and show Daniel, even by nuance of my interaction with the world, a way to be.

I did not exist ideally, my self esteem petrified white ash with fear to express the needs of me, boundaries and will of me, but it was “a” way. And for that time, it was the only way I could be. To ‘be’ other than you ‘are’ is never possible for long.

Being as I was, brought me much pain. I wanted to know another way, to pave a new way inside myself if I could find the right tools, but I just didn’t have them – did I? – and I didn’t know how to.

.

Our eyes locked momentarily as his gaze sought who I was without him, when I was alone. He suddenly spurted forth a verbal stream of gush and lilt. Again, I didn’t know what he was saying, but just loved the sound of him. I was sure he was learning my intonations for he seemed so very expressive. The newness of his voice on this Earth was a joy to hear.

I picked Daniel up and placed him on my lap for a hug. His sticky hand, reaching out as I raised him, almost tore a page from my journal. I closed it and pushed it toward the window, catching sight of my reflection. I looked for a moment, then down at the wooden desk.

My soul returned from outside in the garden, to me. When I brought my eyes to meet the sparkle in the eyes of my son before me, I could no longer see my reflection in the window. I looked beyond Daniel, puzzled. There was no reflection at all. How odd. I was sure I’d seen my reflection in that window – had seen my eyes meet me, for a flash.

And so the day began.

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50.