I took Dad’s old mower and drove it over to the cottage we’re renovating. The grass had been let go (by me) and I was surprised the neighbours hadn’t complained. Within two minutes of beginning the mowing, I was literally bathed in sweat. Over the years I’ve been Jeff’s labourer on any number of back-breaking tasks (my personal favourite being a four-day fence-removing marathon in forty-degree heat) but I can say, categorically, that pushing that stupid mower over flat ground was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Partway through the fun, it suddenly stopped. I switched the lever to ‘start’ then pulled the cord and began a tug o’ war against the All Blacks.
I pulled on that cord like my life depended on it. Until, eventually, I yanked it straight out of the machine. Picture me holding a plastic handle and a strip of sad, ropey string. With a roar of years of repressed appliance-induced rage, I picked up the mower like I was the Incredible Hulk (taking just a second or two to marvel at my own strength) and chucked it on top of the skip bin that was awaiting collection.
When I went inside to retrieve the car keys, intent on returning to Bunnings to purchase my second mower for the day, Jeff looked up from his Belle magazine and chided, ‘You showed no respect for the machine.’
* * *
In the car we drive past one of my favourite street names, Cranky Corner Road. I am of course expecting Dad to launch into Burl Ives’ classic hit ‘Jimmy Cranky Corner’ but instead it seems to have triggered a recent trauma of his.
‘Did we tell you about looking after Harry’s kids a couple of weeks ago?’ he asks. ‘Talk about making me cranky,’ he adds, assuming I have indeed seen the same street sign as him.
‘You didn’t say yes, did you?’ Jeff asks in horror.
‘I just think they’re spoilt rotten,’ he says in a tone of disappointment.
The landmine-riddled field that is commenting on other people’s parenting abilities is, of course, not a dangerous place for my parents. Obviously, they did a better than impeccable job of raising the three of us and therefore reserve the right to serve as both jury and executioner.
‘You wouldn’t have given your kids iPhones at the age of ten, would you, Skeet?’ Dad adds.
‘They did have them at about that age, actually, yeah, Dad.’
‘Well, I think that’s wrong,’ he says forcefully.
‘We had those Nintendo game and watch things when we were that age, remember? You couldn’t get Grant off Donkey Kong!’
‘That’s different,’ he says without elaborating. ‘Let me tell you, we were very happy to hand them back at the end of the day.’
At this point Mum can’t help herself and enters that other hallowed ground most people know to give a very wide berth.
‘Not to mention the dog,’ she begins. ‘The boys told me they sleep with it. He shouldn’t really be allowed to sleep in the kids’ beds,’ she says with a tsk, temporarily forgetting that our family dog Lindy often slept with her head against mine as we shared the same pillow.
I notice Mum grimace as she moves her thumb around, continuing to flex out the arthritic pain. Even with our parents’ relative fragility, you’re never quite sure how often you’ll be welcomed into the driving seat. I, for example, am no longer allowed to suggest copper bracelets or anti-inflammatory gel as potential relief for Mum’s arthritis. ‘It’s just old age,’ she says dismissively. But there comes a moment in all our lives when instinctively we reach for one or both parents’ hands or elbows, much like they used to do ours before crossing roads. From that day on, it becomes a non-negotiable part of spending time with them.
‘Give us your hand, Jude,’ I usually say when we’ve both had a few wines and are leaving a fancy restaurant, one which is exited via a set of eight steps.
‘I’m right!’ Mum physically pushes my outstretched hand away.
And sure enough, she manages the first seven steps with perfect aplomb. By the eighth step her arm flounders around wildly in the air, a hand desperately seeking the strength and stability of the one now firmly shoved deep inside my pocket.
‘Toddy?’ she sputters in exasperation, giving me a look that says: where were you when I needed you?
This inability to surrender control is also sometimes a reversal from what we were taught in childhood. If you visit your parents’ house for dinner and then volunteer to clear the dishes, there isn’t a chance in hell your parents (or in my case usually my mother) will sit there and let you do it, whereas when we were kids you’d be grounded for ‘making your poor mother do it!’
Despite having eaten in hundreds of restaurants and following basically accepted service conventions for decades, now that she’s in her seventies, my mother also cannot resist ‘helping’ the waitstaff clear the plates. In her rush to assist, she usually ends up sending cutlery clanging to the polished concrete floor, but not before it falls against her blouse, leaving behind a smear of dark sauce that she will fret over for the remainder of the evening. If not that, then the crockery Jenga – plates, bowls, glasses, cutlery and cups – that Millie thoughtfully constructs at the local café after breakfast is very carefully demolished by waiters who thank her kindly for her assistance.
Not content with controlling our actions or the situation while we’re in their company, our parents will also very helpfully take charge of outsourcing our services to their friends, neighbours, other family members (hell, even complete strangers!) often with advice for how to keep us in check.
When a family member wanted his handwritten life story typed up, my father very generously offered my (admittedly lightning fast and efficient) keyboard skills. As Dad relayed my supposed willingness to complete the task, he said, loudly enough for me to hear, ‘Just make sure he only types your words, not uses any of that artistic licence of his.’
Of course, being very proud of my writing career, both of my parents are trigger happy to insist to anyone – from a cousin, to the woman who dispenses pills at the local chemist – that I can not only edit and help write their memoirs (usually titled My Ordinary Life) but can also get them published and promoted on the radio.
‘Oh, Toddy can do that for you, can’t you, Toddy?’
‘Um . . .’ I squirm.
‘What’s your email? Tell her your email then you can send him your book and he’ll take care of everything, won’t you, Toddy?’
If only I ran into more people who needed to know what all those lines on poker machine screens mean, or needed help calling bingo numbers, I’d very happily return the volunteering-others favour.
You could be paid thousands of dollars for expert consulting advice and appear at major conferences but of course if your parents’ neighbour’s cousin’s sister’s babysitter’s dog walker needs the same information you’ll be more than happy to make a house visit for a five-hour one-on-one session . . . for free, won’t you?
‘Toddy used to work at eBay, didn’t you, Toddy?’
‘About ten years ago, yeah. But it’s changed —’
‘And he wrote books on how to use it . . .’
‘But a lot’s changed since —’
‘Why don’t you pop over to Deirdre’s next week and show her how it’s done?’
‘Well I . . .’
‘But don’t take your book you tried to teach me from, that was too confusing. I think you should . . .’
Back in the car I accidentally drive over a pothole and the force of the jolt shifts the steering wheel from the grip of my hands by about five millimetres.
‘Ooh-ah,’ Mum says.
