Most times we drop Mum to the club, we drive her right to the door. Today Jeff chooses a parking spot and turns off the ignition.
‘Let’s go in with your Mum for a bit,’ he says to me over the back.
‘My shout!’ Mum says. Once she’s thudded her way out of the car, the skip in her step is unmistakable.
We stay for half an hour or so. I notice that Mum is greeted by a lot of the other locals, who all know her by name. It is so much more than the pokies for her; this is her local meeting place, where she feels immeasurably less alone. None of us win the Mega Jackpot. But that really is beside the point. As Jeff and I drive away from the club, leaving Mum to pray for a turnaround in her fortunes, I have a pang of guilt. We should have stayed longer, I should be seeing them more often, I should be doing more for them. But that’s the thing with Jude and Pete, I can’t helicopter parent them – that’s not in their or my best interest.
I do not believe in fate. I think that every decision we make in the moment leads us to a different end result. Had my parents not met at a Chubby Checker concert in 1963 (the odds of that happening must have been billions if not trillions to one, surely) how would they have even begun to fathom what would have become of their lives? Not to mention every decision in the intervening fifty-nine years – from the infinitesimal and seemingly inconsequential, to the most monumental like choosing where to live, where to raise their children, when and where to retire to. Hasn’t every single step among their shared billions of steps led them to where they are today?
It’s one of those intangible but breathtakingly beautiful aspects of life. Whether it be your parents, a relative, a friend, teacher or colleague, we each open ourselves up to the influence of others. Sometimes we pick and choose traits to emulate, but often they just appear within us as if by osmosis, whether we like it or not.
Who knows how long we have left together? The only option any of us has is to make the most of every single moment: to try to remain conscious of the here and now and make decisions that result in the most happiness possible today. That may change where you find yourself tomorrow, or in ten years, but why worry about that now? Face it, then make adjustments if necessary.
I may not always practice what I preach, but to bring that consciousness into focus as much as possible is the best chance we have to get to the end of our lives and look back over them with as little regret as possible. It isn’t money or how much we own that will have us die with the greatest sense of accomplishment, but rather how much love we have given and received, how many moments of euphoria we felt, how much laughter we shared with people who loved us for who we are in our entirety.
* * *
About a year later, after a very long and taxing lockdown and juggling a multitude of schedules, we finally got to see the kids again just before Christmas. As lovely as it had been giving Helga her daily belly scratches and making up songs for her (‘I love my piggy, yes I do / And my piggy loves me too’) I guess it was somewhat obvious both Jeff and I were craving human interaction, particularly with Charlie and Lucy. Spending time with them is by far the best tonic and has had a miraculously rejuvenating effect on me; sipping, as it were, from that fountain of complete and utter indifference known as youth. Funny how we’re all so desperate to be popular among our own offspring.
Seeing them always fills me with such joy and pride. Like all parents, I may be just borderline biased, but I think they’re both beautiful, hilarious, smart, magnetic human beings. Watching them grow into independent young adults has been one of the unexpected joys of my life.
‘Dad, you didn’t,’ Lucy says, referring to my feet.
‘Oh Toddy,’ Charlie chimes in, and shakes his head.
Jeff and I had been running late and in my haste to get out the door I’d not had time to change out of my stained, ripped The Goonies t-shirt the kids bought me, or out of my socks and Crocs into some more respectable farm boots.
Vicky gives me a big kiss and a long, lovely cuddle.
We get to the car and bundle them in. I do the driving because I get to choose the route. At the payment gate of the carpark I realise I’m a little too far away from the credit card reader, and have to undo my seatbelt to open the car door so I can lean out far enough to swipe my card. The stupid belt won’t release from its holster and I tug on it violently, but it’s locked into place. Lucy’s in the front seat and reaches across me to pull it out in one long, smooth motion.
‘There you go, darl,’ she says.
I pay the bill then fumble to redo my belt because the gate is now up and cars are banking behind me. I finally plug in the buckle just as I turn onto the airport drive.
‘Got him,’ Charlie says.
Our latest family playlist comes on through the stereo speakers. There’s RnB from Charlie, which isn’t really my cup of tea, and from Lucy some whiny repetitive angst-ridden girl singer who sounds to me like a kitten stuck down a very deep well. Finally, Laura Branigan’s classic hit ‘Gloria’ comes on and I jiggle my shoulders in appreciation.
‘Corker!’ I say aloud to the clearly nonplussed audience in the car, though Vicky’s knowing smile suggests she may be on my side. For this one, I turn up the volume and sing along. ‘Are the vices in your bed for me, Gloria?’
‘No prizes for guessing whose choice this one is,’ Lucy says dryly.
I catch Charlie’s reflection in the rear-view mirror and he’s looking at me with that unmistakeable mixture of laughing with me and laughing at me.
‘Who wants a mint?’ I ask, as I pass the blue Eclipse cannister around the car. ‘Did everyone get their bottle of water too?’
One of Jeff’s songs comes on the playlist next and the kids sing along approvingly. I turn down the volume.
‘Whose window’s down?’ I snap.
‘Mine Dad, why?’ Charlie asks.
There’s a forty-storey wind turbine blowing behind me but I pretend it’s not making my ear drums disintegrate. I take a deep breath. ‘Oh, no reason, just wondered.’
I catch sight of the three faces sitting side by side in the back seat. Charlie, my son, who over the past year or so very quickly became a man. I often ponder what will become of his life and what role in it his brilliant sense of humour will play. His handsomeness sometimes catches me off guard, taking my breath away. But then I remind myself I shouldn’t be surprised; he does look a lot like me after all. Or at least a lot like the me of my twenties. That was also long before the wrinkles and the grey hairs took hold. Not that anyone complains about these features on your Georges and your Clooneys. (Yes, I have just compared myself to the Sexiest Man Alive.) I hope Charlie sees in me an ally, a staunch supporter, someone who loves him wholly unconditionally.
In the middle is Vicky. In the past couple of years, she has become one of my closest friends; a completely unexpected development in our relationship and something that I cherish dearly. I can rely on Vicky to pull me up if I get too lofty, to take the piss out of me if I get too serious, to remind me to laugh at life, because without that we have very little indeed. Like my own mother, she’s become the backbone of this family. I know without her my relationship with the kids would be less whole.
Then there’s Jeff. Poor long-suffering Jeff. If you’d have stopped me in the street twenty years ago and told me I’d be with the same person for over eighteen years, I would have told you to stop sniffing the fairy dust. I just didn’t think that was ever on the cards for me. Because, let’s face it, who in their right mind would want to spend that long with someone who can be moody, self-centred, self-righteous and generally likes to have it all his own way. (Please address fan mail expressing feelings to the contrary to my PO Box.) Sure, I’m not the harshest on the eyes but, hey, you’ve really got to balance out the odd positive against the numerous challenges. In my youth I thought a second date meant I was in a long-term relationship. Truthfully, even they were very few and very far between.
Sentenced to eighteen years’ (and counting) imprisonment for a crime he didn’t commit. Before Jeff, my life seemed vapid and without direction. With him, it seems to have realised its fullest potential. I can’t imagine that any of the flings I had before him would ever have amounted to much. I know for a fact you wouldn’t be reading this today had I ended up with someone less suited to what is the essence of me. Will we grow old together? And will he cut my toenails when I’m no longer able?
In the front seat is my daughter. Lucy is a fiercely independent, driven and ambitious young woman of immeasurable physical and emotional strength. She and I look the most alike, so she must wake every morning thanking genetics for having a face of such captivating allure. In truth, Lucy reminds me most of my mother: the Jude I imagine she was when she met Dad. A woman for whom anything is possible and who will continue to light up any room she walks into. If she chooses to, on her own terms.
This is the rest of my little family. It’s far from conventional and if there was enough room in the car it would include a very large black cat, a clumsy pig, several goats and a couple of sheep. I never dreamed this would be my life. That I would feel this damn lucky before I’ve even turned fifty. I wasn’t even sure I would make it this far, let alone feel so fulfilled. It goes without saying I have no idea what the future holds for this middle-aged (soon to be just plain old and ageing) man. But then I’ve always loved surprises.
‘That’s where we’re taking you on Thursday,’ I say, pointing to the wholefoods organic vegan café as we pass it. My fingernail taps the window. Seven times.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
But Wait . . .
I’m utterly grateful that, at this point in time, my parents’ health issues remain manageable. I know this will not always be the case. When I first set about writing this book, I knew some people would criticise me for making light of ageing, of turning to humour to cope with some of the more depressing or confronting aspects of watching our parents lose their independence, strength and wisdom. Yet I can’t help but feel that my parents’ ability to laugh in the face of this somewhat grim inevitability is in part the key to their longevity.
So, Mum and Dad, once again you’ve become ‘characters’ in a book. That you both agreed that humour could be used to normalise what at times can be a pretty depressing place to be is inspiring. Through laughing at ourselves we have chosen to celebrate the life we still have left together in our unique way – I wish more people could. Mum, I hope you can now appreciate this is not my version of Mommie Dearest. (Though, if you’re not careful . . .)
