Camp cramps

There are all sort of parents in this world, and you see them at the school camp drop off.

Those who are whooping their way out of that bag drop, punching the air and screaming “Look out silence, HERE I COME!”  They wave enthusiastically at a tinted window their child could be behind (but who would know), knowing everyone is going to love this little break.  As they smile kindly at a tearful mother and feel they should place a gentle arm around her shoulder, they are trying really hard to think as quietly as they can – “YES! SLEEP IN’S, WINE FOR DINNER, NO WEE ON THE TOILET SEAT, BED AT 6PM, AND NO SOCCER PRACTICE WOOHOO!!!”

There are those who are late for the bus – and they are the ones who are never, ever late, apart from this day. Somehow in the lead up, whilst packing for an 11 year old on a commando course (because we do that all the time),

commando outfit
“I think this outfit is perfect for a commando course”

trying to think of how to combat travel sickness in absentia, trying to teach them about the importance of a shower – with soap, or teeth brushing – at all, packing 5 lots of thermals in case it’s cold in Coffs Harbour, and then implementing the crash course in karate should anyone be mean to them, school camp for these parents is the final tug of the lace bringing everything unravelling. Nerves – 1, Mum – none.  They are running to roll call, they are sitting three abreast on the bag to try squaaaaash it in on top of 100 other suitcases, sleeping bags, pillows, back packs and giant teddy’s. They reach up a hand with a kiss on it to a disappearing cheek up the bus steps, and they say “I love you darling!” to the closing doors.  

Then there is me. We have been packed for weeks, so I didn’t have any callouts for new trakkies at 10pm last night – or that’s what I’m telling you, anyway.  We have had conversations, trying to be casual and not frightening, about safety – of friendships, of personal stuff, of health, and of looking after the precious person that is you, my child. We have talked about whether, because “Undies” is not on the packing list it means they are not needed.  We have worn in the “old shoes” we had to buy. We have discussed what you can eat if the bus stops at McDonalds (as all our parental fear-mongering about the place comes back to bite us on the bum).  And we have planted spy’s in Coffs Harbour with fresh fruit, vitamin C tablets, his bedtime teddy’s, a nice fluffy doonah and perhaps, just maybe, a getaway car.

I don’t take lightly to my child being away from me. For a week (yes, four days is a week). On the other side of the country. You are very well taking my heart right out of my chest and driving it away on Forest Coachlines.  

You are very well taking my heart right out of my chest and driving it away on Forest Coachlines.

I do know he’s going to have an amazing time. I do know this year 6 camp is the “coming of age” camp.  But am I ready for him to come of age? No. He is just fine as a not-teenager. So, bring him back. I can just see his beautiful face as he goes into the indigenous preschool with all the gorgeous little kids – I know already this bit will touch his gentle, gentle heart and change him for the absolute better. But he is the BEST already, so, bring him back.  I can hear him, as he rock climbs, bushwalks and surfs, laughing confidently with friends – a place he has worked hard to get to. He is confident now, so, bring him back.

Because until you bring him back, I am half a person here.

But I know if you do, he will be the half a person. I have to let him grow up. Little by little, I have to let him go.

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My heart, newly born

You put your head on my chest: First your ear, then your squashy little cheek, then your perfect, faintly-haired crown nuzzles down with a sigh, above my heart.  Your head and my chest become one, together, there is no difference between us anymore.

www.henphotography.com.au
http://www.henphotography.com.au

Just like when you were growing inside of me, only better.  Better, because now I can touch you.

You need to know I’m there for you. You need protection because a noise scared you; you need comfort because you’re tired; you need to hear my heart underneath your body which constantly says:  Love.  You.  Love.  You.  Love.  You. 

I need you too, my soft little miracle.  It’s a need that should be called an urge, so strong is my desire to envelope you, consume you, smother you in my love and protect you fiercely and forever. “Eat you up!” as I often whisper in your embrace.

Then you place your little pudgy arm on my chest alongside of your head.  Your fingers look like they’re squeezing out from underneath the pink mound of your hand. A fat hand – til I was blessed with a baby, I never would have thought there was such a thing. I press my finger into it’s velvety beanbag, full with the effort of my whole being that I’ve put into you – all the love, all the carefully chosen food, the age-old marvel of breastmilk, my upmost protection, the lessons of living, the settling into slumber, the softest of soft touch, the tears we’ve cried together, the cuddles and rocking in the dark hours of night, the song “Daisy” which I sang as “Henry” over and over, all the love… Definitely all the love. It’s all in that fat little hand, resting upon my chest.

I feel pulses of your love come out of your palm.  It travels through my densest bones, across my muscles taught to rigidity from carrying you around; through lungs busy with important work – but nothing as important as you.  I can only feel these tiny soft pulses if I am very, very still: but once I do, they come, and come, and grow, and swell, flowing through my body, over my heart, riding the flow of my blood, buzzing from my heart out to my arms up to my scalp and down to the balls of my feet on the ground. I can no longer ignore it; it is suddenly like electricity, pulsing my whole being with a love that at first I cannot believe. It is all consuming, defies my understanding, just a physically overwhelming pulsating inside me. It makes me grit my teeth, my muscles strengthen upon themselves so as not to crush you, but so great is my physical need to give my love a purpose, and outlet, that I just might. 

www.henphotography.com.au
http://www.henphotography.com.au

I look back at your fat little hand, laying there on my chest, your eyes now closed, your heart listening to mine:  Love.  You.  Love.  you.  Love.  You.  Love.  You. 

I never want it to end.