The Family Car

From the time I was in primary school until I was well into my 20s, my dad owned the same car. He was devoted to its health and well-being. It was unique and irreplaceable. 

Photo credit

It was a white Holden Kingswood.

Until I was about 10, I saw this vehicle through my Dad’s rose-tinted lens. I enjoyed its enormousness – the back seat that we once proved was big enough for 5, the boot that could hold an implausible number of bikes and scooters, the ridiculously abundant leg-room. I loved that in summer we would wind down all the windows and let the warm breeze rush into our faces and ears. The car was affectionately nicknamed “Bertha”.

Then, one day, sometime in primary school, I suddenly noticed my friends’ parents’ cars. Mighty Mitsubishi Pajeros. Zippy little Hondas. Gleaming Mercs. They had a lovely newness and a modern sleekness about them. In one of those painful coming-of-age moments, my young mind realised that (like proper Speedos instead of el-cheapo bathers from Woolworths, and like Popper juice boxes rather than daggy re-usable drink bottles) these cars represented Fitting In.

I realised with horror that Bertha was the mark of a family that didn’t have the money for something better.

Things got worse when I was a teenager, and my parents sent me to a private girls’ high school that was known for its high academic standards. Unsurprisingly, it was filled with girls from privileged families who owned luxury cars. In hindsight, I was lucky enough to be able to attend this excellent school only because my parents, with humble jobs as a public servant and a teacher, chose to invest in my education, and not in new cars. As a teenager, however, I could not see past my own confused angst and self-pity. I would take two different buses to get home rather than be seen in that car. I would cringe when friends came over and saw it parked in the driveway.

In my view, it was the family car from hell. It stood for everything that was wrong with my self-image.

My loathing continued in force for some years, until, at age 17, I was desperate to learn how to drive. My dad was actually willing to teach me, but he and Bertha were a package deal. Having to be seen in Bertha was an evil I would have to live with if I wanted that coveted driver’s license.

Bertha was like no other car I’ve driven since. Forget automatic transmission and power steering – Bertha had a classic “three on the tree” stick shift, and steering so heavy you could feel it in your triceps as you tried to get around tight corners. There were only three forward gears, but you could comfortably do 80 kmph in Bertha’s mighty second gear. Engaging the clutch required considerable lower-body strength. While steering required some level of brute force, at the same time you had to be a bit careful – in the wake of a dodgy repair executed by my dad, the steering wheel was strangely wobbly, and in fact, a few years later, it actually came off in my younger brother’s hands while the car was in motion. [When he told me about it, I was shocked and asked, “But what did you do?” and he said, calmly, “I put it back on again!”] The left indicator didn’t work, or rather, it did, but for reasons Dad was never able to ascertain, turning it on caused the horn to blare loudly. The radio antenna had been snapped off by vandals, so Dad had ingeniously made a new one out of wire that he’d sticky-taped around the inside perimeter of the windscreen.

But against all odds, thanks to (or in spite of) Bertha I passed my driving test on the first try! After that, when Dad had weekend errands to run, he would ask me to come with him, and handing me the key to his beloved car, would say, “Go on – you drive!”

I like to think this was his way of saying, “I love you, and I’m proud of you.”

And by my 20s, my feelings about Bertha had mellowed. She was like an elderly relative – full of flaws and quaint little idiosyncrasies, but a lovable fixture nevertheless. Bertha came to symbolize something important in my life. She represented humility, living within one’s means, and the need to work hard for material gain. She reminded me of my parents’ love, and their determination to send their children to the best schools they could possibly afford, even if that meant living on a tight budget and cheerfully driving the same old car for almost two decades. She taught me not to be ashamed of having fewer and less nice material things than others, because in the end I had all the things that were truly important.

It was around this time that my younger brother was driving Bertha when he was involved in a car crash. He walked out of it without a scratch. Bertha was so badly damaged that she was written off.

It was her time to go, I thought. By this stage, my parents were no longer strapped for cash. They could go out and buy a newer, better-quality car.

But Dad, somewhat devastated at his loss, wasn’t ready to give up on Bertha. Unbelievably and to my mother's horror, he went out and bought two scrapped Holden Kingswoods, deposited them in the front yard, and started, piece by piece, trying to rebuild Bertha. We tried to dissuade him from this task, convinced this would be a prolonged but ultimately futile attempt at resuscitation (“It’s all over, Dad. You did your best. Let her go now.”)   

But he actually managed to summon a pulse. He succeeded in rebuilding that damn car. The new Bertha was pretty rough around the edges where Dad had tried his hand at DIY panel-beating, but she was back on the road, and Dad was thrilled.

It was somehow shocking and just plain unfair when, one night not long after that, Bertha was (no kidding) STOLEN, never to be recovered. Dad suspected joyriders. Even we who had driven that joyless car were kind enough not to laugh.

Dad gave in and bought a soulless but reliable Camry. It doesn't have a name.

Throwing in the towel on parenthood

Like this blogger, sometimes I suspect that my inner reserves of patience, which were supposed to last me an entire lifetime, have already been all but completely exhausted after only 6 years of parenting.

I used to be known as a nice, kind person--generous in spirit, sunny and optimistic.

Lately, some days I can still pull off “kind but firm”. Other days, I really understand why some species of animals eat their young.

Picture it: 8:30 am on a Sunday morning. Children sitting companionably together on sofa. Mother smiling as she clears breakfast table, suffused with dreamy images of familial harmony, enjoying moment of quiet joy. Father outside, good-naturedly shovelling snow in uber-macho manner.

Seconds later, older child starts teasing younger child mercilessly, taking a favourite toy and holding it just out of reach. Screaming ensues. Frustrated younger child belts living daylights out of older child and tries to sit on her head. Screaming ensues. Younger child given harsh scolding and sent to naughty corner. Screaming ensues. Older child loudly chastised for teasing little sister. Sulking ensues. Older child grumps off to bedroom only to discover that younger child has, at some point, sneakily unearthed box of Secret Treasures from its hiding place and Touched Everything. Screaming ensues. Mother screams at everyone to stop screaming. Younger child, liberated from naughty corner, stomp-runs away at high speed and catches side of forehead with full force on corner of bookshelf. High-decibel shrieking ensues. Mother makes multiple, futile attempts at holding squirming and distraught child still enough to administer bag of frozen peas to massive purple egg-shaped contusion. Phone rings loudly and insistently. Smaller child is still shrieking uncontrollably; panicked mother pictures a hospital visit, head injuries, concussion. Older child finishes sulking and coolly re-enters room, inexplicably having removed all clothes except underpants. She observes the situation; judging from her neutral reaction, apparently everything is perfectly normal. She suddenly demands to know (in tones loud enough to be heard over little sister’s shrieking) what vitamins are in milk, how do tv shows get to our tv, and when are you going to wrap the present I am taking to Best Friend’s birthday party today? Older child commanded to wait 5 minutes until crisis at hand is under control. Older child bitterly accuses parent of dividing attention unevenly between siblings. Younger child stops crying and imperiously tells big sister to shush. Big sister has spectacular meltdown. Little sister starts crying again.

Less than TEN MINUTES of concentrated life with children, and already I am wondering how I’m going to make it through the day.

I love my girls so much. I wanted them desperately, and I still do.

Some days, though, I am completely overcome by the frenetic, frustrating minutiae of daily life with children. I know difficult moments are fleeting and will pass, I know I just need to remain calm and deal with it and allow the ebb and flow of life to take its course, but sometimes, secretly, I just want to give up. I just want it all to go away. In those black moments, I don’t want to be anyone’s mother any more. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone but myself and my own selfish needs. I find myself wishing to go back in time to when I was a carefree twenty-something who washed and blow-dried my hair and carefully applied makeup every morning, had long, chatty brunches with girlfriends on Sunday mornings, and prided myself on being able to handle multiple responsibilities with consummate ease and a smile on my face. I mean, my twenty-something self would even buy special lingerie to wear for her husband on his birthday.

I love my girls so much, but dammit, parenting is hard work. It’s hard to get right, and it’s even harder to know whether or not you’ve actually managed to get it right. It saps my energy and my patience and my confidence like nothing else. It challenges my inner resources beyond what I thought were reasonable boundaries. At the worst times, forging ahead with the day is quite literally a minute-to-minute challenge.

* * * * *

I wrote all this in a surge of emotion this morning (after my husband returned to the scene, took a look around, and - God bless him - told me to hide in our bedroom for an hour and have some time to myself). Of course, right now, as I read back over the rush of truth that poured out of me just hours ago, already my girls are making a liar out of me. One has set up her doll house furniture all over the coffee table and is endearingly letting Sylvanian Families rabbits take turns on the toilet (“Here you go, little one! Pisssssss!”) The other has just fired up some Maroon 5, and is shouting “I got the moves like dragon!”

No way could I ever do without them, and no way do I really want to go back to the days when I only dreamed about having them. They are hard work, but the very best things in life are those that are worked for the hardest. I am also pretty sure that, for all my whining, if I had to I would do my DARNDEST to find further, even endless resources within myself to help and protect and fight for my children through the most serious or challenging circumstances. We all know that we could and would, and my heart goes out to parents have already done just that - parents who really know what it is to give their absolute all to save their child from illness, hunger, danger, or evil.

My secret, dark thoughts of throwing in the towel are, after all, only thoughts. They are fleeting. They too will pass.

Influenza and Project Runway

My six year old has been home sick for a couple of days.

It just wouldn't be winter without a bit of influenza in the house.

I have to admit, though, that I've really enjoyed the two days we've spent quietly together. Little Sister, still fighting fit, has gone to daycare as usual. Daddy has been at work. It isn't often that it's just My Big Girl and me, but for the past two days we've had our Own Time.

We've watched DVDs. We've done crosswords. We've read The Folk of the Faraway Tree (My Big Girl enjoyed it as much as I did at her age). 

Best of all, we made a new game for ourselves.

My Big Girl has several books containing outlines of "models", with stencils that you can use to trace clothes onto them. We got bored with just tracing and colouring, and started to wonder whether some real models' clothes might fit our girls...

I grabbed a couple of old InStyle magazines that had been relegated to toilet-reading, and we got to work:

If My Big Girl ever ends up on Project Runway, I will claim this as the day it all began.

She is almost better again now. I probably should feel happy that she will be well enough to go back to preschool in a day or so. Except that I'll miss her so much.