This is what I get to do

And I'm here for it.

It’s the first week of May, and I’m back in my studio.

I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, on my floor chair from Muji, with my legs tucked under my beautiful new art table—a handmade gift from Rick to mark our twentieth wedding anniversary.

It is warm today, and sunny too. I’m wearing long pants and thick woollen socks, but my grey sweater lies discarded on the rug next to me.

The windows are wide open, letting in the maximum amount of light. As I sit here, staring up into the sky, I can hear the gentle hum of the traffic from the main road. Closer to home, the birds are tweeting their daily song to each other.

Today was meant to be an artmaking day, but instead, I am choosing to write.

Because, sometimes, only words can make a difference.

Some days, only words will do.

____

Every morning, my youngest son and I wave to each other as he leaves for school.

We kiss, we hug, he walks to the car, he hops in, he puts on his seat belt, and then, as my husband drives away, my son’s little face and little hand appear at the window, and he and I both start waving as hard as we can and for as long as we can.

One time, Rick told me that I’d gone back inside before the car turned around the corner, and Lenny was sad about it all the way to school. I felt guilty about that for weeks.

Another time, Lenny said, ‘Mummy, I was waving to you all the way from home to school!’ That had me smiling for the rest of day.

Some mornings, I am in my full attire for the day. Other mornings, I have a towel wrapped around my head, because I’m running late and haven’t had time to dry my hair.

Some days, we are both cheerful and relaxed. Other days, not so much.

But whether my hair is done or not, whether I’m still in my pyjamas or not, and whether we are both cheerful or not, I never miss Lenny’s moment of departure, and my little man and I never fail to give it our all as we wave each other goodbye.

In a couple of years’ time, this little ritual of ours will pass.

In five years’ time, it will be but a memory.

But right now, right here, we have this still. I have this still.

It is like gold to me.

It is precious. It is priceless.

It is mine to behold.

____

On the last day of Term One, Andy, Pip, Jake, and I drive up to Katoomba in the evening to attend the KYCK conference with the rest of our youth group. It is Jake’s first time at KYCK, the second time for Pip and me, and the third time for Andy. Over the course of the weekend, we listen to Bible talks, sing songs of praise with two thousand other youth and youth leaders in a big tin shed, play cards and Mafia during breaks, hang out at the youth hostel, visit the Echo Point lookout as part of our afternoon off, and breathe in the fresh mountain air.

On Sunday afternoon, we return home, exhausted from lack of sleep, yet energised in every way.

Later that night, Rick asks me how I found the weekend.

‘It was amazing,’ I say. ‘And I still can’t believe I get to do that with the boys.’

____

About a month ago, my sons introduced me to Shell Shockers—an online game where you choose a weapon for each round, and you basically shoot each other as many times as you can. You can choose from a large number of different battle arenas: my favourite one is an oversized kitchen (aptly titled Rats), but there are also castles, dungeons, spaceships, carparks, Tetris-looking mazes, and endless other configurations.

The amusing twist is that you are all eggs, and the names of all the weapons are clever puns on eggs. So you have the EggK-47, the Scrambler, the Free Ranger, the Rpegg, the Whipper, the Crackshot, and the Tri-Hard. And when you get killed, your opponents and teammates get notified that you were either cracked, whipped, scrambled, or fried. It’s pretty funny.

The boys are naturally all better than me. When we first started playing, I couldn’t survive any round long enough to take anyone out. I always got cracked, whipped, scrambled, or fried before I could even aim properly. In fact, I distinctly recall Jake shouting at one point, ‘Mum’s back in! We can start upping our kills!’ (Hilarious.)

Thankfully, I’m not too slow a learner, and over the course of a few sessions, I got better at the EggK-47, the Rpegg, and the Crackshot, I learnt to hide and snipe, and eventually, I started cracking some eggs of my own. (That’s right, boys. Don’t mess with your mother.) The ultimate reward was hearing Pip wonder out loud: ‘How did mum suddenly get so good?’

One rainy day over the term break, Rick comes home to find the six of us sitting around the dining table with our six MacBooks out—shooting, shouting, and laughing. He bursts out laughing when he sees this and immediately takes out his iPhone to get a photo.

I love that photo.

It is pixellated and slightly blurry, but it is such a precious snapshot—not just of that particular moment, but of this season of life.

A season of life where I get to hang out with my boys.

A season of life where we get to have fun like this together.

A season of life where most of them are taller than me and love teasing me about it.

A season of life where they are better at things than I am, and I get to learn from them.

A season of life where I get to see a tiny glimpse of what they’ll be like as young men.

A season of life where we get to spend so much time together still.

In my heart, I know that this season will pass—just like all the seasons past.

But I also know that this season of life is what we have now.

And so I am embracing it as best as I can.

And if part of that means learning how to use an EggK-47 to shoot at eggs running around a fluorescent-lit spaceship or a three-level medieval castle, then so be it.

I’m here for it.

____

It is Tuesday afternoon.

Rick is at a family frriend’s funeral, so I drive out to Lenny’s school to do pick up.

I park in my usual spot and walk to the gates. I’m comfortably dressed in my ‘work attire’ for the day, and I can’t help but smile as I watch little kindergarten kids walk by.

Five minutes pass, and finally, in the distance, I see Lenny emerge from the crowd.

He walks slowly towards me, bouncing his basketball along the way. I grin at him as he approaches the gate.

‘Hello darling boy,’ I say, as we high five each other.

‘Hello mum,’ he replies.

In the car on the way home, he tells me that he was sitting in class today when it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what my favourite animal was.

‘So what is your favourite animal?’ he asks.

‘Probably penguins,’ I say, after a long pause. ‘They’re so cute.’

‘And also because they’re black and white,’ he points out. This makes me chuckle out loud because, clearly, my son knows my proclivity for all things monochrome.

Later still, as we are getting out of the car, he pays me a sartorial compliment.

‘Mum, when I was walking up to the school gate and saw you, I thought you looked so stylish with your white t-shirt and black pants. Then you put on your sunnies, and you looked even more stylish!’

Yet again, I laugh. As we both sit down on the bench in the garage to take off our shoes, I pull him into an embrace and kiss him on the top of his head.

‘You are so funny and so sweet. Love you to bits, little Lenny.’

‘Love you too, little mum.’

____

On the last day of the term break, the five boys and I head out to the local shopping centre.

‘Okay, boys, I’m going to get my massage first,’ I announce in the car. ‘Older boys, don’t let Lenny out of your sight. And Lenny, make sure you listen to Andy and Pip, okay?’

‘Okay mum!’ Lenny replies.

‘How long will you be?’ both Pip and Jake ask.

‘Either one hour or forty minutes. Which do you prefer?’

‘Forty minutes!’ they both say in unison.

‘Forty minutes it is. But remember the rules: you can go to iPlay together, but I don’t want you guys wandering into any shops without me.’

Once at the shopping centre, we ride the escalator from the carpark up to the ground level. I glance back at the boys and see that Andy and Pip have Lenny sandwiched between them. With their fake stoic expressions and their arms are crossed in front of them, I immediately surmise that they are pretending to be bodyguards. I catch their eyes and smile.

Outside Motto Motto, we part ways. I watch them head outside to the courtyard, then turn and enter the Chinese acupuncture hole-in-the-wall. For forty minutes, I succumb to the remedial message, confident in the knowledge that the boys will look after each other without me.

Later, we are reunited, and the boys tell me all about their iPlay adventures. We enjoy a leisurely hot lunch at Pappa Rich to mark the end of the holidays, ordering vast amounts of roti along with my favourite dish—pan mee noodles in soup (without the chilli). Before leaving the shops, we also drop in on Uniqlo, where we manage to find new jeans for Pip.

Back at home, we finish watching E.T. together, and then Pip takes over the kitchen and whips up chicken alfredo for dinner. Later still, Jake attempts a butterscotch cake recipe by Nagi Maehashi for dessert.

‘I’ll miss you boys tomorrow,’ I tell them at dinnertime. ‘It’s been such a fun break.’

Across the table, Ewan gets a glint in his eye, and he instantly pipes up.

‘Don’t play Shell Shockers without us, mum!’

____

There are some days when I wake up, and I wonder (still), ‘What am I even doing with my life?’ But then I sit down and I write stories about the boys, and I know the answer to that question with absolute clarity.

This is what I’m doing—this is the only thing that I can do that no one else can do:

Being their mum.

Being here for them.

Being present with them.

Listening to them.

Laughing with them.

Chatting with them.

Playing games with them.

Going to church with them.

Going to youth group with them.

Going on camps with them.

Having fun with them.

Relying on them.

Teaching them.

Guiding them.

Helping them.

Being taught by them.

Watching them learn.

Watching them change.

Watching them grow.

And, throughout it all, being thankful that I’m the one who gets to be their mum. Being thankful that this is what I get to do.

And with every fibre of my being, on the good days and the bad, I’m here for it. Oh, yes I am.