When you taught me how to dance

I remember I was vacuuming or trying to and you were pulling at my trousers or trying to because I kept flagging your hand away with a sort of swiping motion, usually reserved for removing stains. I used the remote to direct away your interest. "Just a minute," I said," Let Mommy finish, just this, just that, just one more thing and then the kitchen."

You didn't realise that I had a sort of schedule,  we sort of ate around this time and sort of cleaned around that time, different activities for different days to fit different forms of development: literacy, social interaction and coordination. Had to get my ticks in before we could take part in frivolous play.

Routines, the unwanted guest, I would rather live in a world of chaotic stress then live with structure.  However it was a lifestyle choice.  One that I often reevaluated and recreated in order to be a good mother. So, as with your father's sports car and my smoking, sporadic trips to faraway places, frivolous shopping and naughty nights out, it all had to go bye byes to create a household and lifestyle that was appropriate for a tiny little miracle like you. In came the white sheets, organic sleep suits, fruit smoothies, mothers clubs, dusted mantles, clean toilets, spotless floors and ironed panties.  I wanted the perfect home for the perfect you. A happy and safe home, but was it?

As you grow, you will be barraged by domestic goddess themes, which subtly impregnate false truths and infect unrealistic expectations.  There will be pictures of women smiling while they scrub toilets and wash floors and you may feel the need to smile back, don't! They are not your friends.  They are paid to lie, run! You will overhear pensioners on buses and trains reminiscing about household pride, joys of cleaning. Well, dear, their memory is shit.  And then, of course, there is that smiling mother of your child's school friend, who wears linen trousers, eats only organic, has stain free cream carpets and an ivory sofa. Open her closets and you will free a cleaning lady.

You are not as old as my favourite jeans, but faded pencil marks on Grandma's wall reminds me that your dynamic form is ever changing and I am missing the performance because I am vacuuming, diligently, heartfelt -back and forth, back and forth.

Days slip by and time goes faster and faster as we grow older and older.  Your infancy was a flash, toddler years a breath and I am so afraid that your little girl years will simply disappear in a moment of distraction.  I understand how you could not prefer my preference for vacuuming over cuddling, wiping stained toilets over puzzle making.  Why should I simply walk to a store when I could be pushing a doll pram, skipping alongside you. You, wearing silk and satin, glitter and velvet gowns.

Interesting how easy it is to touch the Dyson button and hear that annoying buzzing motor mute.  Also, interesting that I could still slide across the laminate floors like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, "Come on join me, little one," I put my hand out to you and you took it and you laughed and so did I, and then we ran around this trying to be perfect home dancing and singing.  It was so much more fun than vacuuming. I danced techno, jumping up and down on the bed.  You went heavy metal, head banging until dizzy, thick curls everywhere.  Then you did a mix up, throwing in an ABBA pose, finding your tiara and yelling "Super duper trooper." We dressed disco with blankets for capes, twirled around, kicking toys out of the way and prancing around in princess dresses to finalise a designer look. 

Your father walked in to see us crab shuffling to the bathroom, knees and elbows moving in and out.  He stepped over plastic high heels, moved aside the custom jewellery that cluttered the counter, turned down the screaming radio and we stopped and we turned.  You with drugstore makeup smeared across your face, surprised.  You slid to him in your Peppa Pig socks, brought  your plastic microphone to your tiny mouth, pointed up to him with your other hand "I sekky and know it," and then gave a good Elvis-like shake. I looked at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, grease on the stove top, clean, wrinkled clothes thrown across the table and I stood quiet and smiled. "Have a good day at work, Dear?" Your father smiled, pulled me in and swayed with me as we did at our wedding. We then gathered you to us like a bouquet of flowers. My favourite part of the day.

So, if you want to know why you don't remember Mommy ever having a show home.  Blame yourself, kid. And, thank you because I will always be grateful. 

Today is your day little one

Mammy will not get the ironing done

Nor will she shush you while she listens to the man on the phone

or ask you to use your inside voice

Mammy will not roll her eyes when you unfold the silk sheets

Instead she will let you ride on them like a sled

or roll into it as if it was a hammock.

Today is your day little one

Mammy will not quiet you to finish gossiping with a friend

Nor will she prod you to perform

or make the moment a “growing time”

Mammy will not rehearse with you that poem

but instead we will laugh at silly verses we create

because words aren’t easily remembered

For the years you served me,

quietly putting away your outside voice

going from A to B

instead of going round it and round it again.

Tidying the princess castle into the moat,

replacing your princess dress with the pretty one just bought you

and waiting to use painting sets…

…still waiting…

For letting the other little girl go first.

Today is your day little one

We can prance around with our hula hoops,

twirling them over each other

watching them drop off our hips

Barefoot, swaying to the music, bumping Butts,

howling out of tune.

shrugging shoulders, touching noses.

cuddling in, wasting time.

wrapping up in a cocoon, together,

twirling around and around and around.

We will have such fun little one,

just you, me and that naughty little shake the doctor’s watching.

Vulnerability Plus Vulnerability Equals Intimacy and Then Comes Strength

True intimacy attained through shared vulnerability. 

I just watched Everything Everywhere All At Once and  I am not sure I completely understand the movie, actually the only thing that I am sure of is that I don’t completely understand the movie.  And, after reading a few reviews, I am also sure that most other people don’t completely understand the movie. However, the power of consistent relationships in an ever-changing universe translated loudly. I watched Evelyn, surrounded by love, radiate loneliness and regret. There were Evelyns in my world, who I stared at, intently, committed, believed they fed the connection only to realise their stare became lost in the chaos behind me. I welled up.

There is a line in there, something like, we are not meant to be alone. Maybe... probably not, as it would be difficult to survive alone. It is something that I have often wondered about. However, surviving with the wrong person can be pretty horrible too. 

This weekend I had a hip replaced, ouch! and it was ouch! I hate all this be strong bullshit that accompanies stuff like this-especially when it shouts at me from my head, ringing out from some echo chamber, vibrating in my chest and belly, built during days when I had to be strong.  I hear things like ...it's a very common surgery and that some people leave on the same day etc... and I imagine doing backflips out of the surgery doors. However, the surgeon did shift my attention by explaining, stone faced,  about alignment mistakes, infections and death while slipping me a release paper to sign, both dad and I were a bit quieted after that meeting.  

The surgery did go well, but my body retaliated, screaming from the inside out, demanding immediate attention, a proper fuck you to everyone involved, lengthening my stay.  However, eventually, all parties calmed and it was agreed that I could be discharged. 

Your father met me with warm gorgeous hands, I felt them as he pulled my hair back and kissed me. He guided my legs off the bed, helping me to stand. I looked at him and his eagerness to bring me back to our home. This is where his imagination sat.  The day he heard them say all went well and I was ok to go home. His mind rejoined our co-created life of dinner table chats, silly jokes, running after the children, and racing after the hairy beast. Tonight, he fantasised about the warmth of a duvet that covered two bodies where skin touched.  This day, he no longer missed me. He just looked to his side and he caught my gaze.  

His relief paused in reaction to my shutter and words, "I just peed." He looked at the bed, " No, no... 5 minutes ago I peed. but what if I need to pee again and we are in the car and it is commuter traffic and I have to pee. What if I have an accident in the car?"

He smiled and said, "I have a plastic bag for you to sit on." This is actually true.  They instruct you to have a plastic bag in the car for mobility ease.

"I can't pee on a plastic bag!" The nurse replied that men usually have bottles but she didn't think that would work for me." I thought about a shewee and wondered why I hadn't ordered that. While my mind escaped to picturing me  using one and how that would work and if it would work... if I would have felt embarrassed in front of your father... if he would drive me past a trucker just for giggles... If a she wee  would have been easier to use initially instead of a bedpan.  

Your father interrupted my thoughts and said, "Would it make you feel better to try again. I looked at him and the nurse, ready and waiting to leave and I nodded.  The nurse gently smiled and understood, saying "I am in no rush." 

Eventually, we do get to the car. I look at the arduous task of moving my unmovable body into that tiny space. My foot stretched out, the crutches unyielding in shape, unable to help, a dip between the curb and the car for a foot that can’t lift, hips that can’t navigate. I freeze. Your father puts on his familiar brave face. He thinks that if he is calm and brave, I will be at ease and he's right. One part of my brain knows that he is faking it but the other part tells it to shut up and get on board. He smiles and gives eye contact and slowly, gently manoeuvres me. I feel the tenderness of each touch, the love. 

As the journey begins, I tell him I am scared. My thoughts jump and catastrophise to scenes from Fast and Furious. Until he answers, " I am too, so let's take it slow." Then he changes the subject and I am caught by the bridges that stretch out over the Tyne and what looks like a slow movement of the Sage building, one of the first buildings used in your father's efforts to win me over to the North East. Lost in the reverberations of that memory, it takes a few minutes before I rejoin your father telling me about how you and your sister have tidied the house- the oldest absorbed in laundry and the youngest making the kitchen and dining room shine blindingly and I smile. 

The world has become a game of Tetris. I need to get past the front door and up a few flights of stairs, meanwhile,  your father runs up and down those flights several times to obtain that forgotten item, becoming items. His final journey up,  he smiles, which he thinks camouflages heavy breathing. 

“I am sorry,” I say to him, again and again, and when his breathing allows,  he asks, " Why?” 

"Because you have to care for me." 

"Don't be silly." his face contorting while wrestling off compression socks. His getting me ready for shower reminds me of what we used to do for you girls but I am the mother and it doesn't feel right.

Your father, as if to dance, takes my hands and guides me upward, I take my crutches and he follows me to the shower. The first time we did this, it was accompanied by more giggles than the groans of today, trepidations existed but for very different reasons. Sorry if I made you girls blush.

I sit on my plastic shower chair, his hands pressed on my thick thighs that are layered by belly bags and I whisper, "I don't think that this is my sexiest moment." 

He, on both knees, looks up at me,  and smiles,’”You're beautiful.” I believe him, and for a moment I become shy. 

Vulnerability breathes out every pour and because he loves me, he is quick to inhale. His hazel/brown eyes give kindness and I need that kindness.  I need to know that I am safe. I can't defend or protect myself. The hazards in my world multiply rapidly causing my body to shiver. I need to believe in his strength but also his desire and compassion and I do. It comforts me when my body is absorbed in pain. He is my respite. 

Now as the weeks progress, I cannot say that the euphoria of true love and patience also progressed.  The drip drip of fantasises of my doing it better leaked in and the stairs began to creek, mimicking your father’s grimaces.  I hated the feeling of dependency and that little tasks still remained stupidly challenging. But, at the end of my rant or his silent simmer, we would check in with each other, even when we couldn't look our hands would touch. There is relief when you burst and then melt like candle wax on to your best friend, and there they are, annoyed and a bit burnt but still there, fingers touching or a hand sliding across your back as you pass.  

Life can throw a good punch and we react in ways unimaginable. I couldn't fathom reacting in unimaginable ways with anyone else but your father. I keep thinking about how difficult this would have been on my own. Or, how difficult it would be with the wrong person. There are some who might not share the vulnerability but take advantage of it by shaming, boasting superiority, crying about neglect and planting feelings of guilt. Maybe some would help due to obligation or expectation of payment, or maybe they would have left when I could no longer dance and entertain.  

In the movie Waymond recognises and accepts life’s inevitable hardships but his resilience is fuelled by seeking goodness and play and simply enjoying a laugh.  Girls, that is your father. Although his past job made him bear witness to tragedies, his innate nature continued to believe in good thriving and enjoying others. His humour drew me to him.  I loved how he saw the world and I hoped it would be contagious. It was and because of it, life is easier and actually quite nice. 

Relationships can be so complicated, but not as complicated as life. Your partner, needs to be like the air you breathe, calming, strengthening, enduring, and simply present and the assumption of presence should be a given. It should be the one thing you can count on  in case all your other surroundings tremble. That partner holding you and you holding them is the constant.  When that happens, stability spreads and, in that moment, you know that you two and the world you created, will be ok and maybe just a little bit stronger than the moment before.