Just Mum

Just Mum

For the first time in my life, here in New Zealand, I get to be "Just Mum." I'll need to return to the work world at some point, but for now my task is raising Fiona and Finley to be decent human beings (and prevent them from killing each other or destroying the house). I'm the only parent, and, bonus- at ages 7 and 5, the kids want me around. Shortly after Sean died, a friend in Spokane whose father died when she was 6 years old sent me an e-mail. In it, she told me her mother's way of handling grief was to bury herself in work. My friend wrote, "I needed a mother, not a worker." I read that last phrase over and over again. It made sense.

So did quitting my job last year. I'd returned to full-time work when my babies were 3 and 4 months old. I was the primary bread winner, and Sean, the primary care giver. It worked for us, but I always wanted more time with the kids. This is not what I planned. Still, you do the best you can with the crap life hurls at you. Suddenly, fertilizing the garden sounds like a good idea. The corporate ladder can wait. Fiona and Finley can't.

The kids beg me to volunteer in their classrooms. I've helped twice so far in Finley's class. I sit with his school mates on a futon tucked between bookshelves. They read. I listen to such classics as: Tiger Tiger; Wake up, Dad and who could forget The lazy pig:

"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Wake up! The sun is up."

I'm also learning about Kiwi reading and writing methods. Finn's teacher, Ms. D, personifies letters, saying things like, "Yellow yo-yo man is tricky. He has lots of sounds." Then, they practice writing. Ms. D said, "We're going to write the best story ee-vah. It's going to be a made-up story. You can pretend you're a rock star, a cat, or that you have 20 rabbits in your back yard. Anything you want. Use your imagination."

One little girl asked me how to spell "hay." "Could you use that in a sentence?" I asked. "Hay went to his friend's house," said the girl. "Oh, that's H-E," I said. That's what happens when you let an American mum into a Kiwi class. Last week, I perched in a teeny chair at a teeny table and listened to two of Finley's classmates describe their erasers. "My rubber is really soft," said girl #1. "Oh, try this rubber. It's soft, too," said girl #2. I smiled to myself, but the word "rubber" computes when you hear 5-year-olds talk about "rubbing out" their mistakes.

I took Finley recently to his class picnic and swim at Pilot Bay. My son and I sat on beach towels in the shadow of the Mount on a sunny, warm end-of-summer day and ate sandwiches among a sea of school kids, teachers and parents. I helped Finn dig a tunnel in the sand. His teacher snapped a picture that's posted on the front classroom wall. The caption, apparently written by another small fry, reads, "Finley and mum is digging a sandcastle. He is having fun with Mum." Mum's grateful to have crouched with Finn in the sand, thinking, "Yep. That's my boy." (note: Those warm fuzzy thoughts evaporate during Finley's whiny times).

Fiona's teacher told me he could use parent volunteers after swim lessons finished for the summer. They'd wrapped up by last week, so Fi dragged me into class. "You said you'd ask Mr. Parry about volunteering. Come on, Mom...please?" In a couple years, Fiona may pretend she doesn't know me.

I've held a job since age14, so filling out forms and x-ing through the line that asks for a work phone number still feels odd. So does writing "homemaker," or "mom" in the occupation blank. I suppose I could write "astronaut," "surfer," or "stripper," and no one would care (okay, they might notice "stripper").

The kids, however, care that I take them to school and pick them up after. It's not all a big Kiwi dream – it's Mum-as-taxi, "Mom, I'm HUN-gry!" and "Mom, Fiona's not listening to me!" from the back seat. Being present has rewards, too. One of my sweetest moments at school happened when I stepped into the courtyard one day about 10 minutes before the bell rang. Fiona's teacher was playing guitar and her entire class was singing Johnny Cash in angel voices:

Love Is A Burning Thing
And It Makes A Fiery Ring
Bound By Wild Desire
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

What a treat. I might have missed the moment if I were at a "real" job. I'm not. For now, I'm Just Mum.