Wednesday 19 September 2012

Gestation

You have sex. You conceive a child, a new life inside of you. You throw up. You eat mushroom pizza for weeks, then die when your man brings the smell of mushrooms through the door. Not mushrooms!

You have a prawn in there, they point. Then a frog, then a fish. A wriggling fish. Two hearts within your skin. Two brains ticking. Two souls? That's tricky.

You are glowing. It feels so good. You are horny as hell. Sexy to boot. Then you get big, that's troublesome. No Guinness for nine months. Humph!

You give birth, over and over. It gets easier. It does, yes. There's a good reason why it's called labour.

You are skinny again. Other ladies broaden but you are whippet thin, wishing you were more womanly. You know, curves. It's not your fault.

Your children grow up around you. Now they have their own points of view, their temperaments, different tones of voice for other people, private things. Sometimes you see them in their tinier incarnations - jumping off jetties, asleep in a plate of spaghetti, wearing a bow tie at a birthday party. Other times the years feel so long, so long, and so many of them. The moving houses, the flights, the trees planted, the new snow, a bag of small ski suits to give away. So many many years.

You hear your daughter singing Handel from where you are parked in the street. You pray her singing exam will go well. You've seen her go from The Little Mermaid to Mozart. Her singing just makes you weep.

On audition day you both have dry-mouth.

You park well and are dressed in mother-mode in a slim skirt grazing your knees. Not too hip, your daughter says, Otherwise what will they think. She is so keen she wants to sing first.

But her name hasn't been added to the list. The adjudicators send her off for the paperwork. They won't let her sing.

You go to the office people. The people behind thick glass who say We can't help you. Whose eyes say, Get lost. Whose explanations are obtuse and heartless.

You step back from the glass telling yourself Don't swear, don't lose it. Don't erupt into the flaming foreigner slamming Italy. Explore all avenues. Be dignified.

You make an appointment with the Director, whose book you translated years ago.

You hold her sobbing in the street. Big wracking sobs. You are so freaking mad you can save your tears till last.

26 comments:

  1. Damn it. This is the truly hard part of being a parent. These things we cannot fix no matter how much we want to tear the heads off of bureaucrats.

    I'm sorry your daughter's plan was derailed. I'm sorry for her pain and yours.

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    1. Thanks Lisa. What a rotten day. I think she'll be stronger for it, and these jerks will still be crushing dreams. Today she went to Venice to see the Peggy Gugghenheim museum. Chins up! X

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  2. Oh my heart goes out to you both - I know this only too well as a mother of a 16 year old daughter. It does make them stronger, they do get over it - but you know what? - I haven't! I need to take a leaf out of her book - because to this day I am still bloody! Great post - sending this with BIG hugs. F x

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    1. Thanks Francesca! It never gets any easier, does it? And I think mine too is far stronger than I ever was - or will be. Big hugs back xcat

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  3. Isn't it funny how we can be much more of a lioness, an avenging angel, a fiery dragon on their behalf, than we could ever be on our own? My heart goes out to you!

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    1. Oh I'm pretty fiery on my own too, but touch my kid and, well, I do become quite the tigress. Sometimes they have to calm me down saying, Mum don't lose it, it's not worth it.

      But sometimes it is!

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  4. Oh yes, the labour part does get easier... By number 5 I had it down to 3 minutes of soreness - though I had a shocked Grandpa-midwife on my hands (the story is on http://primerascanciones.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/confessions-of-page-3-stunnah-cont_07.html if you've time).
    But the rest of it - the growing up-ness and the knocks they get on the way and then the leaving us stuff - it's all of that that hurts... and no amount of practice makes it easier.
    My Meg sings too... taught by Scottish Opera soprano Heather Ewart. Her Caro Mio Ben breaks my heart still...
    So much of your post resonates. Your daughter will finally get to sing - and when she does it will be even better for the waiting and fighting to get heard. Besos... Yx

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    1. I read your post and chuckled. I almost went for number 5 but thankfully I didn't. With the way things turned out. You've been so productive!

      And yeah, the change of tone and unfolding uncertainties and this constant billowing course of transitions, it's so damned disorienting at times. Hard to hold together and what is together now, most days? How lovely another singing daughter - is she going ahead with it? Maybe they will work together one day, gg is so full of dreams but wants to work hard.
      I know she will sing. And I know this will make her stronger. But argh! what rotten people, and so often the greatest rule breakers of them all! baci cat

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    2. Meg is in the 'still undecided' phase. But that's progress!
      She is re-applying to uni for next year (languages probably - but maybe music/english in the mix too)- in the meantime, you wouldn't happen to know anyone decent and good who needs an au pair for 6 months to a year? She's been looking - but some of the sites look dodgy (or they do to me!).
      You are right about rule-breakers. Too often the most rabid keepers of the rulebook.

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    3. ps. Just bought the book...Chapter 1 had me hooked... Yx

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    4. Sometimes they take so long to decide, don't they? I have one son like that, the eldest, probably the one I made most burdened. I'll ask a friend if she has friends seeking an au pair - my kids are too big! - or I might nose about in town.
      So glad you like ze book! Mille grazie! xxcat

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  5. What a load of nonsense! I can't believe the end of this story!! A big hug for you and your girl.

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    1. Ah thanks Teri! What a trying week. And all in the quest to sing beautiful, tragic music. We'll see what next week brings. I've had it with Italian bureaucracy!

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  6. Oh ,for God's sake. That stinks.

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  7. Poor kid. What a disappointment, to work so hard and then not even get the chance to audition. I'm furious with you.

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    1. Along with you, I meant of course.

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    2. Yes! So awful to see them up against big, painful challenges - and be absolutely, seethingly powerless. Argh!

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  8. Awe. Most beautifully written tragic requiem for a dream I ever read, but I tell you, give someone a rule book and they'll throw it at you - swines. Hope your daughter doesn't let this stall her and doesn't stop singing - even if she has to do it in the street x

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    1. Hey Rachel, haven't been around at yours for a while, good to see you. And thanks. But she won't stop singing - no danger of that - I think this will make her even more determined, and aware of the gatekeepers at first base! She has so much talent she really wants to give a it shot, and singing in the street (weddings and funerals?) is not a bad place to start working the public perhaps. Dunno, looks like I'll be the accompanist.. X

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  9. This jabbed into me right in the throat. Having only been in this type of story from the child's viewpoint, I feel like waves are crashing as I think of whether my parents felt like this at times, and I never knew it.

    I'm really sorry for both of you, and hope things get ironed out soon. I spent my first 18 years doing piano and clarinet exams, so I know too well the agony of having it hang over one's head. xoxo

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    1. Yes it was so very painful, not even letting her beautiful voice come out. Awful moments. I did years of piano exams and horrible eisteddfods (oh my Lord a Lizst duet!) so I know how she was primed. Needless to say, the director was well-meaning but useless..

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  10. My heart breaks for her. But you know what? Maybe, just maybe there is that moment in time and this wasn't it. Her time is next week. That day? Nope.

    It's the kind of thing I have to tell myself when my heart breaks for my kids. Otherwise it's too unbearable.

    And what a good mom you were to try and power around it but not to go nuts. It takes so much to walk that line when our kids are involved.

    Love.

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  11. I'm trying to think that way. Next week. Next month. I'm also quite proud that I didn't blow up, that just fractures things for everybody. Argh!! We are still on it.

    Thanks Lyra. big Italian hugs to you xx

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  12. Hi Catherine, your blog is so great!!!
    I love it, shame it's dinner time and I have to cook it. But I'll come back later, and of course I'll read your book. And yes it was a real pity we didn't have the chance to speak to each other, but you looked really great. I noticed, before our event, your silhouette from faraway in the square with your red hair flowing in the wind, you look like an actress in a French film!

    and about your post, welcome in the Italian burocracy!

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    1. Cara Patrizia, thanks for stopping by and I'm so glad you like the blog. I am looking forward to catching up with yours and I will be buying your book too - it sounds like a great, contemporary read.

      And thank you for your compliments! I was a little nervous but it was a lot of fun. Let's keep in touch!

      And Italian bureaucracy - it's very very disheartening. Xcat

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