As this is a true account of
events, some names have been changed to protect the dignity of all persons
involved.
1987.
Hair was big, attention spans were
little. Nights were long, school
uniforms were short. Morale was up, the
price of petrol was down.
A bunch of teens thought they
were indestructible. They knew
everything. Their parents didn’t
understand and their teachers didn’t care.
They were on the precipice of adulthood and their energy was unbounded.
Fast forward.
2012.
Hair was grey, memory was little. Nighties were long, breaks between bathroom
visits were short. Alcohol consumption
was up, their cleavage was down.
A bunch of Mothers knew their
kids were indestructible. They’d
experienced everything. Their parents
had given up and left town and their teachers were retired. They were on the precipice of insanity and
their energy came from Guarana and vodka.
Rewind four days.
Prances* was back in New
Zealand for a visit after living in Ireland for the last forty years. Well, not quite forty but more than ten, less
than twenty.
Pisa* had been in contact Prances
and they had caught up for a coffee. She
mentioned it to Pachael* and Pewels*; they were excited and keen to catch up too,
and so was arranged a social get-together for the following Saturday
night. This was bought to my attention in
a Facebook discussion, Pewels also mentioned that Panessa* would be driving up
from Wellington for the weekend.
Well, this seemed almost too
tempting to miss. And I made the mistake
of mentioning so in a casual Facebook comment…
I say “mistake” because I’ve
never been one with a finely-tuned will-power-button. And this is what happened last time we got together:
As soon as I made the comment
public, it was 1987 all over again.
“Do it!”
“You know you want to!”
“It’ll be great!”
“We’ll have so much fun!”
“There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing!”
"It won’t hurt,
honest!”
“Your Mum won’t find out!”
As much as I was tempted to relive my teens with some of
the best chicks ever invented, I couldn’t bring myself to spend a “girl-weekend-airfare”
on a “girl-weekend-airfare”. When I
voiced my reluctance to Pisa, she had a revelation equal to the finest prophet.
“Well, why don’t you visit your girls at the same time,
and then just pop up to see us?”
Well, why don’t you just have more ideas like this more
often, Pisa?
So it came to pass, a little plan formulated in my head,
and as soon as my girls’ dad said I could have them on the Friday night, I was
booking airline tickets before you could say “get out the Madonna album, GIRL-friends!”
*insert black-chick clicking and waving of hands here*.
Not wanting to tell Neil that:
- we had to take Murmie back to the cattery because I wanted to be a teenager again
- he had to cook his own meals on Friday, Saturday and Sunday because I wanted to be a teenager again, and
- he was going to have to buy my meals on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday for the next six months because I’d blown my money on wanting to be a teenager again,
I did a very brave thing that I find constitutes the best
form of communication in a solid relationship.
I text him at work and said “oh hey babe, I’m going to
New Zealand again in two days. Love you
xxoxx”.
NB: for Shane,
Mark, Frank, Johnny, Tim and Westie; please don’t be horrified beyond belief at
this impending woman’s-rights situation, I can…
Oooops, my bad.
I mean *cough* for Phane, Park, Prank, Pohnny, Pim and
Pestie; please don’t be horrified beyond
belief at this impending woman’s-rights situation. I can assure you that I did vacuum the
motel room, change the sheets, cook him some eggs AND massage his feet before skipping
off without a backward glance.
I text my daughters to ask if I could please have the
pleasure of their company on Friday night, then watch any school sports on Saturday morning, before heading
up to Napier on Saturday afternoon.
Padison, instead of being excited by the prospect of KFC
on Friday night, asked if she could come with me to Napier for the weekend.
Oh. My
god. This was awkward.
Paz is 15. Exactly
the same age us girls all were when we were last together collectively. Could we live up to her expectations, or was
she going to lose all respect for her mother this weekend? Knowing full well that every single one of
these old girls had no-less-than five stories about me each; (believe it or not, not all of them
flattering) I was teetering on a precipice.
On the flip-side, these girls all used to think I was
pretty cool. My daughters all seem to
spend their waking hours telling me I’m not.
Did I want to risk shattering the long-held belief of my oldest friends
and let Paz show them what I’d become?
I eventually figured “what the hell”. Weighing up the potential negatives with the
prospect of spending 8 hours total in a car with Paz grilling her about her
boyfriend, her friends, school, and Dad’s latest conquest; I threw caution to the wind. Two of my daughters might still potentially
think I was not the most embarrassing person by the end of this
weekend. 66% is better than 0%.
Realising I now had to spend a night in Upper Hutt, I
called in all my favours and asked for a bed.
Actually, to be honest, Peorge* doesn’t owe me any favours at all and in
fact I’m probably in debt so much I should offer her my first born, but she
stepped up and saved the day.
“Stay at my place!” she said. “I’ve got a spare bed!’ she said. “I’m not doing anything that night!” she
said.
Little did she know that I’d not only keep her up until
midnight, but I’d also make her late for her netball game the next morning.
Oh god I love Air Force alliances.
And so it came to pass that at 0445hrs on Friday morning
I was rising out of bed getting ready to catch a train. How the tables were turned, when I turned on
the light, Neil rolled over in bed, covered his face with the duvet, and mumbled
that would put his Mother’s parenting skills under the spotlight.
The train ride in to Central Station is normally
uneventful, but of course today was decidedly different. After yanking Neil from his peaceful sleep, I
made him drop me at the Richmond station and wait, just in case I missed it and
he needed to drive me to the airport. As
we pulled in to the McDonalds’ car park, I heard some kind of drunken raucous. Getting out and retrieving my bag from the
back seat, I thought I heard “shmcshmblahblah Neil!!!”
Looking around I see the skinniest, palest, ugliest,
drunkest teen I think I’ve ever seen in my life. (INCLUDING from back in 1987, so that’s
saying a lot). Bravely leaving Neil to
deal with him, I sprinted to the ticket booth and jumped on the train. Waving at him out my window, he heads off,
nearly running over Dumb-and-Dumber on the way out - who as it transpired, called Neil "Neil" several times, mistaking him for some bar-buddy from the night before. Called Neil. Sitting back in my seat, struggling to fight
off the tired-eyes, I decide to write some stories.
Nek minnit… drunk
man on the train. I think my pending
weekend may have affected my memory and my perception of myself, because my
first thought was “oh my GOD, *roll eyes* I really cannot be bothered with him coming up
here and hitting on me”…
99 minutes later, I’m at Sydney International thinking
“what the hell? How come drunk man
didn’t hit on me??”, well and truly on
my way to meet my girls. I fight my way
to the Koru Lounge, and even though it’s on offer, I can’t bring myself to
drink a glass of bubbly at 0720hrs.
Torika, I know, shame on me. Next time, I promise.
My flight
ends up being an hour late, so by the time I land in Wellington, get my rental
car, and get on the road, I’m in peak-hour traffic, and regretfully thinking I could
have got away with that bubbly.
Never
mind, at least the girls have finished school by the time I arrive in Upper
Hutt. Which didn’t explain why, when I
beeped and text them, Briar came out to the car in her school uniform.
“Oh, have
you just got home, B?”
“No?”
“Oh…… OK”
Silence
while I try and work this out but I come up blank.
“Well. OK. Off
we go then!”
Dinner
with Briar and Tyra at an Indian restaurant was yummy (though we all agreed –
not the best Butter Chicken we’ve had); followed
by window-shopping at Whitcoulls where we saw 136 things that they wanted and
assured me they most desperately needed; then an ice cream from The
Warehouse. Dragging time out as long as
we can until 9pm, I look at my phone and discover it’s 7.07pm.
Don’t get
me wrong – I’m not bored, but they look like they’ve been sentenced to life
with no parole. And it’s cold.
“Should we
head back to Dad’s and maybe we can chat for a bit then you can go inside where
it’s warm?”
“YEP!”
“YEP!”
“Oh… but
not because we’re bored Mum!”
After
dropping them off I went to visit Paz who was babysitting an 18 month old with
her BFF. She was pretty cute, reminded
me of Paz at the same age, until she wouldn’t go to bed. There, all similarities ended. Apparently she doesn’t have a bed time; not
only that, but her Mum told them “if she cries, it means she doesn’t want to go
to bed, so don’t make her”.
I bit my
tongue and held my Tourette’s in check, figuring it wasn’t going to affect me
in any way; just my daughter and only
for one night. I guess they can’t all be
perfect parents like me.
After
dropping Paz and her BFF home, telling her she MUST be ready by 11.45am in the
morning, and with her insisting that she would be, I headed to Peorge’s. She’d told me she normally heads to bed around
10.00pm so I didn’t want to keep her waiting.
After driving past all the street number and finding every house but
hers, on my fifth pass I was beginning to worry that the neighbours would
report me when I noticed a little street to the side. There, up the little street, was a house with
rugby paraphernalia on the doorstep. I
didn’t even check the number, there was no doubt in my mind this was the
correct house.
Feeling so
pleased with myself about knowing rugby stuff, I totally forgot to lock the
car. Lucky for me that Upper Hutt is
such an upstanding, safe neighbourhood or that could have cost me a fortune.
Ushered
inside by Peorge, she showed me to my room, where the comfiest, softest,
warmest, loveliest bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in awaited me. Figuring it was going to be a late one on
Saturday, I was glad I’d be getting a reasonably early night.
Until Peorge
offered me a coffee and we sat up solving all the problems of the RNZAF
Logistics squadron. Next minute it was
midnight and I had kept Peorge well up past her bedtime. The following morning, in case we’d missed
something, we sat around in PJs resolving the problems all over. Glancing at the time, we were horrified to
discover that we both had approximately 2.5mins to get dressed and be at our
respective netball games. NZ Defence
policy would just have to wait.
Driving to
Ty’s netball game, it pissed down with rain all the way there, but I must have
done something right in a previous life because it stopped just before her game
started. Standing on the sideline
watching, unsure who was from what team, I can only hope that I clapped at the
right times, booed at the right team, and pushed the right girl over when the
Ref was looking the other way.
Texting
Paz to warn her I was on my way, I turned up, beeped the horn, waited, beeped
the horn, waited, beeped the horn, waved to the neighbour peering out her
curtains, beeped the horn, then checked my phone.
“Just
eating some chips Mum, come inside if you want.
Would you like a coffee?”
Finally on
the road at 12.15pm, we had a great trip.
Stopping six times to wee, twice to get drinks, and once to get pies, we
arrived in Napier at about 4.30pm.
We pulled
up to Pisa’s house, and I’m not afraid to admit I’m a little nervous. I haven’t seen her since the day I got
married, and that day has been banned from my memory, so effectively I haven’t
seen her for 25 years.
What if I
don’t recognise her? What if she doesn’t
recognise me? What if she’s changed and
she’s now some rich snob dripping in Pandora with a glass of Bolle permanently
attached to her right hand?
Having
turned the car on and off about six times; having put everything in my handbag
then taken it out to check then put it back in again; having asked Paz if she’s
warm enough; I decide I can’t stall
anymore, when suddenly the front door opens.
HEL-LO
1987!!
Pisa’s
appearance has not changed one little bit (bitch) and I’m suddenly excited all
over again about the weekend ahead!
After a hug, introducing her to Paz, and taking my coat off, we get down
to the important stuff.
“Where is
the nearest bottle store?”
When
walking through the door of the little old local, it was just waiting there like
it knew we were coming. It had to be
done. Sitting there on the shelf all
proud like it remembered me from 1987.
It was the same price as in 1987.
Pink
Chardon.
Call me an irresponsible mother, but I couldn’t let the weekend go by without my 15 year old daughter trying Pink Chardon.
Before you all throw spears at me and call the Police, let me put this out there. There was one BIG difference between us drinking it at 15 and her drinking it at 15 – there was not one single wayward teenage boy in sight, and she was going to be surrounded by *cough* responsible adults.
Call me an irresponsible mother, but I couldn’t let the weekend go by without my 15 year old daughter trying Pink Chardon.
Before you all throw spears at me and call the Police, let me put this out there. There was one BIG difference between us drinking it at 15 and her drinking it at 15 – there was not one single wayward teenage boy in sight, and she was going to be surrounded by *cough* responsible adults.
Feeling
quite smitten with my awesome parenting skills, I paid my $6.25 and raised an
eyebrow at not being asked for ID.
Arriving
back at Pisa’s with our brown paper bags tucked under our arms, we were
delighted to see that Prances has arrived.
More hugs, then back inside to crack the top off our wines.
Time
seemed to fly by so fast, as we compared notes about our teen years. The upside to being old now is that half the
stories we retold each other had been long forgotten; so it was just as funny
as hearing them for the first time. I’m
pretty sure though that I actually didn’t ever “go-round-with” with that
mono-browed-freckle-faced-chubby-maths-geek-who-smells with a penchant for
skinny girls, but I let Pisa and Prances
revel in their humour for a moment so as to not embarrass them. I also don’t believe that I ever wore
Frou-Frou dresses or knickerbockers but we’ll let that one slide too, old
ladies.
Before we
knew it, we were late for Pach’s house, so off we toddled with my teen in
tow. Arriving just a little later than
we had planned, I thought perhaps the girls might have already cracked a drink
or two... but when we walked in and Pach yelled at us and squeezed Paz so hard
she nearly popped a lung, I knew it was going to be a good night. I didn’t have the heart to tell Pach that
she’d hugged the wrong generation. If
she wants to think I look 15 and freaking gorgeous, and have grown my hair 28
inches in 13 months, who am I to disillusion her?
Panessa
was just as excited to see us; and although
Pewels too reacted the same way, it took me nearly three hours to realise that
Pewels was drinking only coffee. Whether
it was my perception or her behaviour that caused this delay, I’m not 100% –
but I’m pretty sure it was her behaviour.
After all,
she’d just got back from the biggest party in Las Vegas known to man, so I’m
sticking to my theory that she was still drunk or stoned from then and I was
totally on the money. I have vague
recollections of her speaking complete common sense to my daughter, but I don’t
want to taint her reputation either.
Around
this time, Pach mentioned for the first time of the night “I can’t BELIEVE there’s
a daughter in the room!!”.
Wine
flowed, stories flowed, and Paz’s amusement at our state of inebriation
increased.
Prances
enlightened me with stories of her childbirth (well... not HER birth, but that
of her daughter Papaya*) and I was horrified by how easy it seemed. After all, she’d been present for the entire
36+ hours of labour for Paz’s birth, I would have at least expected a little embellishment
to sympathise, but no... Words like
“little twinges” and “unexpectedly, can I push now?” did little to decrease my
awe – and jealously - of her. When she mentioned that “at the worse part, the
horrible nurse took the gas off me” I’m ashamed to admit that I was somewhat
delighted, and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting to hear the words “stitches”.
Despite
the swiftness of Prances’ labour, and the various other impressive methods of
conception/pregnancy/delivery in the room, the award has to be given to Pach
for carrying and delivering twins. I
mean… I’ve done three, I’m pretty impressive – but not at once. The fact that that she’s not one big stretch
mark still amazes me.
Pisa disappeared
for a quick minute not long after we arrived, and it later transpired that my
lack of tact made her throw up.
Not
because I, too, shared my birth story – or even worse, my conception story –
but because I made a throw-away comment that I had made my entire wee family
sick one Christmas by making a smoked chicken pasta salad. Why I thought to tell Pisa this right after
she told me she was making a smoked chicken pasta salad, I have no idea. Anyhoo, I figure it was a strategic gesture,
she suddenly had more room for so much more wine. The things we’ve learned since we were 15.
Panessa
sat in the corner mainly silent for the first half of the night – mostly
because Pach was beside her and she couldn’t get a word in.
Did I
mention that Pach is the still the proud owner of those twins, who have grown
into 5 year old boys, and were present during the initial part of this
deterioration of human behaviour?
Prances and I don’t have boys so it’s like a foreign language to us...
we just watched in fascination as these two little human beings revelled in the
fact that mummy and her friends were all being absolutely hilarious (well, I
was anyway) and milked it to the absolute limits. As they were put to bed, each alternatively
came out to “get a drink” or “go to the toilet” or “cos I heard a scary noise”.
After
threatening them with “no skate park tomorrow” to which one (the blond tall
one) said “I don’t want to go to the skate park anyway” and we all thought it
appropriate to say
“well then… *cough* won’t your brother be disappointed with you??”
Pach made the most profound comment I’ve
ever heard as a parent:
“Oh my god
it’s bloody hard having twins – you have to negotiate everything twice!!”
Never have
I ever felt sorrier for one person in my entire life. Except maybe me when my mother
gave me a bowl haircut at the age of 14.
Only then did it really sink in that this woman should, for all intents
and purposes, actually be an alcoholic.
I would totally forgive her. In
fact, I’d supply her with 2 litre bottles of Sherry AND the paper bags.
Once the boys
settled and got to sleep, it seemed the right time to crank up the TV which was
tuned to an 80’s music show. Oh… and
check that my 15 year old was still talking to me. When she kissed me and assured me she was OK,
Pach may have again expressed her amazement that there was a daughter in
the room.
The music
took us back to my 15th birthday party, where Prances hooked up with
some dude, Pess got drunk, Pach gave me a cockroach as a joke, Pewels charmed
my mother and Pisa got caught smoking.
I, of
course, had been the model of perfection and had spent the night handing round
hour’douvres.
We also fondly
recalled the highlight of Napier’s 1987 – a concert we had attended not long after…
Psuedo Echo at the Municipal Theatre. “Funkytown”
had hit the charts, they were hot, we loved them, we loved their music, we were
their number one fans. The theatre was
like an old-style movie theatre so we stood on the seat backs to woop-woop them
when they did their encore. We even went
backstage after the concert and rushed them, that’s how cool we were.
As Paz sat
there looking a little embarrassed (maybe because she liked them too?) nodding
and smiling at our stories about how hot they were, we could not believe
our eyes and ears when they suddenly started playing on TV! Pach turned up the volume and after
exclaiming “I can’t BELIEVE there’s a daughter in the room!” we got down to
Funkytown.
When we were 15 and there
existed these things called video players, Pach and I had taped the music video
and there was one particular bit that we played over and over and over and over
and over again. As we got all excited
about it, Pach said “oh my GOD, I’ve got My Sky!!!” so we waited in anticipation
for the bit to come up, she Live Paused it, rewound it, played it… wrong bit…
never mind back to live TV… just in time to miss the bit that we used to watch
over and over and over and over and over again.
“Never
mind!” say’s Pach “there’s a god damn DAUGHTER in the room!”
We took
several photos during the night, for some reason Pisa’s flash new camera took a
dislike to my face and every shot she took of me came out with it blurry. I’m hoping it’s a coincidence and not some technical
feature built in that pixilates any images deemed too scary or unsuitable for
children.
Over the
course of the night, the topic veered and meandered all over the place, but
always seemed to hone it’s way back to one specific subject.
Sex. And all the reasons why the daughter-in-the-room
shouldn’t do it.
I think we
covered most bases, more than once. I
also think we’ve sufficiently mentally scarred her enough to postpone any
thoughts of coitus for a good ten years or more.
Job done,
we can go home now :-)
The next
day Paz and I caught up with some old friends (THEY aren’t old… the friendship
is… please don’t take me off the Xmas Card list Susan) then met Prances at the
park for an icecream. This is where I
got to see first-hand that she actually WAS a Mum and not telling us all fibs
about her 3 minute birth, and meet the beautiful Papaya*. There’s nowt much cuter than a four year old
with an Irish accent bossing around a 15 year old.
The plan
the night before had been to all meet at Pisa’s for dinner but to be honest I
think Paz may have been the only one that remembered; so it came as a lovely treat
to the three of us older girls.
This was
where the logistical nightmare began, and I had to draw on all of my Air Force
training and resources to get us through.
Three Mums, two teens, one pre-teen and two youngsters and not one of us
liked the same pizza topping. Well..
that’s not quite true. One of us is
fussy and likes garlic and chilli on her pizza and she was a giant pain.
We decided
to order online to save some time waiting at the store, we were all starving
and there was more wine to be drunk. Had
we known that we would have to resubmit the order eight times, start from the beginning
six times, re-enter coupon codes seven times and take over 45 minutes to complete
the order, we probably would have just sent the two teens down to the store to
do it and drank our wine.
The next
morning was an early start for the drive
back to Wellington for Paz and I, so we had no choice but to have Maccas
for breakfast. Unfortunately less than
two hours later we both needed to stop and rethink the longevity of our
McMuffin’s visit, so I kept an eye out for the classiest facilities I could
find – helloooooo Dannevirke.
There were
three people milling around the facilities so we were a bit hesitant to enter
for fear of them still being there when we emerged 25 minutes later. However needs were amust and so we retreated
to our adjoining rooms. A couple of
minutes later I emerged to find that three people had turned into about
seven. Who were now all waiting in line
for the throne I had recently abdicated from.
I went
back to the car to wait for Paz, and ten minutes later was a little
concerned. I got out of the car to go
and check on her, and am very ashamed to admit that when I saw there were still
five people waiting, I deserted her and got back into the car. A few
minutes later I received this text:
“Mum? Are you there, lol? Are you still in the toilet?”
“Mum? Are you there, lol? Are you still in the toilet?”
“Um, nope…
I’ve been in the car for about six hours now”
“Can you
come get me please?”
Worried
now that my baby had come down with malaria or meningitis, I leapt from the car
and rushed over to her cubicle, staring the queue-people in the eye daring them
to complain and ready to suggest they go find some Teena pads if they were that
bad.
“Missy, I’m
here, are you OK?”
The door
opens and Paz comes out with her hand
over her mouth.
“Ugh…. groan…
oh man… *gag gag* oh, this is awful…”
My poor
baby! How could I have been so
selfish?? Angry Birds could have waited! Just as I’m feeling like I should call CYFS
on myself, we get right by the car and I hear a little stifled giggle.
I look up
and by now Paz is in hysterics. Had she
not just spent 12 hours in the cubicle, I would have been wary of some involuntary
incontinence occurring. Getting safely
in the car, with the doors closed, well beyond the earshot of the pained
ablution-army, who were now fighting for the remaining room, I stare at Paz.
“Mum! Well, I didn’t want to come out on my own –
how embarrassing!”
I can’t
WAIT until she has children. This is not
the first time she’s publically humiliated me in an ablution block full of
people, but the Wellington-Airport-Incident-of-2001 is another story.
Dropping
her back at her Dad’s place and driving away was awful. I’d had a really good weekend with her on our
own, it doesn’t happen often enough for my liking, so I decided I’d text her
for the rest of the afternoon telling her how much I enjoyed it and how much I
missed her already. Luckily the Policeman
was looking the other way; and the petrol station doesn’t really need that many
bollards anyway.
I sat down
in the Koru Club with a glass of bubbles in my hand, reflecting on my weekend
with my girls and my girls, thinking just how wonderful it is to have family
and friends who love you for who you are.
No prejudices; no care for how much money you have or don’t have; whether you are wearing Trelise or Target; whether you drink Moet & Chandon or
Chardon; whether you lock your children in their bedroom or the garden shed.
As I
decide to pen my thoughts, and ridicule my friends so that they quite possibly would
NOT love me anymore, I hear an awful gasping noise behind me. I turn to see, sitting right behind me - but
sideways so he can see my laptop screen - the largest man I have ever been in
the physical presence of. I think I saw
a couple of moons circling him, but it may have just been a trick of the light.
I turn
back to my screen just as he starts a conversation with me.
- About what I was doing.
-
Where I was going.
-
Where I had been.
-
Where I worked.
-
If I was married.
-
If I had kids.
-
Why I was drinking bubbles at 2pm.
-
Whether I was at work or at play on my laptop.
-
What he was doing.
-
Where he was going.
-
Where he had been.
-
Where he worked.
-
If he was married.
-
If he had kids.
-
Why he was drinking Gin and Tonic at 2pm.
-
Whether he was at work or play on his laptop.
My resolve
to only have one glass of bubbles not only went right out the window, it was
grabbed by a tornado and hurled out the window.
There was only one way I was going to get through this afternoon with
this obnoxious man, and it sure as hell wasn’t being sobor.
As I
downed my fourth little bottle of bubbles, and looked around the room at all
the lucky people who by the hand of fate had been dealt awesome chair-neighbours,
I saw out of the corner of my eye a woman my age in an animated conversation
with someone.
Oh my
god. What a co-incidence.
I cannot
BELIEVE there is a DAUGHTER IN THE ROOM!!
* not her real name
