It’s that time of the year, busy with Christmas preparations, end-of-school services, speech days, and a graduation:
Our eldest has finished school. Hard to believe, really, as I still think of our family as looking like this:
But no, this isn’t us anymore. Somewhere along the line, we’ve changed. I didn’t notice the changes, not a single one of them, so I don’t know when or how it happened, just that it has: we have grown up.
And it took only a few short, and increasingly shorter, years.
I’m sure it was only a couple of years’ ago that I was huddled inside the ladies’ loo at the Royal Hobart Hospital watching that second pink line on the pregnancy test appear. Soon after, we were allowed a peek:
July 1995
Surely, it wasn’t that long ago that I stood in the shower and ran my hand over the bulge rising from my pelvis. And it was only a couple of Christmases ago that I posed on the verandah of our first house proudly showing off my bump.
It was only a few years’ ago, wasn’t it?
As a child, I remember time ticking in slow-motion towards big events like the Royal Show, a plane flight, or Christmas, as I counted off the days, one-by-one, wishing the big day would just hurry up and come.
That’s how I awaited the birth of our children — impatient and itching to meet them. It seemed to take forever until I held them in my arms:
But since then, I’m sure the clocks have sped up. (I have this as-yet-unproven theory that it’s all due to global warming causing the world to spin faster.) Anyway, for us the time has whizzed by like an express train, as it does when you’re having fun. And the fun hasn’t stopped — the present we received at the birth just kept on giving:
On and on, milestone after milestone, more and more happy times.
First day at school:
Learning to write:
More of these gifts-that-keep-on-giving arrived, one after the other (I was slightly addicted), until we had four of them:
Meanwhile, our eldest kept growing taller:
And singing:
And playing clarinet:
In about 388 school assemblies and concerts.
Even when she learned to drive it didn’t hit me that she was growing up:
After all, this was the girl who’d travelled to Brisbane at ten, to New Zealand at fourteen, and to France at sixteen — all without her parents. Encouraged by us, I might add. ‘Go off and see the world,’ we said. Back then, at least we knew that she would be returning to the nest, but we didn’t see what we were setting ourselves up for in the future …
So, while I was distracted by her life, I forgot to notice that at sometime, she’d gone from this:
To this:
Time had ticked forwards and taken her with it. In fact, it had shifted all of us along with it so that we’re no longer a young family — we’re now an almost-grown family.
The day of graduation dawned warm and sunny, as December days tend to do in Perth. The auditorium filled with excited Year Twelves who had wriggled into their school uniforms for the last time. The ceremony passed smoothly and predictably, with speeches and song and applause, until towards the end, our daughter began to play her clarinet. My eyes and those of my husband filled. This is it, I thought. She’s leaving school. She’s all grown up!
So school is over for her. Finished and no more. Onwards and upwards. And interstate, she says.
Excuse me? Did you say interstate?
Yes. But you knew that, she says.
But that was before. When it wasn’t so … so imminent.
Part of me wants to keep her here, around our dinner table, under our roof, so we can stay together as a family and I can still pretend we look like this:
But I won’t — I’ll let her go. I’ll stand at the airport and wave her off, just as I did when she went on her student trips. And I’ll wait here for when she returns, whenever that will be, and I’ll hope that it’s often and for a long time. And I’ll keep reminding myself that this is what I’ve encouraged her to do and be — to go out and experience as much of the world as she can, while she can. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Really, I wouldn’t. Just give me a little while to get used to it.
And if you’re looking for me, I’ll be in with the photo albums, remembering times like this:
And when she wrote this:
And having a little weep.
This blog is too beautiful for words, Louise. Indeed, a loving and wonderful homage to your children, and to your oldest daughter in particular – and I’ll leave the last words to Bob Dylan, from his song – You’re a Big Girl Now – “Time is a jet plane, it moves too fast.”
Thanks, Marlish. I’m feeling a little sentimental at the moment, wanting to turn back the clocks and do it all over again …
Those years seem to pass so quickly. Just as well to have the photos, which bring back memories.
I love my photos, Charles. Luckily, I took about three million of them — I am only slightly exaggerating!
Are you back from overseas? If so, might we see you next Sunday at Iris’ BLPG meeting?
Thanks for dropping by. x
Gorgeous Louise. I can hardly imagine a time when I will be in a similar position but I know it will creep up on me far too quickly and suddenly, just as it did for you. In some ways I so want to keep them all as babies, but then I also think it will be wonderful to see what they grow into and become. Just not too quickly!
It will be upon you before you know it, Natasha! I know what you mean about bottling them as babies, and you’re right, it is wonderful to see them grow and develop into themselves. I cherish every memory, even the sleepless nights and the tantrums. All of that’s paled into insignificance now …
I wish you and your family happy healthy life with all the best to you and your
love one.
Thanks, Hassan.
Just beautiful…
Thanks so much, Amanda.
Your children are very lucky to have had a good experience at this school. I wore the ‘Snildas’ uniform for 12 years (only one girl in my year was there longer; she went to the kindergarten as well). To this day I cannot look at the blue and grey attire without feeling repulsed. If I see a gaggle of girls in this uniform in the street I have to look away. The sight of my niece’s blazer on the chair (she also went there) used to make me gag.
On returning to the school for a reunion several years ago, I could barely walk through the now (much diminished) grounds. There were no memories I could put my finger on, just an overwhelming feeling of revulsion and repulsion. I do remember my sister cutting her knee on an antcap in the Junior School, and being unable to stop the flow of blood. She still has the scar.
I won’t continue as I realise this is nice milestone for you and yours. If the school has been a stepping stone for your child then that’s a good thing.
Dixie, that’s really awful to hear. You obviously had a really bad experience if you’re still feeling the effects so viscerally after all these years. I’m sorry that I’ve inadvertently brought these memories back for you.
Take care.
Louise.
Thank you for such rich sharing of beautiful memories, Louise. I had tears in my eyes as I read your post. I’m sure you’ll continue to delight in your maturing family through each new stage.
Thanks Maureen. I’m sure we will. It’s just that each new stage requires adjustment, don’t you think?
Beautifully put together. Now you not only have your memories, but you also have a written and pictorial record to peruse whenever you get the notion. Izzy will love having a copy of it some day to show to her children. Preserved for family history.
Thanks, Betty. You’re right — it’s so nice to have these moments recorded. I went a bit overboard with Issy — I’d hate to think how many photos and hours of video we have of her, as you do with your first child. One day, I will sit and sort through it all. I did make a smallish photo album for each of the children — Issy’s was filled within the first year, #2 took a couple of years to fill, #3 was school-age, and poor #4’s is as yet unfinished — he’s nearly eleven …
She did have a giggle when she read the post, even at the photos of her nude!
Oh, it must be so hard to see your children grow up and become independent – even as you want them to do exactly that. She looks like a beautiful and accomplished young woman. I bet she’s hoping none of her friends see this blog post though! Love the photo of you with your bump -gorgeous.
Thanks, Annabel. We think she’s beautiful — so glad you agree! And luckily, I don’t think her friends read my blog …
Naw I wish someone had written this for me! You’re a Mum in a million. And all your children are gorgeous. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks, Em. There are millions of mums like me, and better, don’t worry. I’ve made my fair share of mothering mistakes, but at least my kids all know how important they are to me.