A close shave with a dozen wise men

Sometime last century, when Grote Jongen was three days old, I suffered a classic case of the aptly-named third day baby blues. Ned Nederlander had, somewhat unwisely in hindsight, left me at home alone with our precious newborn for about an hour. When he returned, he found us both sprawled on the bed - Grote Jongen sleeping peacefully in my arms; me weeping inconsolably.

Now, poor Ned had recently accompanied me through a gruelling 27 hour labour, during which he found himself on the receiving end of some rather cruel and threatening outbursts from me.  So he was understandably tentative as he sat on the edge of the bed to ascertain the cause of my anguish, lest it be revealed that this current problem, like the exhausting labour, was also his fault.

“One day . . .”, I began, gasping between heaving sobs. Ned looked distraught. “What is it??? One day, what?”, he coaxed, possibly recalling the various accusations and warnings I had levelled at him during the delivery of his heir.

“One day, these cheeks...”, I gulped.  My hand rested gently on our son’s perfect skin, and my chest heaved. “One day these magnificent soft cheeks will be ruined by stubble; he’ll be SHAVING, and what’s more, HE WON’T NEED ME ANYMORE!!!” I wailed pathetically, unable to articulate any further details of my distress.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Grote Jongen’s gorgeous, smooth soft cheeks remain for the time being, unblemished by stubble or any other hormonal affliction.  However, it is becoming clear that his constant need for his mother is definitely on the wane. ("I told you so", I'm tempted to hiss at Ned). Of course, this separation, this not-always-gentle pushing away is as it should be. The invisible elastic that binds a mother to her child must stretch, if it is to do its job.

The mix of pain and pride that comes with this realisation is discomfiting, and definitely requiring some adjustment on my part. After all, I have sat by this boy's side through two general anaesthetics, one ambulance ride, three trips to Emergency, two broken arms, 37 stitches, five dental fillings, and 641 bandaid removals (each one more traumatic than any bone fracture), all in some 4,745 days of life.  Surely, I need to at least remain on stand-by?

Furthermore, in addition to the mandatory provision of early lessons in reading, writing, colour identification, shoelace tying and toileting, I like to think I have also contributed to his ability to argue a point, cook pasta, get lost in a good book, stay calm in a crisis, choose the best nectarine, stand his ground, be discerning in his chocolate selection and other essential life skills. Can he really be preparing to take it from here on his own??? I swallow, disbelieving.

Ned and I decided we wanted to meaningfully acknowledge Grote Jongen’s upcoming entry to adolescence.  Becoming a teenager is surely one of life’s significant gateways, and we wanted to assure him that his parents were (despite appearances) coming around to the idea that he could indeed soon “take it from here”.  The sudden awareness that we had brought him to the other side of the world, reducing his access to trusted and familiar external male role models at a time of his life when they are most needed, loomed large before us.

Having long been fans of the it-takes-a-village approach to communal child-raising, we decided to deal with our latest parenting challenge by pounding the village drum.  We e-drummed a request to a number of significant men in our lives; good and wise men of all ages whom we hoped Grote Jongen might turn to as he inevitably (at least for a few years) grows away from his own parents.  Our brief was vague – essentially it was to send him something for his thirteenth birthday that might help him on his journey through the wilds of adolescence and beyond. A quote, a photo, a letter, a talisman . . . free choice. Ideally, we hoped the contributions might also help forge a lasting bond between Grote Jongen and the said Wise Men, despite the inter-continental drift we had imposed.

They did not disappoint. On the day of Grote Jongen’s thirteenth birthday, we were able to present him with a box of mysterious envelopes and packages; the consolidated wisdom of men who our whole family is incredibly fortunate to have in our lives. Ned and I were not granted access to the words contained in the offerings – that will remain between the Wise Men and Grote Jongen, which is a shame really, as I’m quite sure there’s a book in it.  That secrecy is part of the “let him go, he’s learning to live on his own” training to be endured by us as parents. It’s both beautiful and dreadful, excruciating and exhilarating to experience. 

Yet, even without knowing the details of the dispatched wisdom, we have watched in wonder throughout the last week as our fledgling sat and pored through his box of treasures. He smiled, his brow furrowed, he laughed, his lips twitched, he sighed, and at times he looked quite overcome. He deigned to show us various books he’d received, ranging from “Oh the Places You’ll Go” by Dr Seuss to “Nineteen Eighty Four” by George Orwell. He looked positively smug as he showed us a stuffed Gruffalo that one of my favourite Wise Men had dispatched, and then left us completely in the dark as to its significance. That particular Wise Man has even written directly to me to blatantly and insensitively taunt me about my innate control freak tendencies and to speculate on how I must be coping with my son’ secrets. Not at all well, although I'll never admit that...

Ned and I are overwhelmed by the generous response, and so grateful that we overcame our initial hesitation to request it. I don’t think I’m imagining things when I say that I can detect a very subtle change in Grote Jongen since the Wise Men answered our drum.  He’s more mellow, less angry. Perhaps even a little meditative. There's a new tolerance of parental presence in his vicinity, I hopefully think.  I swear I can detect a slightly more confident bearing. He seems taller somehow. There might even be the slightest swagger developing...

Why might that be? I can only conclude that just because we don’t require our junior warriors to prove their emerging maturity by enduring weeks of self-sufficiency in the wilderness (perhaps without social networking tools), or by slaughtering a wild beast (albeit without a fully-charged game controller), or climbing to the top of a mountain (carrying fifty kilograms of mobile phones) doesn’t mean that they don’t need the acknowledgement of the wise men in their village.  They do; they need to feel part of a safe and varied circle of men. And their mothers need to have confidence that the circle is wise and good and compassionate and reliable and trustworthy.

The newborn that slept so peacefully on that London bed in 1999 while his weeping mother drowned in hormones, knows absolutely now that he is part of a safe circle of men. His mother knows it too, and is feeling much better about what she has to do next.

But she still doesn’t want him to shave.

Still wet behind the ears

Avid readers of The Low Down may recall that within days of moving into our Amsterdam abode, we experienced a basement flood of near-biblical proportions. A burst pipe in our absent neighbour’s house turned our guest room, study  and storeroom into something resembling the lost city of Atlantis.

Five months later, with the gentle lapping of water against our precious belongings a distant memory, we were preparing to embark on a summer break in Tuscany with our regular family holiday companions, the Broken Hill-billies.  With thirty minutes remaining until we needed to depart for the airport, Ned Nederlander discovered what could only be described as “a big puddle” in the basement and a disturbing drip coming from the boiler.  Survival instincts kicked in; flood or flight? An almost unbearable decision.

Readers should note that European domestic boilers are possibly one of the most intimidating of all appliances, combining complex electrical engineering principles with the temperament of a tired toddler and the predictability of a drunken unicyclist.  They are simply not to be meddled with. Ned and I could no sooner have turned the thing off than we could have shut down a nuclear reactor.  

Now, the Hill-billies are great friends of several decades standing.  They have weathered many previous melt-downs with us, along with occasional instances of marital fission.  As Ned and I struggled to retain our composure, the Hill-billies sensitively picked up on the imminent fallout, and before you could say “chain reaction”, they had grabbed De Jongens, their passports and bags, and headed to the airport, gaily farewelling us with promises of postcards and a souvenir jar of olives.  As they disappeared out of sight, Ned and I briefly entertained the idea of putting a bucket under the boiler before running away together for a romantic week in Mauritius.

Instead we activated a dizzyingly complicated barrage of instructional text messages, phone calls, emails and heartfelt pleas to friends, plumbers, neighbours and landlords.  That took us just enough time to ensure that the Hill-billies shepherded De Jongens through check-in, baggage drop, passport control and hundreds of duty-free shops at Schiphol without the need for Ned or I to be involved in any way. We figured that was almost as good as a week in Mauritius, so we decided to join them on our planned Italian family adventure after all.

The next ten days were spent trying not to think about what might or might not be happening back home in our basement. Aquatic reminders were everywhere.

For example, at our farm-house hideaway in the hills above Lucca, De Jongens made the most of the swimming pool in the olive grove.  They were unaware of the mental anguish they were causing me with their constant refrain of “I wish we had a swimming pool at our house in Amsterdam”.

In Florence, while other tourists marvelled at Renaissance masterpieces featuring countless images of cherubic archangels, I saw only ark angels. 


The Ponte Vecchio in Florence

Venice

A charming Venetian gondolier emphasised the convenience of being able to moor a boat at one’s front door, and sometimes inside one’s front door. My blood pressure soared. A fellow ferry passenger on the Grand Canal regaled us with stories of flooded houses and the associated need to build new upper storeys as previously-dry basements succumbed to the murky lagoon waters.



Each time someone farewelled us with an “arrivederci”, I heard “a river Dutchie”.

Venice

An enormous information board in front of the Venice campanile outlined innovative new flood control measures for the famous piazza.  The board included photos of grave-looking engineers standing in ankle-deep water in front of St Mark’s Basilica, and I’m sure I looked pretty grave myself as I struggled to rid my mind of my own domestic flood imagery.


Kleine Jongen at the helm

Terror on the Cinque Terre

On top of all that, Ned and I were exposed to a steady stream of whinging from De Jongens, which at times felt like a raging torrent. The cause of their complaints varied, but essentially they were afraid that they would drown in culture, the poor things.  They were bored with being pumped full of useless explanations about the incredibly boring and irrelevant Renaissance, they were sick of swimming against the endless tide of tourists, they were being unfairly and unreasonably flooded with religious history, their holiday was awash with art they neither liked nor cared about.

Cinque Terre

Ned and I simply fed them another gelato and ignored their wishy-washy complaints.

Despite the mental anguish caused by such constant watery images, Italy proved to be an extremely pleasant place to contemplate our aquatic future.  In contrast to the lowlands, it was hot and dry – really hot and really dry.  The food was fabulous. The wine was copious.  The architecture was astonishing.  The sense of history was at times overwhelming.

Sadly, our sense of aquatic dread as we returned home was huge.

Lucca

 It was heightened by a meeting with our elderly neighbour - yes, she of the burst pipe fame - about 100 metres from home.  “Oh hello dear”, she smiled, “I hope you’ve had a lovely holiday.  I have a few things to tell you”.  We were in the middle of a pedestrian crossing on a busy street, moving purposefully in opposite directions, calling politely to each other over our shoulders. But I froze when she said “My basement has filled with water again, but I’ll have to tell you about it later. Cheerio”. That would be the basement that shares a common internal wall with our own basement.



Venice

Ned and I momentarily contemplated returning to the airport and taking the first flight to Mauritius. But, with the Hill-billies by now on a flight back to Australia, we would have had to take De Jongens with us, so we dismissed that as an option and bravely continued our homeward journey. You can’t imagine how gingerly we entered our house, how expectantly we sniffed the air for evidence of ark angels, how reluctantly we descended the stairs to our basement to find... a floor as dry as a Tuscan road. Not a drop to be seen.

We soon realised that the desperate series of phone calls, emails and text messages sent before we left for the airport had generated the required chain reaction.  A plumber had managed to get into our house to assess the situation; he had expertly turned off the intimidating boiler; he had recognised that the said boiler needed a major overhaul; he would be back to conduct the necessary repairs and reconnect the hot water . . . in three days from now.

I have decided not to fret about our temporary lack of hot water, nor to make waves by asking why it was not fixed during our ten day absence.  Instead, in the hours I saved today by not having a shower and not doing the required six loads of holiday washing, and while looking forlornly out the window at Amsterdam's wet and chilly attempt at summer, I embarked on some detailed research into the possibility of squeezing in one more holiday before school resumes.

So I might just get to Mauritius after all.