Flying

“Bye mum,” you say, and with one last quick hug you’re gone. I want to hold on forever, but too late, you’ve slipped from my grasp. I watch as you walk away in slo-mo, long hair flying behind you, long legs taking you further and further away from my reach. You don’t look back, but I can feel the smile on your face, the excitement as you face this new challenge.

We’re all a matter of chance, a particular egg, a scramble of sperm that fight it out to see which one will get there first. And the timing has to be just right. Your conception was the result of a one-night stand at the end of a four-year obsession on my part. I still don’t know why he chose to spend that night with me, but by the time I understood the consequences, he’d already left for Australia.

For a time, I ignored the signs, not that there were many, no morning sickness, just a lack of the monthly curse. I can’t explain the panic I felt when I eventually saw that thin blue line. By then it was too late to do anything but move forward.

And so, I waited for you, on autopilot, never really believing that you were there. I didn’t prepare, didn’t plan, other than to tell work I needed them to keep my job open. Some prepare the nursey, buy all the clothes as soon as they know. Not me.

As my time grew close, I tried not to think about what was about to happen. There was something large in there, and it was going to come out soon. And it would hurt.  I refused to make any birthing plans; I’d seen others make such plans that had to be discarded as events took over. I decided what will be will be. I didn’t think how you fit into my life, how I would cope after your birth. I had no idea what difference you would make to my life.

Then there was the day, when I finally felt the urge to do something. In a dream, I waddled to town and bought a few cheap clothes from the charity shop and a pack of nappies from the supermarket. Later that night I realised you were on the way. In a panic I got together a few things in a bag, the sort of things you should pack weeks before, and when I knew there was no going back, I called for an ambulance; there was no one to drive me.

I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d been to no ante-natal class, so the next few hours were a blur. Somehow my body knew better than me and you arrived by breakfast time the following day, 18 years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days ago. One look at you, this tiny scrap of helplessness, and I was lost. You were mine, and it was up to me to make sure that you survived each day, me who had trouble keeping house plants alive. Not having any experience of babies, I can tell you that was one scary time. What did they think they were doing, giving me a baby to look after? I’d have had more assessment if I’d been adopting a cat.

But somehow I managed. Those first weeks, where anything other than looking after a new-born was a bonus, passed in a blur. Then came the night when I woke at five in a panic; you hadn’t woken me that night, and I thought I must have failed you. But you were fine, and I realised you knew more about babies than I did, you knew it was about time you slept through the night. Sometimes anyway.

Things got harder when I went back to work, but I needed the money. The first time I left you with the childminder was the worst. You looked at me as if I had betrayed you. Up until then, it had just been the two of us, and now I’d handed you to this stranger. You looked at me, and your bottom lip trembled as I rushed off before I had chance to change my mind. I worried all day, but when I picked you up, I found you’d been fine. I’d cried more tears than you.

Over the next few years, money was really tight. Work was my days, but you were my home, my weekends, my life. I didn’t do nights out, we didn’t do holidays. Seeing you grow was what mattered. I remember all of your milestones. When you first smiled at me was so precious. When you rolled over was a dream. When you sat by yourself a triumph. And with your first steps, when you discovered those wonderful things called legs, there was no stopping you.  And your first words; the delight when you’d see me and say ‘mama’ and reach out with those chubby arms. Too soon you learned ‘no’ and the desire to make your own decisions, to be independent.

Your first day at school I was so proud of you in your little uniform, proud of the way you squeezed my hand, but went in anyway, slowly but in a determined way. You didn’t look back that day either. And the smile on your face when you came out, when you knew you’d got past that first day. You couldn’t wait to go back the next day.

You were a sponge back then, soaking up everything that teachers could teach you. You weren’t top of the class, but you were close enough.

We still struggled for money, but not as bad as when I had to pay for full time childcare. We even managed the occasional holiday, though not every year, and never abroad. You had interests. You started ballet classes, and I remember going to see your first show. There were eight of you on that stage, but I only saw one.

And before you knew it, it was time for you to go up to senior school. How did that happen? When did it happen? At first you worked well, continuing what you’d started, and you also started drama class, learning to act, learning to act up when it suited, as if you weren’t good at that already. But as hormones increased, hormones with their mixed messages, you began to push the boundaries, seeing how far you could go.

School work suffered, as you allowed hormones and others to influence you. You railed against everything, and I let you; I didn’t want you to rail against me as well, you were all I had. Remember when you refused to select what subjects to study for year 9? I wrote all the options on bits of paper and spread them on the table. So though you wouldn’t pick what you would study, we managed the task by selecting a bit of paper and throwing it away for the subjects you hated most until we’d got the required number of subjects left.

Eventually you railed against these false friends too, decided you liked being a success more than you relished being a failure, and turned it around in time for your GCSEs. You somehow got the grades you needed and then you had to decide, what next? You’d enjoyed the reward of those grades for your hard work. It made you feel good. You’d go to college to study for A levels, and you got good grades there too. 

So now begins the next part of your life. You’re off to university, and tomorrow will be the first day of that new adventure. You will make new friends, learn new skills. We’ve been to the halls of residence, dropped off your clothes, your pots and pans, some food to keep you going. Now it’s up to you. I’ve done my best over the last 18 years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days. You’ve been my whole life in that time, but tonight I will go to my lonely home, pour myself a glass of wine, and look forward to Christmas, when you’ve promised to come back with your dirty laundry.

Do I regret my choices back then? How can I regret that one night, my decision to keep you, young as I was? To regret any of those things is to regret having you, and as I watch you fly away from me, I don’t regret that for a moment.