My boys no more

I recall Mia Freedman writing about her boys, and at every stage of their lives she felt like she was losing a big love as they grew into the next version of themselves. I nearly met her last year when a recruiter offered me a role that would inevitably mean I would have needed to step into her shoes as she stepped back from her other precious baby, Mamamia. As much as I thought it would be too much, so did she and I didn’t score the interview, someone with tenured magazine experience rightly did. But I would have liked to meet her, I think we would either instantly hated each other seeing the flaws we detest in ourselves clearly in the other, or be drawn together in empathy for being more emotional about this life than the Sydney delusionists like to deal with. 

My boys are now young men, more than a head taller than me and my husband at 14 and 16. This site was a dedication to them, a log of their childhood and our family’s misadventures. It is hard to believe this adventure that, at times, felt like it was dragging on forever, is nearing its end. I can now see myself saying goodbye to them at an airport more clearly than I can remember the long nights feeding and reading novels on my phone from 3-5am.

Like my older neighbour Jackie said to me “Don’t wish the time away, it goes by in a heartbeat.” And like parents before and after me I never quite understood, until now when it has nearly passed, and indeed in what feels like a blurred flash. 

I am still working as hard as ever and I am feeling the regret already, if only I had spent more time with them, if only, if only, if only. All is not lost though, not yet. My 16 year old is becoming this deep, calm and interesting human that is suddenly interested in novels, not just sport! So we are discussing literary greats and novelists that I love. I have dusted off my library searching through the bookcase for old penguin classics I have scattered amongst modern favourites like Khaled Hosseini, Margaret Atwood and Liane Moriarty. 

My youngest is going through the “my parents suck” phase so he’s not as vocal, but I can still sneak in big hug while he watches his phone over my shoulder, or a kiss goodnight as he moves his playstation headphones off one ear. He is also playing guitar and I sometimes hear my favourite foo fighters riffs resonating through his often closed door. He is learning ‘Come Alive” I hear because of me. 

One thing (I think) I am proud of is both are still very honest with us, so honest I sometimes squirm! I am hearing about all their exploits and new “interests” if you know what I mean. Our dinners out have become hilarious and known for Mum asking questions she shouldn’t and finding out more than what she bargained for. It often ends in hushed voices and everyone laughing either from embarrassment or bewilderment, but these nights are so precious right now and the best fun.

It is a new phase and they are definitely feeling a lot less like my boys, but while I miss their innocence and naivety, I can’t help but watch on with wonder as they form into adults, with their own opinions and ways that are wholly separate from Mum and Dad. I know there will be another phase soon and this one will be gone as quickly as the last. Luckily I can bottle some of this pure joy here, so I don’t forget who they were and are becoming.  

As is the case with every parent, we’ve not been perfect, but all I can hope for is that we’ve done enough to set them up for a long life of learning and love. 

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The Last Anniversary adaptation brings all womens’ hopes and dreams into one beautiful series

Liane Moriarty is a genius in my eyes. She bottles the fears and dreams we all have into the most intriguing characters that seem to be a reflection of every woman I know. I read The Last Anniversary a few years ago now and loved it along side The Husband’s secret, What Alice Forgot and Big Little Lies of course amongst many others. I love the familiar surroundings, the parts the Australian landscape plays in her stories, the leafy north shore in What Alice Forgot, the northern beaches in Big Little Lies and of course Scribbly Gum island in The Last Anniversary inspired by Danger Island on the Hawkesbury river, north of Sydney. 

All mean something special to this Sydney born-and-bred reader of the same vintage as Liane herself. But I wonder if we share the same experience of Danger Island. I was only 15 when I went there for the first time. I had all the hopes and dreams of a fun, exciting and successful life in front of me. My short stay on this island seemed to only confirm all this with certainty when a very tall and confident 17 year old boy, likely illegal by today’s laws, made a play for me. Passionate kisses and promises ensued, and the start of my first big love began at this strange little place with one corner store and an irregular ferry or tinny to the mainland. 

Watching The Last Anniversary come to life today in a new series on Binge / Foxtel brought my own teenage dreams back to me as I watched the characters faces, their own unrealised hopes, and shocking losses etched around their tired eyes. The two sisters at the centre of the story, Connie and Rose, are beautifully captured by Angela Punch McGregor and Miranda Richardson. And Sophie, who’s “not as I planned it” life is intercepted by her one-time connection with the elder sister, is both empathetically real and pitiful all at once with Teresa Palmer’s skilful characterisation.

The first episode can’t go by without mention of the intrigue and emotion created by Claude Scott-Mitchell’s imaginings of Grace, Connie’s grand-daughter. My own bewilderment at child-birth and loss sprang into my eyes as I watched these women struggle with three different dimensions of being or not being a mother. I didn’t even know why I was crying as nothing bad was happening but such is the power Moriarty in creating characters that represent all of us so accurately, and all the stages of our lives all at once in one beautifully told story. 

I don’t want to give away the mystery or even ruin episode one for you, I just want to celebrate that another beautiful production of a Liane Moriarty novel is with us to enjoy. I only met her once and shared with her that I’d wished I’d written more, and she signed my book “tell your story, Liane”. Thank you for writing Liane, and for continuing to inspire me to do the same. 

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