Yesterday, my 33-year-old family crossed the imaginary finish line when our youngest turned 21.
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Marathon. Preparation. Preparation. Preparation.
His sisters would argue that he got the best of us, but looking through an old red suitcase filled with photos, I'd have to disagree. We all got the best.
My training/preparation consisted of two, 20-minute meditations a day, for 10 days.
It was either meditate or medicate. I took the high moral ground.
Next, all last week, I played music that worked and spoke to me of summer…through summer music master, Chris Rea … BB Was a Comanche … guitar homage to BB King (google it).
Finally, I fuelled the fire with loads of fruit and red meat and went gin-free.
You can see I was serious.
I had protested the 21st party concept. We'd done three 18ths and avoided 21sts, till last night.
Highlights of 18ths … sisters and his, included dragging tearfully drunk young women out from under our bed, Charlie's amazing mirror ball in our living room, allocating the bluestone in our garden corner as ‘vomit rock’ and watching Booey, Ed and Tristan somehow get down our back steps … calling “Thankyou Mrs Blewett” drunkenly from the dark … I love a good set of manners.
Eight days ago, as the temperature quivered at 30 degrees, my amazing mathematically-strong husband helped me figure exactly how much cake batter I needed two fill two, 23cm square pans. A lot.
This 21st would require more than my usual flourless chocolate cake. Enter Ruth Reichl Big Chocolate Cake from her book, 136 Recipes That Saved My Life. A 12-egg monster.
In the middle of the heat and fuss, I went upstairs and opened my nanna’s old red suitcase; an archive of us, a suitcase filled with photos and other ‘stuff’.
First thing I found was a drawing of rainbow me .. “Thankyou for my new pencils mum,” love.
Underneath the veritable volcano of children's memories I found a cream envelope from the summer of 1974.
Three letters in an olive green, tissue-lined envelope. They were handwritten by my first, true summer love, David.
Whisperings of the Beach Boys and Jervis Bay. A privilege.
It was photos that dominated the box. I've taken many hundreds
The photos tell our story.
When I reflect on our family life, too often I am drawn to the absolute struggle for survival that has been working, educating, cooking and feeding. It's the family food I really miss, but that's another column.
The suitcase reminded me to lighten up. Most of the past 25 years have been spent smiling. Lucky us.
Without realising and certainly with absolutely no filing or organisational systems, those photos, letters, children's art, notes, drawings et al, were the finest, curated history of us.
The photos tell our story.
Of course, I didn't plan it that way. Didn't ever think what it would be like to have such an accurate reminder of the beauty (and occasional beast) of family life.
Also, as part of my ‘preparation’, this column was written well before last night.
I can't tell you what I wore, but I struggled with the bloody theme, One Night In Vegas. A friend suggested gold lame.
Frankly, while I've always been partial to long legs, a c-cup and gold lame, I'm feeling a little more linen, flat shoes and dd-cups.
I wasn't at all prepared for these 33 years a parent, but if I'm truly lucky, there'll be 33 more and another suitcase.