MUM’S THE WORD
By Anna Spargo-Ryan
You know the stuff kids make in kindergarten and primary school? Hand-paintings, macaroni jewellery, Grandparents’ Day cards? I’m obsessed with it. In my shed, I keep five huge containers of things my offspring have brought home. It’s hazardous, and not just for my heart – opening any box releases clouds of ancient glitter.
I’ve never been much good at making. When I was a kid, Mum sent me to idyllic Saturday morning classes, but despite (or maybe because of) my best efforts, I never got beyond just fine. Better than stick figures… just. But my daughters’ art is a treasure trove.
When they were babies, motherhood was actually pretty boring. They squeaked and drooled and pooed. My days were spent trying to decipher the different grunts, hoping they were having a secret conversation with me. I didn’t know if they had hopes and dreams, what they thought about the world, whether they were cat or dog people (good news: they’re cat people).
But then, they talked. It was mind-blowing. Somehow, it made sense to have produced arms and legs and hair – that’s just biology. But language introduced a whole new dimension to what I understood about motherhood. I wasn’t just literally sustaining tiny versions of myself, but whole separate humans who could think for themselves and, shockingly, be better than me.
It wasn’t long before they started using other ways to communicate. They did less shouting for cheese and more drawing pictures of what they saw.
