The Walk - mother and grandmother crosswinds

Crosswinds - cirrus clouds in blue sky

They walk up the road from the beach, a new mother and grandmother together. Criss-crossing cirrus clouds stream across blue heavens, foreshadowing wind. Baby Arthur’s awake, watching Grandma Win wrestles the 3-wheel stroller over bumpy pavement. She’s becoming ‘pram-pusher-in-chief’. Your birth marks my demotion, she grimaces towards the baby. Your Mum’s the boss now, but there’s costs with new roles.

‘There were ten mums and bubs at mothers’ group yesterday,’ Alexa bubbles. ‘It was lovely catching up after lock-down. She laughs, a touch of apprehension. ‘We’ve all struggled.’

‘Are they all working mums?’

‘Well not at the moment.’ Alexa’s tone is sharp, ironic. She collects herself, chatters on about the women, all local, all learning to be mums together. ‘Did you take me to mothers’ group?’

Winifred feels herself drifting back to Sydney, to first-daughter Alexa’s birth, to anxieties fluttering in her belly. ‘I went once.’ She glances towards Arthur, remembering the fears that rattled her mind and flooded her soul. She became ‘mother’ in Sydney.

‘Only once?’

Alexa’s surprised. ‘All they talked about was babies.’

‘That’s what mothers’ groups do.’

Another flash of frustration as Alexa glances towards her mother. ‘Well, none of them knew what they were doing. I certainly didn’t, so I didn’t have much to say’. Winifred recalls that small square room, the circle of chairs filled with glowing women and herself suffocating. Sitting opposite the door, she couldn’t easily sidle out. Shrinking from the ‘I did’, ‘she did’, ‘mine did’, she smelt their nervousness; gagged on their pride.

Alexa’s ‘OMG-how-can-she-not-get-it’ look speaks volumes about them both. They’re alike, first-born Taureans, but one reaches out.

‘That’s why mothers’ groups exist. We learn together.’

‘Maybe.’

But learning means facing uncertainties and finding a way through. Winifred realises she’s conversing with Arthur. She never expected to be writing a thesis when Alexa was born but it became her space of calm. It was where she could be herself, as well as ‘mother’. Your Mum’s still looking for ways of grounding herself.

She chuckles, ‘Maybe the leap from Marx to mothers’ group was too big for me.’

Alexa rolls her eyes in her ‘that’s-so-Mum’ way. Then picks up her story about the mums she’s met.

Tree roots have dislodged pavers and the stroller bucks and bounces over the pavement. These expansive clays shrink and buckle with weather, which is why her house moves, walls crack, doors don’t shut. It’s the planet playing with us, she laughs towards Arthur. Knowing about the world makes the earth’s bumps and bounces less frightening.

He watches her, despite the stroller’s antics.

But gazing back, she remembers. Things will change and you’ll have to live through your fears. Your Mum’s doing that now, rising to that challenge. Being complacent is like refusing life.

Alexa’s chatter intrudes. Cocking an ear, Winifred hears descriptions becoming uneasy comparisons.

‘Alison’s little girl is laughing. My Arthur smiles but he’s so serious.’

‘He is serious.’ Winifred agrees, making faces at him. Don’t be too serious little boy. It’s good to play. Being open to the world’s possibilities and laughing softens your fears. You don’t want to become fearful, a man who evaporates when things get tough.

‘The books say babies smile at two months. They laugh by three months.’

‘The books are just a guide –– not performance standards.’ Winifred’s trying to waggle her ears at Arthur. She could do it as a kid.

‘I hope he’s not slow,’ Alexa mutters.

Winifred softens at her daughter’s uncertainties. ‘He’ll be fine’.

‘They say boys are slower than girls in growing and reading.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Winifred laughs, ‘Arthur’s just two months old.

Alexa’s huffy silence stretches between them –– a void to be filled. ‘Give him a chance,’ Winifred’s ‘reassure-the-daughter’ voice sooths. ‘Mother’s groups can breed anxieties.’

Arthur’s watching their dance. Your Mum’s learning, she explains, but I’ve seen children crippled by comparisons. It’s better to trust your experience and to laugh. She sticks her tongue out. Blows a long loud raspberry.

His own erupting laughter startles him. A tiny smile plays round his eyes. He belly-laughs twice more.

Alexa grabs Winifred’s arm, her squeeze warm, ‘Oh Mum.’

The Walk, first published in At what cost: An anthology, Clover Press, RMIT, 2024, pp. 97-100.