Laughter, Anger, Tears, Joy; Ah Life!

 I woke to my nine-year old godson Skippy peeping at me from under the donna, his cheeky smile turning to laughter when I grinned at him.

 Following the essential tickle attack we got up and I tried to keep his storytelling to a dull roar as he built a land of Lego.

 His twelve-year-old sister Ya-Ya woke and joined the Lego development team. I brought in Nibbles our pet ferret who busily tried to nibble us amongst squeals of fear and laughter.

 This of course woke my son who, at fourteen, felt less jocular at being woken. At being asked to complete an overdue chore he had a tantrum instead and kicked over the rubbish bin.

 Sighing at the disappearance of my sweet son into this lanky grumpy teenager I quietly disconnect the internet until he was able to evaluate and change his behaviour. Fortunately he does so quickly and happiness reigns again.

 A Lego competition ensues with creation and destruction, laughter and arguments. I am one of those adults who love playing with kids, teasing out their creativity, laughing with them, wrestling, tickling. Bliss!

 A little later I went outside to check my car. It had overheated the day before. Within an hour tears leaked down my face. Head gasket blown, car buggered, third car disaster in eighteen months.

Having left my career in psychiatric nursing, busily trying to become a writer I’ve got no dosh. For a moment I feel overwhelmed. We live up a mountain down a valley with no public transport. Sigh.

 But I find these days’ tears dry quickly over such matters. All I had to do was walk back in the house and soak in the moment.

My son. Though we walk the path of raging hormones nevertheless we get along extremely well.

 Skippy. A week earlier we travelled to watch him compete in gymnastics.  When he stood on the third place box I shouted an enthusiastic cheer despite my son reddening in shame at his mothers carry on. Everyone’s so dastardly quiet at these things as if the kids were at the Olympics already.

 But how could I not cheer. I was there nine years ago when he was born three months too early. I held him as they prepared the humidicrib, anxiously looking at his little ET face. He was frowning, he looked…scared.

 I whispered into his ear

 “Welcome little fellow. I know you’re early, I know you’re scared but we love you so much. I love you. Hang in there…”

The nurses took him placing him in the crib, attaching wires.

 Nine years later there he stood, still smaller than the others but spunky as, with a beaming cheeky smile and energy to burn despite the three-hour comp. I had many more cheers in me but I didn’t want my son to die of embarrassment as he assured me this was quite possible.

 Yep, the car be broke, the bank balance is zilch, and I have no idea if anyone will want to read what I write. Like my son I too am stuck in hormonal rollercoaster land, at the other end, and so daily find my mood swinging like a pendulum on acid.

 But unlike my son I’ve been around a while.

 I’ve learnt that the ups and downs of finances, machines, and things simply not going the way I might want is irrelevant to whether or not I can be happy. Even my mood swings accepted in context can’t diminish the inner sense of joy.

 A day of laughter with a scatter of tears, a moment of anger, and more laughter. How perfect for under it all lies the joy of being;

 Being above ground, breathing the air, celebrating the children, their success’s, their attempts. Discovering still my own latent potentials.

 Learning more everyday of the magic of being and of being together.

 Ah life. Laughter, joy, anger, tears, and love.

 Bring it on!

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