The 11th of February is my mother’s birth-day, and I realise there are memories that only she and I shared, and while I can still tell stories of our lives together, her input is no-longer available to me.
In 1987 I was pregnant, and my eldest was crawling. Busy getting dinner ready for a party, I was rushing around the kitchen. Back then, the house hadn’t been renovated, and the fridge was 10 metres or more across the room from the stove and benches.
Back and forth I went, pulling out what I needed from the fridge, I was hurrying to finish my preparations. Andrew in his baby blue jumpsuit was exploring the kitchen. At one point, I looked up and noticed my son was nowhere to be seen. Worried, I looked in the lounge, but no, he wasn’t there. Anxiety mounting, I couldn’t understand where he would be, and began to panic.
Then, the fridge door caught my eye and I could see it was slightly open, and there, at the bottom of the door, two little blue feet dangled. In surprise, I opened the fridge to find Andrew had hoisted himself up using the shelves of the door but, with his weight, it had swung closed. Caught between the shelves and the door he just held on, but with no cry of distress to alert me to what had happened.
Barely able to stop laughing, my son on my hip, I rang my mother in Queensland to share the moment. There was joy in the telling and pleasure in the shared laughter, but once the story had finished, I realised the woman on the other end of the phone was not my mum. She didn’t have a European accent. I had dialled the wrong number, and by coincidence, had called a woman who also had a daughter with a child. Recognition of my mistake and my spluttering apology brought further laughter for both of us.
Now I had another story to share with my mother and more laughter to add to our bond.
Burnside Writers Group 