I think yesterday will be our day. Eventually all of the peripheral moments will disappear from memory, but I’ll remember the bit with you.
I’ll remember that the Doctor’s name was Rehab. I’ll remember that you needed an injection. I’ll remember the constant tonsillitis and how we woke each night for pain relief for your ear. I’ll remember how much you made me laugh in the car on the way to the hospital for your injection. You began to sing.
“They tried to make me go to Rehab and I said noooo, noooo, noooo”.
You told me what was going to happen, that the nurse would give you your injection and we wouldn’t have to wait. You walked straight to the counter, and confidently explained why you were there. You held the medication in its box, and stopped outside the nurses room. It wasn’t until we got into the room that you turned to me and said “uh oh, I’m starting to get nervous.”
Uh oh. Like it was some sort of accident. An oops. Uh Oh, this wasn’t meant to happen.
You’ve been practicing your guitar lately. You’ve sat on my bed at night strumming away, showing me what you’ve learnt. Your voice is beautiful and you have no idea. Your favourite is A Horse With No Name. You begin it over and over again, I’ve heard those first few opening lines more than I’ve heard the chorus.
On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds, and…
When you laid down on the bed, I crouched beside you and looked into your eyes. The nurses kept telling you you were very brave.
Uh oh.
I told you to look into my eyes and we’d sing together.
“The first part of the journey…”
You winced and little tears started to form. I held your hand tighter and apologized. I don’t know why. I guess because mothers want everything to be pain free for their children. I started the song again, you were saying “ouch ouch, stop it, ouch, it hurts”. I held your hand tighter and tried to distract you.
“How does it go? Sing it to me. The first part of the journey…” your little voice sang along with mine, we pretended we were home on my bed. Every-time you got distracted by the pain I’d quickly say “What comes next? What comes next?” your eyes told me to tell them to hurry up.
“Lets sing the chorus” I sounded possessed. “I’ve been to the desert with a horse with no name…” you laughed at me “it was good to get out of the rain, the desert…” That needle seemed to go on forever. She kept saying “nearly done, we’re nearly done”
And then it was done.
“Mum, I’ve got to teach you some more songs.”
You might not remember today. You might not remember the Rehab joke and how we stared into each other eyes and sang A Horse With No Name. You might not remember how we held hands when we walked back the car and you looked at me and said “thanks Mum”.
One day you’ll be big and you might not want to hold hands anymore. One day you’ll lock eyes with someone and feel the same intensity that your Dad and I feel every time we look at you. One day you might not even remember the hospital in Qatar or how we sat waiting together.
Yesterday was our day. I’ll remember the bit with you.
Sign up for the best bits here
Sign up for the best bits from our community of forty thousands expats. Every Saturday morning we’ll shoot you the five hottest topics from the world of expat.
Beautifully written. I felt a little like that yesterday too with my youngest at the doctor’s with a very painful abscess. She cried and I held her just as I used to when she was a little baby – when she didn’t spill limbs out of my inadequate arms. They may grow big, but they’re always our babies really, aren’t they?
Made me cry. So true. My daughter is 24 now. The feeling is still palpable of moments like these.
Parenting is so painful isn’t it? If only we could take the pain for them?
Oh, if only we could do it for them … all of it, from earache to heartbreak …
Of course he will remember – maybe not the details, but he will remember that you were there for him. It was our Mothering Sunday last weekend, and my son went shopping by himself and chose a card that says ‘Thanks for all the lovely things you do’ and I nearly cried. You’re not always sure that they notice or realise.
The child was very brave and so were you.
Your little travellers are so lucky to have you as a Mum, especially as a Mum who is so good at recognizing little special moments and memorializing them like this. We all think we’ll remember these things and then they slip away. Yours won’t.
How to make a girl tear up! Oh, such a bitter sweet memory to have. Love