Deborah Forster

The other day my granddaughter Hazel and I were sitting on a little table before a creaky fan. We were on tiny chairs in the kid’s room cutting out rainbows when she said, ‘Nan can we have a sleepover at your house soon?’ I’d missed the last one because I was in the hospital, and she believed it was only fair to give me my sleepover.

She is a fair-minded child who likes  to have all the facts.

Last week she didn’t eat her dinner, went off to have her bath and then dripping wet, was found in the kitchen eating an icy pole. Of course, she got sprung with her little frozen snack and it was explained to her that because she didn’t eat her dinner, there was no dessert that night. And for sneaking something, well that was really bad. ‘For that you will lose your dessert for seven days.’

‘How long is that?’

‘It’s a long time, it’s seven days and seven nights.’

Hazel was sorry to hear this and protested but went to bed quietly. She has always had the ability to put things out of her mind. I hope she can hang onto that.

I have six grandchildren, three boys and three girls, though their gender matters less than their characters. They are very different. The eldest, Alfred, will soon be seven, he is studious, kind and sometimes things can worry him. He’s started writing comics. His sister Hazel is four-and-a-half, and she’s like a cat, you should always let her come to you.

Johnny  and Rosie  are nearly four, though Johnny is older. He’s a tall, fair  boy who once loved toy trains but has moved on. He’s beautiful and he squeals with delight  when he sees us, which is a lovable thing to do and he’s the only person who has ever expressed such joy at seeing me. He also loves his older cousin Alfred with devotion, to the point of saying he will fall in love only at the  exact age when Alfie falls in love. Wow.

Rosie is slightly younger than Johnny and she’s tall too, our Irish baby girl with her dark curls, blue eyes, and fair skin. When I’m talking on the phone to her mother Phoebe, my eldest child, Rosie yells ‘Hi Brown Nan!’ ( I have brown hair). She loves our old Labrador Maisy, who often goes over for a holiday with little Rosie’s family. Rose likes to rest next to Maise in front of the tele. The kindness of old dogs is a beautiful thing.

The baby of the group is Ned, who at fourteen months can walk a little. He stands with his arms out like the champion of the world. He’s fair and his face reminds me of my grandfather, he’s a sandy boy with a sense of fun. Sometimes that can be sucking textas and collecting anything from the floor for a taste, all of which must be grabbed away from him. He never gets mad about that but when he’s hungry, he arches his back and makes it hard to hold him. Because he’s number three, he can do things his brother and sister could not do at the same age, like opening colouring pens and attempting to draw. He still does the usual baby stuff, like vomiting a very ripe concoction over me recently.

And Tess is our youngest baby, coming up to three months now. Even so, she knows she hates the car with a passion, surprising in one so young. Otherwise, she’s very sweet and reminds me of both her parents, she has the indigo eyes that repeat through the family. Johnny already loves his new baby sister with a kind of wonder. Her connection with Johnny is lovely. He holds her hand when she’s getting her nappy changed and he gets her to talk to him by making little noises that she copies.

We had the sleepover and before sleep, a flower and grass potion was made in bucket with wooden spoons and stone soup in another. The kids ran under the sprinkler and did somersaults on the grass. They had an ice-cream and laughed a lot under the hot sky.

 

When my kids were these ages, I was in my thirties, and we had just moved down from Sydney where we’d been for five years. Phoebe, my eldest was a gentle little one with soft curls. A Melbourne baby.  Alice, number two, was a Sydney girl, and a tomboy in her penguin cap. She always knew what she wanted to wear and tutus, gumboots, and tops with puffy sleeves, were the priority. We had Chris almost as soon as we got back from Sydney, and he had the deep blue eyes and dark hair. He was the baby you dream of but don’t get without experience.

Funny thing is, I wanted to move back to Melbourne because I thought it was safer.  Where did I get that idea? You can’t predict idiots, but one blighted our lives for some time. Phoebe was enrolled in primary school here and Alice went to kinder. At that kinder there was a siege by a man determined to hurt children for some convoluted reason. He herded the kids out of the kinder and four of them into a small room and poured petrol on them. Alice was the  fifth and she got away from him after he grabbed her. We had no idea whose children were safe or trapped. The police rang my husband, and he drove like a maniac from the newspaper to get to the kinder. I left my baby boy with a neighbour and ran to the church hall to wait. The longest day stretched before us and then the small kids straggled one by one towards their parents who stepped forward to grab them. I saw Alice, opened my arms, and thought I would never let go of her. I can go back to that feeling easily. It has never really moved. The other kids and parents were our friends. This happened to all of us. It was the most shocking moment of my life. At the primary school, a teacher told  Phoebe’s class about it while it was happening, and of course, Phoebe was extremely worried as were other older siblings.

We were renting then while we renovated, and Alice would sit sadly on the little swing. Chris was about one when we moved into our own house. He was standing then, like Ned but was already big. His dark hair had become toffee gold. He was mucking around with balls, footy, tennis, and soccer balls, and he ate well.

It was about then we started our long line of Labradors, as we tried to settle the kids down after the siege. Dogs, cats and all the other creatures, rabbits, guinea pigs, goldfish were soothing and affectionate. A favourite was Darren the magic budgie who sat on their heads and said his name: ’Darren!’

So, when I see my grandchildren, I think of each of my children and feel relief that things are okay for them. I know they’re good parents, even when it’s hard, and that my grandchildren are nothing short of amazing. (Like all grandchildren!)

Which reminds me of  something from the Prairie Home Companion about the mythical town of Lake Wobegon: ‘Where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.’