That Question

Today was 34C with an unpleasant north wind that angrily rattled every single door in this little house of ours, forcing us inside and out of the dust and heat.

I'd woken up with a migraine at 5am and very v-e-r-y carefully climbed out of bed at 9am, knowing - and fully appreciating - that Sapphire would already be up, have made her breakfast and be busying herself at her desk creating greeting cards, singing to the rabbit or playing her Nintendo. After more pain relievers and a strong cup of coffee, my face slowly unfolded so that I could sort of peer outside through the sliding doors without flinching at the rays of sun shining through the trees.

Today was going to be a stay-at-home day. For financial, physical and meteorological reasons.

Milly sulked in her beanbag, occasionally deigning to throw me some reproachful glances every now and then to remind me that I hadn't taken her out for a walk. I instead walked into our tiny study and sat at the desk, already starting to sweat unbecomingly from the stale heat and unenthusiastically wondered just which pile of paperwork I should work on first when Sapphire entered with tears in her eyes.

She sighed, and asked me a question she's asked me many times before. "Mum, why am I an only child?"

I went into Auto-Mother-Mode and responded with, "Because with my brain tumour you were a miracle baby that even the specialists thought would never occur and I didn't think I could have another one or be healthy enough to look after two or more children without any medical problems that ------"

She looked impatient as I prattled on. "-----and I'd always wanted a girl, so when you arrived and you were so beautiful and good and perfect, I didn't want to chance having one that I wouldn't love as much as you." None of which is a lie.

Today, the standard responses weren't working. Sapphire has two more weeks of holidays to kill with just boring old me for company. No new friends yet, because school is likely to be the supply for such creatures. "Mum, if I had a brother or a sister, I'd have something to do right now, instead of feeling so bored."

Bored. That's the word that instantly turns me into my own mother. I hate that word. Almost as much as I hate sentences that start with 'I hate'. So of course I said the classic line: "Go and FIND yourself something to do."

She was about to huff away but turned at the last second and said plaintively, "But I'm lonely, Mum."

Lonely. That's the word that really gets me. My decision to have just the one child has affected her; she'll become a socially-inept failure in her relationships; I'm a dreadfully selfish person; I'm already ruining her life; she's emotionally stunted; every other kid in her class will have dozens of siblings; she'll have to choose my nursing home on her own because no doubt all statistical actuarials will prove correct and I'll outlive Love Chunks and then she'll be solely responsible for all the funeral arrangements.... !!

Shaking off these thoughts, I did my usual trick of regaling her with tales of my brothers - one younger by two years and one older by two years. I was usually itching to get some alone time without being hassled to wicket-keep ("Come on, we'll only bowl with tennis balls if you'll play"), get whipped at Monopoly ("Don't quit yet, just mortgage everything"), farted on when sitting in the king-sized beanbag ("Yeah, come and chase me, ya weakling!") or see them inhale the entire weeks' groceries in one after-school session.

"And Sapphire don't get me started on the smell of their bedroom or the boogies Dave used to wipe on the wall...!"

She looked horrified, interested and, most importantly, relieved. I turned towards the paperwork. "Look love, it's too hot to go outside, so why don't you find something to read, or practice your guitar?

And then the other dreaded question came out; the one that even parents of more-than-one child dread hearing. "I'm bored with that. Will you play with me?"

Play.
I am so categorically crap at playing. I can make silly comments, I can dance, I can sing dumbs song with her and Milly's names in them, but I can not sit for more than two minutes and pretend I am interested in tea sets, miniature rabbits, pretend karaoke or dress ups without wanting to have my scalp removed with a blunt pair of secateurs.

However, the reminiscences about my brothers reminded me of the horror game of Monopoly. Before I could fully remember the hell of being thrashed bit by bit by Robert; throwing hotels at David and arguing until it was time to give and receive dead-legs with both of them, out came, "How about a game of Monopoly?"

And you know what? We laughed, sang, bartered, haggled, chatted and whiled away several hours very happily. Yes, I thrashed her. Hey, it's a game, with rules and ones she accepts gladly. But we did have fun together.

Then we chanced going for a walk to post a letter, get some milk, check out the 'hood and give Milly some exercise. Around the corner, the police had cordoned off the street due to powerlines being blown down in the hot and blustery conditions. "Yep, youse can go through and post your letter, it's just that the Fireys don't want cars driving on the live wires."

We discovered that the other milk bar closest to us is run by three Indian brothers who sell the 'G'day India' newspaper as their sole reading material, condensed milk as their single dairy product and don't have a scerrick of chocolate in their shop, telling me, "Oh no Mrs, we have Cadbury in India just like you Aussies."

We let Milly greet the groundsmen in the school yard as Sapphire scootered on the asphalt, chatted to an old gent at the tram stop nearby and rubbed the dust out of our eyes. The city could barely be seen in the distance due to the haze and every single wheelie bin in our street had been blown over.

We noticed, amongst the usual Phark Yoos, Darnae Luvs Donger and 'Flem Boys for Life' graffiti in our local poo alley, was this one:

Sapphire laughed and said, "It's cute. Not scary at all. A bit like you, really."

It was a good day after all.