Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • For Jennifer

    I have a fairy godmother.

    Her magic is revealed when I leave the house in a hurry,

    When all of the things accumulate, and the time lapses too quickly, and there’s always a deadline looming expectantly nearer; the thin hands of a cheap clock an assault on my mind.

    And the standards I once held rigid, identifying me

    as

    This and That, to myself and me alone

    Are not only lowered, but have plummeted to the depths of the un-emptied bin.

    Dishes in the sink from their breakfast, their clothes on the floor in the wrong room, beds as ruffled as their morning hair

    Wet washing in the machine, its cry for release a harbinger of my inability to manage it all.

    Dogs unkempt; a groom overdue

    My coffee tepid – warm enough to drink, out of desperation

    But not to enjoy

    And the repeated reminders going out to the children

    That I need their help to get us out of the house

    Go un-adhered to,

    And rightly so

    Because why shouldn’t they be lost in play, oblivious to the grown up structures of start times

    And neatly folded towels,

    Breathe out slowly once on the road,

    My resistance to the way things are

    Has diminished, and I resolve to

    Fix Everything Later.

    Alas! the day slides too quickly by,

    The strange world of minutes and seconds and hours framing the minutiae of a day, quadrants of time made achievable and pushing each of us ever forward,

    Un-relenting and increasing in speed at the moments we desire least, when there are too many Important Jobs To Do, but no bridge to reach such a destination.

    I have a fairy godmother.

    Her magic wand is dexterous; functional

    And only some will understand, the ways she aids my existence

    So that my mental health remains intact

    Is Invaluable

    When I walk in from work and see

    The sink is empty, and clean

    Dishwasher unpacked, re-stacked

    Benches wiped

    Beds made, toys tidied

    Bits and pieces collated, skilfully piled somewhere unobtrusive

    But not pretentiously

    And with no judgement.

    Cushions fluffed and straightened, throw not thrown but tucked

    Washing dry, folded and stacked, ready to be returned to its owners.

    Often, I come home to toilets cleaned, floors mopped

    And I wonder

    How Long This Magic will last.

    I have a fairy godmother

    She does not expect a thing

    She’s humble beyond belief,

    Her fairy dust is golden

    And it’s within these gratitude filled words

    That I want to say

    Thank you

  • In the Air

    Right before take off

    My own mortality moves in, taking a seat on my chest

    regrets fill my mind

    What if this is it?

    A small strip of material around my waist

    Tethering me to a seat

    40 thousand feet up this buckle won’t

    Save me

    Flashes of their lives without me

    My eyes are choking my vision as I realise

    Both

    The validity and the stupidity of this feeling

    But

    The love lines are strong

    One time through the air won’t sever this bond

    yet already in my mind

    the feel of small bodies

    Wanting not to forget

    Skin like velvet; one four years old with a demeanour beyond him

    The other nearly seven, an angel on earth in the form of a child

    What luck, to hold them every single day! Though once this far away

    continuous moments are spent trying to channel their presence and

    Looking out to the cloudy blue beyond and the wing of this

    Giant bird wobbles, my anxiety

    My existence alongside it poses a question mark

    Survival?

    And I trust in the universe

    And the men in the cockpit

    The engineers of my continuity today,

    Please

  • The Wake Up Call

    The last six months has been laced with the buzz of a low grade stress. In the pursuit of health, my husband wanted to test his body, to check on its defences and to get a picture of its internal functionality, after 39 years of an interesting life. Most of the results came back with nothing to worry about, except one.

    If you have ever undergone something like this, or even something like this which ended with an undesirable test result and potentially ongoing treatment, you will likely understand well, what it is that I’m trying to convey.

    The short of the story is that after six months of testing and doctor’s appointments which culminated in a visit to a specialist and further tests, he was cleared from having any major and life threatening diseases. He was lucky, this time.

    The journey to get there however, has been this.

    When you are faced with the potentiality of death, your outlook on life changes dramatically. The possibility that you might be gone within the next five, even ten years, alters how you see everything as each new day dawns. And in this situation, it wasn’t my life that was in the lurch – but it seems not to matter, when it’s your life partner, your best friend and the father of your children. The effect is the same. I felt the ominous presence of death as if Death itself was following me around.

    The knowing that your children may not have their Best Man supporting them on their most important days, is a crushing thought. To consider that every milestone they achieve may be in the absence of their father, depresses the heart in an inconceivable way; such that one experiences a novel anxiety that is difficult to suppress. There is a sad sense of panic when conversation about the future arises, and the eye contact you make with one another is penetrative; with both of you knowing that maybe, only one of you will be there. The frame with which you now approach each moment is different; the instances in which your kids demand your attention are altered – you will fully stop what you’re doing in order to properly adore them, and wonder how much longer you will be lucky enough to cherish them. You realise what it is that gives your life true meaning, and whilst you don’t want to see an unfolding of time with him gone, there’s a part of you that seeks to be prepared for what may just eventuate.

    If you are fortunate, as we were, the relief that comes with a negative result is welcome, and palpable. But the experience arrives with a warning. A reminder of how, for so many others, a contrasting reality is faced. It’s a reminder of how fortuitous you are, to have received with such gratitude, a favourable result. But as with all things, time passes. Presently, there is a real sense of appreciation for life and a realisation that this feeling cannot be allowed to wane. This notion has weighed carefully on my mind and heart, as still within my circles, suffering is present, and dis-ease prevalent and it is unequal; it doesn’t seem fair that a person’s youth is tainted with illness, or that someone who prioritises their health is struck down, their life reformed adversely and for ever.

    When a life hangs in the balance, you see others mistreating their bodies more obviously. You look upon those people with disdain; angry at how they could be allowed a long life, lived with such a lack of virtue. And then you wonder at your good fortune, questioning how you could honour those without it. How you could acknowledge those that are being tormented by ill health. And I’ve surmised that it can only be done by holding your own life sacred. By looking after your own body, the vessel you rely upon to hold you steady and keep you going. Hold your life sacred by prioritising a life of good health, by making choices that benefit your body and your mind. Hold it sacred by choosing not to abuse your body – because how dare you mishandle the blessing of a healthy life when there are those around you suffering, those who would give anything to be well?

    Life is not always fair to us. Knowing this does not have to be to our detriment, however. If we live each day with the worldview that at any point, things can change, we’re going to live happier lives. Already our time on earth is short. For me, this means maximising this journey I’ve been granted and making choices that support my wellbeing and the good health I’ve been bestowed.

  • A Short Prompt.

    What is something most people don’t understand?

    Most people do not understand the proper way to use an apostrophe. Where the tiny airborne comma is placed on a page is confounding to many speakers of the English language, with perpetual confusion remaining intact from one generation to the next, blunders in writing ignored or unnoticed as young scribes commit to the pen in error, whether conjecture or inattention at fault too difficult to decree.

    Something must be done to address the Apostrophe Catastrophe that inflicts our nation. We must not degenerate further on the global scale of language ability, with Australian English already judged as inferior to that of our counterparts. But how do we fix this debacle in discourse, so that more importunate issues can be solved in its place? No longer should we leave home in a state of fear, knowing our intellect will be questioned, an inquiry made into our own education as we are aggrieved by the vexing affront of an ill placed apostrophe.

    Let us band together to teach our future leaders of the contrasting meaning of “fools” and “fool’s,” so that the interminable decline of language is stagnated, and once and for all we all permanently understand how to use an apostrophe.

  • What matters most to you?

    When I think about thinking about what matters most to me, the automated word my brain spits into consciousness is ‘family.’ Of course family matters most to me, but what does that mean if I break it down further? I feel most whole, most happy, when I am with my children.

    When my six year old writes me a Mother’s Day card two months past Mother’s Day, saying his favourite day of the week is Sunday because mummy doesn’t have to work. When he asks me to do Harry Potter lego with him, then sits on the floor patting our dogs whilst I work out the errors in construction and rebuild the foundation on my own. And then when he comes to me after having been quiet in his room, to present the vehicle he has built using purely his imagination, explaining the function of each section with importance. When he first wakes up, all sleepy eyed and nest-haired, his voice soft in the early morning hours. The way he lights up when I ask for a cuddle. When he comes out of the school classroom, makes eye contact with me and then immediately zooms off into the playground, only to be retrieved with threats of departure and ensuing cancellations. When I ask him to fold his pyjamas after getting dressed, and he spreads them onto the floor and then carefully rolls the sleeves in and the whole set ends up in a ball, which he is proud of. When I tell him the kids can have a spa, and he does a freaky little happy dance with his arms in the air, eyes narrowed and lips in a pout. When he asks me to come with him down the hallway even in broad daylight, so that I can scare off the monsters that live, apparently lurking in the shadows of our home. When he’s sitting, pensive in his car seat and he volunteers some golden piece of information that if I’d asked, he might never have shared. When he creeps up behind our chickens, aiming to grab hold of one and stroke it into submission in order to fulfil his stewardship of locking them up each day. When he says ‘hamouli’ or ‘hostibal’ or ‘Gabrielle.’ When he asks me if I’m teaching on this day, and is visibly proud when I say yes. And then when he asks if I can please teach his class one time? When he takes an hour to eat dinner because this is the time he has chosen to ask every question under the sun and explain the intricacies of Pokémon, to my dismay. When he cuddles his little brother of his own volition, or pats his head, or expresses his adoration. When he’s asleep, when he’s awake, when he speaks and when he’s quiet. And when he loves me, for being his mummy, every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day.

    And that is only the beginning. What matters most to me is embedded in every moment of being both near to and far from my three year old boy. It strikes my heart when he tells me, “you’re good, mummy” or “I want mummy” or “when I suck my thumb it feels nice.” When he invites me into his home, (his bedroom) and closes the door behind to keep the dogs inside, to their dismay. When he takes his morning tea into ‘his home’ and places it on his kitchen bench, and then tells me “you can go now.” When he shuffles onto my lap to eat his dinner, when he turns normal speaking phrases into song, and when he must absolutely only ever have his Elsa plate for his toast. When I pick him up and he nestles his head into the nook between my shoulder and my face. When he says to me, “I didn’t know where you was” and when he giggles with unadulterated glee when I reassure him that I’m really never far away. When I take a photo of him and he pulls some face that’s beyond his years; tongue out, one eye winking, split stance. When he interweaves his fingers through mine for comfort, at bedtime, at drop off time, at breakfast time. When I greet him and he is clearly happy to see me, when he kisses my nose, my eyelids, my hairline, my ears, even when it’s loud, or sloppy, it’s perfection. When he puts his school bag on by himself, and it’s too big and too heavy and banging on his calf muscles. When he names his soft toys, or tells me the pirate cuddlies are his kids, and he is their daddy. When he tells me every single time we are midway through brushing his teeth that he’s thirsty, and then follows up with needing a cuddle, and puts one ear right to the centre of my chest. When he sneaks out of his bed and gets in with his brother, when he parks his ‘(motor)bike.’ When he spells his name, or points out one of his ‘numbers’ on the page we’re reading together. When he tells me “don’t look at me” once I put him on the toilet, the undying support he has for his brother and the immense upset he feels when his brother is cranky with him. The way he says “I don’t want to talk at nanny anymore” and tries immediately to hang up, this second child is a force to be reckoned with and his existence is my existence. My two children are what matters most to me and as their mother these moments are only the tiniest fraction of what gives my life meaning beyond explanation. I want to be there for them, I want to be their unequivocal support, I want to teach them, to discipline them, to be honest with them and to show them what wonders the world can behold. If I am anything good and wholesome in this world, it will be as the mother of my boys, and that is what matters most to me.

  • Nothing is Funny Anymore.

    Once you’ve grown up, nothing is funny anymore. Every day existence has not the sweet mist of humour, as was the case in high school days. Smiles are less prominent than stern faces, especially those facing computer screens, rapid fingers typing, eyes darting forward and back. The responsibilities of an Important Life are too essential to pass by – there is little time, once taken care of, for Fun. The bright, white halo of Curiosity has been replaced with the reflection of artificial light, where Answers are obligatory, Authorisation of Things is necessary and Duties are ceaseless. As an adult, laughter is seldom, fits of it unseen, unheard. Nothing is funny, anymore.

  • Flight

    The enormity of the ocean

    The fluffy froth of waves

    How tiny a plane full of people seems

    Stretches of buildings diminished to pixels

    Trees for ever and ever and ever

    The sun warming everything within reach

    And the risk

    Of life above solid ground

    And trust

    In other humans

    And hope

    That everything will be

    Okay

  • WEEDS – a submission.

    1

    We have a tendency to

    rip

    them

    out.

    Their insurgent growth pervades our persistent desire to remain in control, of something, anything in this world, this world that continues to spin on its axis, whilst the heads of its inhabitants are spinning unchecked. Boundless opportunity with no constraint, so much so that we’re striving for a hold on a thing that grows without aid, in soil or sand or stones, and oh! So green! Often with little yellow floral bits and more often with tiny thistles…but for what? A protective mechanism, because all on its own it needs to insulate itself from that leering leather gardening glove intending to clear it, to block out the high warmth, to expose the dirt underneath, to tidy the untidy-able, to regain some semblance of order in a world gone wild.

    2

    Perception: a garden untamed, a yard let go, a curb un-trimmed, a citizen not playing their role. A space lacking angles; without the squares and rectangles and defined patterns that our impressionable brains crave, we struggle to see the beauty that nature provides without a sharp set of secateurs impeding: hindering the splurging surge upward, arresting the development of detritus in a space meant for colourful perfection and precision.

    3

    The thickening of a plot with uncultivated growth: akin to the human mind escaped the reigns of structure. Flourishing wilderness, both of head and hearth, are amenable to configuration and do well once contained and cauterised. A thriving patch of green will exclude, on its own, the creeping threat of wild growth, as will the mind of thoughts unsolicited. Once trained, impenetrable. Impervious. Adhering.

    ——- This was a submission to The Suburban Review, a competition with the prompt “weeds.”