Ruby nods, her cheeks puffing up with pleasure. ‘In my accessories’ workshop.’
‘Fit for a Kardashian,’ says Milla, winking at me.
Ruby takes this as a compliment.
‘Thank you, Rubes,’ I say, looping the beads around my neck. ‘They’re really beautiful.’
It’s yet another crafty creation that will join the collection beneath our bed, in a storage box filled with hand-made gifts too voluminous to keep, yet too precious to throw away.
‘And you’re really beautiful, Mummy,’ Ruby says fervently. ‘Take a selfie and send it to Daddy in New York!’
I laugh and pass my phone to Milla, who slides in next to me and extends her arm. Ruby leans against my shoulder, tilts her head to one side and pouts.
‘Join the photo for Dad?’ I ask Jackson.
From his position on the floor, Jackson shakes his head. Fingering the edge of his nostril, his eyes glazed over with concentration or bliss or who-knows-what-exactly.
Over the years, I’ve come to accept that Jackson’s inner life is largely impenetrable to me. It’s a common reality, I’m told, for parents living with ‘neurodiversity’ – a catch-all term used to describe children who don’t conform to convenient diagnostic categories. In the absence of a definitive diagnosis, Dr Kelleher keeps urging us to focus on the one thing we can control: our responses to Jackson’s behaviours.
Milla takes a barrage of selfies at multiple angles.
Jackson stands up from the floor and pushes a huge flamingo-pink parcel in my direction.
‘That’s a whopper,’ I say. ‘How exciting.’
Tearing off the wrapping, I read aloud the words printed on the side of the box: ‘Combining the functions of twelve appliances in one compact unit.’
‘A Thermowhizz!’ I enthuse, praying my expression doesn’t betray me.
Jackson grins. ‘April Kennedy said every mum wants one. But it cost too much new, so Dad bought a second-hand one on eBay. It’s only been used three times, Mum.’
While I’m thrilled that my son has a new school friend called April Kennedy whom he’s consulting about Mother’s Day gifts, I’m wondering why my husband could think of no better way of saying ‘thank you for being a wonderful mother’ than a machine that weighs, cooks, chops, emulsifies, whips and steams.
‘Cool!’ Milla enthuses. ‘Maria’s mum’s got a Thermowhizz. They use it to make gelato and sourdough and puddings and…’
I’ve heard it all before, on the soccer sidelines of a Saturday morning. Perfect for Bolognese sauce, melt-in-your-mouth soufflés, hummus dip to die for. Wonderful in so many ways, but not my ideal Mother’s Day gift – and a petulant part of me thinks that Andy should have known that, after fifteen years of marriage.
‘Where will we put it, Mum?’ Ruby asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘The kitchen’s a bit squeezy at the moment. Maybe after the renovation…’
‘You don’t like it,’ Jackson announces. ‘Do you?’
‘Not true,’ I say, attempting to salvage the situation. ‘I’m sure I’ll love it once I use it.’
Jackson looks unconvinced.
‘There’s one more thing.’ Milla passes me a pink envelope. ‘It’s not much, sorry.’
Inside is a crisp square of white cardboard, with a haiku poem penned in Milla’s neat hand:
MOTHER’S DAY
Her arms always there
Smiling warm, strong and mighty
Keeps giving her love
‘Oh, Milla.’ I pull her into a hug, blinking back tears. ‘That’s… your best yet.’
Poetry-writing has become one of Milla’s primary pastimes since moving to Queenscliff.
Ruby looks concerned. ‘Are you sad, Mummy?’
‘Glad-sad,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I’m so happy I cry a bit. Is that the poem you’re entering into the competition, Millsy?’
Milla shakes her head. ‘I’m working on a different one for that.’
‘More pancakes, Mummy?’ Ruby motions at the remaining pile.
‘I’m too full,’ I reply, patting my stomach. ‘I can’t, darling, sorry.’
‘But I can,’ says Jackson suddenly, seizing a doughy round from the tray and biting into it with gusto. ‘Yumbo!’ he declares, washing it down with a sip of lukewarm tea from my cup, before starting on another.
I giggle, watching Jackson persist through every rubbery mouthful – swallow and sip, swallow and sip – until three pancakes have been wholly consumed and Ruby hurrahs with delight.
‘What do you want to do today, Mum?’ Milla stretches out her long limbs across the bed. She’s growing womanlier by the week, and I’ve seen men starting to notice her. ‘Something special for Mother’s Day?’
‘I have to go into work,’ I remind her. ‘I’m singing in the Mother’s Day Concert at Care Cottage. And you girls have your gymnastics gala this afternoon, remember?’
‘We know,’ says Ruby, in a bored tone. ‘But can’t we do something special just for this morning?’
A few uninterrupted hours on the couch with a novel I’ve been aiming to read for about three years would be special enough.
‘What about going for coffee?’ asks Milla. ‘We could walk down to Queenies or Beanster.’
‘Perfect,’ I say.
‘Can we ask Nanna Pam, too?’ Ruby asks. ‘For Mother’s Day?’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I say. ‘Shall we send her a message?’
I’d have suggested it myself, had Andy been here. But without him, I doubt that Pamela would actively choose to spend much time with me. Despite being married to her son, I’ve always felt thoroughly inferior in Pamela’s presence. She’s clever, multi-lingual and so well put together, while most days I’m a dishevelled wreck.
‘I’ll message her,’ says Milla, reaching for my phone.
Watching Milla compose the message, I marvel at her double-thumbed agility. ‘Make sure you remind Nanna Pam that Dad is overseas, okay?’
Milla nods. I hear the swishing sound of a sent message.
‘Let’s get ready,’ I say. ‘It might take Nanna a while to get back to us.’
Milla and Ruby climb off the bed, while Jackson wanders over to the window.
‘Can we build our street library later today, Mum?’ asks Milla. ‘We’ve been postponing it forever.’
‘Better to wait until Dad’s back,’ I say. ‘I’m a singer, not a builder.’
Milla looks crestfallen.
Back in January, Andy agreed to build a street library – a small wooden box designed for neighbourhood book-swapping – in the front yard of our home. But the hardware has been sitting untouched in the shed for months now, awaiting that unlikely moment when Andy isn’t jetlagged or deadline-driven or both.
‘Okay, Millsy,’ I relent. ‘It’s been way too long in the planning. Maybe not today, but definitely this week. We’ll build it before Dad comes home from New York. Let’s give him a surprise.’
Milla grins. ‘Thanks, Mum.’