Victory

 

For a parent, what is the measure of success? For me the goal has always been to raise kind, productive, happy humans, who have the capacity to value add to society.

With his big sisters already independently ticking those boxes for some time now, today, I'm claiming my Successful Certificate of Child Raising because this is the day that the youngest of our blended brood turns 21.

Of course, I've written about this 'special' child before, here on my own blog when he turned 10,http://annedemanser.blogspot.com/2013/07/mr-miracle-turns-10.html and later, when Mamamia asked me to do a feature on older mums https://www.mamamia.com.au/older-mum/ . But, 21 is special, and it's something I wasn't sure I'd ever get to see, so I'm indulging myself another time.

As his father articulated at his birthday party last weekend, Taine has always been a bit extreme, beginning with the fact that he was extremely lucky to have been born. I'm not religious so I don't believe in miracles per se but it's hard not to believe that somehow the stars aligned to bring Taine into the world. It was a sliding door moment that led to his conception (TMI, I know- sorry), but if our friends had come in for a coffee after dropping us off after the staff cocktail party, we probably would have been tired and sober enough to just crawl into bed to sleep, but they rain checked the coffee, and we weren't tired, or sober, so...

6 weeks later I found myself on a gurney in the X ray department, looking at the ultrasound screen , steeling myself to be told about yet another blighted ovum that would need a D & C. Instead I saw a tiny, blinking light, a heart beat. A. HEART. BEAT!

A natural conception at 45, with one severed Fallopian tube and the other damaged. A one in 100,000 occurrence they told me. Another 6 weeks later, the stakes grew higher with a CVS to test for genetic abnormalities; a 1 in 7 chance that there'd be problems to prepare for. There were no problems. Weekly monitoring for my 'advanced' maternal age? Unnecessary. After planning for an induction if I reached 41 weeks, my water broke on his due date and bingo, 'elderly' me gave birth, without intervention, to a perfect baby boy - it's no wonder we've never won Tattslotto. That sort of luck rarely strikes twice.

We called him Taine, an acknowledgement of his Kiwi heritage - for Tane Mahuta- god of the forest, Taine Randall - All Black legend and Taine Ruaridh Mhor - a tall, red haired Scotsman said to have arrived in NZ in the 12th century. Surely the most researched name in history! Interestingly, Taine is very tall, his beard (and sometimes his hair) is red, he's definitely a nature lover and given different circumstances his speed may well have lent itself to rugby.

And then the baby grew. And grew. And grew. He refused to sleep until he was 5, broke a couple of bones, struggled to learn how to read the first 100 words, never learnt how to put a dish or a piece of clothing away, lost everything he owned at least once (wallets, keys and phones multiple times) and ate everything that was put in front of him (or hidden in the cupboard). Otherwise, he was a drama free individual. He visited 14 countries before his 14th birthday, crossed the Tasman more times than we can remember and relished in his role as the 'funcle' to his growing brood of niblings. Suddenly he was over six feet tall, finished school, left home and able to wrap us in the best bear hugs imaginable. And when I say suddenly, legitimately I mean the aphorism, 'its gone in the blink of an eye' is true. Every second was precious. Don't we all wish time would allow us to linger in some of our children's moments for longer?

As a wee baby he came to school production rehearsals in his pram. By 3 he was insisting on a new costume for every occasion and turning every opportunity into a performance. At 5 we took him to a professional stage play in Melbourne and he analysed the plot before most adults had time to take their seats. On the soccer field he would wear his playing bib as a turban and do interpretive dance in the defence line. Despite playing footy & cricket and all the other things that country boys are 'supposed' to do, he's always been a performer, weathering the storm of bullying and rejection that inevitably comes from stepping outside your assigned box, and growing all the more resilient for it. We added singing and dancing lessons to his weekly routine of footy/cricket and swimming training and bathed in the sunshine of our son excelling in a theatre world that we had learnt to love.

At 21, he's found his place with a beautiful tribe of creative souls at uni and is loving life. It's yet to be revealed how that Art's degree will make a difference in the world, but the storytellers throughout history have always been vital to the health and well being of society so, I'm confident there'll be a ripple effect somewhere from his serendipitous conception. In the meantime he's already pretty good at lending his bartender's ear to the woes and worries of his customers, and his shoulders to the friends who need him, (and bear hugs for his mum).