The tricycle
for Hamish
Grandma bought the tricycle
shiny red and yellow
the thrill of independence
your feet off the ground
never thinking to paste
a new logo on
even after the fuss you made
of cutting and pasting two
Holden lions
onto your ride-on big red car
that you wore out one camping trip.
It sat beside the green wheelie-bin
on its remaining three wheels, for months
before it finally went out.
Remember the grazes and shallow cuts
on your elbow and knees
that first time you fell off;
salty streaks caressing your cheeks
you lay on the gravel, curled in your tantrum pose.
Now, you ride it in figure eights
on the fat decking, helmet strapped on tight.
The bucket at the back is rarely empty;
transporting cars, beloved bunny;
milk cup – half full; dregs from a Clix pack
or a Fuji red – minus two bites.
Can’t decide
whether to ride it
or play with something different,
sit atop playing your guitar,
taking turns to use feet and fingers,
sometimes singing.
Soon, you’ll want to upgrade
and the trike will keep the garden company,
like Cinderella’s coach after midnight.
No doubt we’ll give in – or Grandma will –
accept that it was merely the precursor to a bicycle.
“Children are not a job you can leave, or a country you can return from. No one can guarantee you a child who matches your imaginings. You will get what you’re given – and there’s no turning back.”*
After seven years of motherhood, I still grapple with the truth of this brutally honest fact. There’s no walking away when things get tough. There’s no resigning to look for another job, one that pays better or appreciates your worth. There’s usually no gratitude for all the sheer, dogged hard work you put in on a daily (and often nightly) basis. And sometimes there’s no one around to de-brief with when you’ve reached your limit and have resorted to screaming to make yourself heard!
* From The Divided Heart, Art and Motherhood by Rachel Power