Words by Eda Sofía Correa Bernini // artwork by Adrian Truong
I’m standing to the side of the pool, carefully leaning my soft bum on the short wall striking an uncomfortable pose hoping it screams something like “their cool” or even better “they have it all under control”. But am I, do I? I am too tired to worry about this. And even though the water is just up to my calves I feel uncomfortably cold. Cold and just unhappy to be here; a bit flat and a whole of a lot resigned. Resignada. And still, every single time I hear that prolonged and so uniquely his: mamaaaaaaaaá, with a remarkably clear accent at the end, I look up and force a half grin hoping he does not notice.
To the lookout! I shout faking excitement, and then proceed to do a little dance which, by some sort of magic, has never -yet- failed to make him laugh. And when he laughs my heart smiles, and my exhaustion wanes.
Zuma!, I proceed to scream,
I need your help saving Mayor Goodindall.
Good-way, he corrects for the fourth time, using a “motherly” half-paused half-scolding tone. Sorry, I mutter under my breath before repeating myself because apparently if I do not say it correctly, he has no idea who I am talking to, or about.
To the rescue! he exclaims joyously before turning around and doing a belly landing on what is now Zuma’s diving ship. And for the length of his short-lived underwater venture, I look around trying to find some complicity in the gaze of another adult.
The place is full of carers, naturally. Walking behind little versions of ourselves, entertaining them, throwing water, giggling, tossing in the air, chasing around; basically, keeping them within arm’s reach, as the colourful signs dictate.
Today there are more mums than dads. During the weekends is the opposite, I assume most women were at home getting some rest. I look around trying to find that look that in some surreptitious way spells out: I feel you, I am also knackered, and this is definitely not fun. But they all seem to smile, and I worry. Is it only me? Am I a bad mum? So in the intervals of me assigning rescue missions to my child who jumps at every invocation and launches himself, well, to the rescue, I take it in turns to draft up stories in my head about what all the other parents are thinking. In part to feel less alone but mostly to feel less guilty; a stupid feeling which by now I´ve understood I shouldn’t carry and still cannot manage to shake off. That is how some of the mums come to live inside of me and my childlike imagination: I can hear the woman with the black bikini and perfectly marked abs crying just parked outside of the gym, because she is too tired to walk in but doesn’t want to go back home to partake in the endless bed-time she just managed to get away from; I can see the redhead with the marvellous floral ensemble running behind her three children at home whilst she fantasizes about being back at her office job; nights broken down in a hundred fractions of sleep attempts, job interviews going south, bedsheets covered in spew…
I look around with a nearly perceptible hunger; not so much for this to end, but for someone to share it with, but the only people looking back at me are wearing tiny red shorts and yellow shirts that spell out: lifeguard. So, I smile at them, as I´ve been taught to do out of politeness when I make eye contact with a stranger. They don’t smile back. Is it because I am wearing a dress towel down to my knees whilst inside the pool? Is it because the mission has extended, and I am enjoying not being within arm’s reach? There are so many rules in Australia, my new country. So many rules in this new mothering role.
I am here, I want to say to all of them. My gaze screams as I pause it for just a second in a freckled woman holding her crying baby in what looks like the embrace I´ve been yearning for. Can you not see me? The voice inside my head begs. And in that instant, abruptly and unexpectedly, as if she has heard me, she looks straight into my eyes and probably without knowing it, gifts me what I´ve been yearning for. A short smile I hold and stretch inside me covering all my inadequate self. Thank you, I say again in silence, just before… Mamaaaaaaaaaaá interrupts the silent exchange. This works beautifully because now she smiles broadly and quietly nods at me as if saying: I see you; I see the mess; you won’t drown, I promise. Or is it me who says it to her?
Yes? I answer my child, aware that every invocation carries with it a question.
Can we get some ice cream now? I am cold.
Yes, let’s get outta here, I proceed to lift him in my arms. When I am up to the slightly tilted floor of the wave pool, I turn to my new accomplice in failing, and without smiling an inch, I move my mouth so that it can spell out to her: thank you.
To the lookout!