Here is a family photo. The year: 2004.
There are eleven of us: my husband and me and our nine children, standing in a long chain, shoulder to shoulder. I’m dead-centre.
Kate, as tall as me, is on my immediate right. She’s twenty now, still smiling, still beautiful; the first of our children to reach adulthood, and the first to let go. If you look closely you can see my arm around her shoulder, though she’s leaning away from me a little, uncomfortable with too much closeness. We are like each other.
Next to Kate are two of my stepsons: one eleven, one nine. The eleven year old is proudly wearing his new tracksuit, the one he got for his birthday the week before. He worries too much about how he looks, with his hands folded awkwardly at the front, his smile tentative, guarded. He stands alone, with space around him, touching no-one.
On his right his younger brother is leaning forward, patting our dog, Ossie, sitting at his feet. He’s a freckle-faced cutie, this stepson of mine. I’ve been his stepmother for almost half his life, and it’s with pride that I watch him bloom. He reminds us often that he’s the best at most things at school. He probably is. I hope I can teach him humility.
My twin boys are next in line and because there’s intentional symmetry in this photo, Sam, being taller than his brother, is first. He is standing to attention, wearing a stuck-on smile. Happiest when he’s playing the piano, or sitting in the front seat while I drive, I suspect Sam would prefer to be an only child. I see myself in him with his need to please, his need for recognition masked by shyness; his introspection, his musicianship.
On Sam’s right is his twin brother, Alex, holding his little dog, Indy, in his arms. Where Sam quietly observes and studies the world around him, Alex has been drinking life in hungry gulps since he took his first breath – a delayed breath – after they’d pulled his blue-tinged body from my belly. Because he’s small for his age, I can still pick him up for a hug. I savour these moments with his legs wrapped around my waist, his arms linked tightly behind my neck, and his head resting on my shoulder. When I think of Alex, I smile.
Back in the middle, on my left, is my thirteen year old stepson. He’s squished in between his dad and me, unperturbed by the closeness. Adolescence suits him and he wears it well, with his baggy pants, hair gel and the rumour of a girlfriend. His world is often turbulent, and one I understand. I am close to him.
Steve, my husband, is next in line. He’s a striking man with an open smile and salt and pepper hair, and often mistaken for a famous Australian cricketer – a mistaken identity he quite enjoys. He’s leaning into his thirteen year old, holding him with a warm tenderness, one arm around his shoulder, his other hand lightly touching his elbow. Steve nearly died not long after this photo was taken. He says I saved his life, yet I wonder if he knows how many times he’s saved mine.
Next to Steve, on his left, is a younger replica of himself: his fifteen year old son standing with his legs apart, confident, smiling wide. He says he is taller than his dad, and here is proof that he is. Just. In our early days, this son and I had a perceptible closeness, until he suddenly shut down and moved away from us and back to his mother’s. We don’t know why he left, but he’s slowly returning. This much is evident: he turned up for the photo shoot.
Next to him is his older sister; they are as tall as each other. She’s nineteen and pretty, with perfect teeth and long brown hair. The photo has caught her laughing, looking across at her boyfriend who is watching us being photographed. She and I have laughed and cried about each other, and for each other; it is our step-mother/step-daughter dance.
Last of all is my eldest stepson, striking in his height, some five inches above the tallest three. He’s a dude, a man of confidence, though not officially an adult for a few weeks yet. He grew up too fast, too many years ago and I’m surprised he stayed for the photo, but pleased he did.
Behind us is the vista of a tree-covered valley that our house looks across. The sky is cloudy, threatening rain, the grass green and lush. Living on top of a hill is often wild and tumultuous, but on this day the breeze is gentle.
This is my family.
Blending.
PS Fast forward: Father's Day, 2007. Bigger, bolder and still blending.
No comments:
Post a Comment