EWW: While you were sleeping

A contemplation on a difficult few days.

I’m sick at home with my biggest baby. It has been a rough few days for our little country. I think you can feel it in the air. I wanted to talk today about the stories we tell our children.

Sleep never comes easily to my youngest. It never has. Even when he was nestled in my puku he would kick and roll all through the night. He’s never had a period in the five years we’ve been lucky enough to have him where he has fallen into dreams and stayed there for longer than a few hours.

We are used to it now and have our tricks. Stories help. He lies in the dark and curls into me and says “Mama tell me the story of when I was born” or “Tell me the story of when Eddie met me” or “Tell me the story of when I walked”.

He finds his place in the world from the stories we tell him. They tell him he’s loved, always has been. They tell him he’s safe. They tell him the night might feel dark and long but the day ahead is almost here. The sun will come up and it will be a brand new day and everything is brighter then.

He knows every story by heart. Will correct me if in my sleepiness I miss something.

He says “did it hurt when you borned me?”

I tell him that it was worth it. I say I can’t remember. That I saw his face and everything made sense and everything was worth it and our little family was complete then because we were waiting just for him.

I remember the pain. It was crack the sky kind of pain. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. I felt like I was looking at myself from above. It was the kind of pain that makes you shut down. I screamed for an epidural, for anything, but it just went on and on.

But when I tell him I say that when he was put into my arms he fitted perfectly. Like the last piece of a puzzle. He made everything beautiful.

Because that’s true too.

And one day I know they’ll ask about this week in August or this year 2020. And I’ll tell them their story.

I’ll tell them that our little country changed because of this virus. People wore masks to protect each other. They wore masks to say - you matter to me even though I don’t know you.

I’ll tell them that people lined up and were tested to do their part. I’ll tell them we were all in the same waka, pushing toward a future that felt less scary.

I’ll tell him about teddybears in windows, how everyone suddenly developed a walking habit and a sour dough habit.

I’ll tell him strangers loved him and his brother and all the little children. They loved our neighbour who is elderly and all of our Kaumātua and your friend’s mum who fought cancer and your friend’s dad with the autoimmune disease. I’ll say that the world felt so big but our little country was an oasis of kindness.

And it might not be totally true. But - it might be true.

It might be true that we remembered the day when the vaccine was announced. That everyone had it, even those who were scared. It might be true that we danced together around the lounge when they said it was over.

It might be true that we carried all of the lessons we learned into a new world where everyone finally understood that every life holds value and every child born was born into a world that hopes only for the best for them.

It might be true.

I’ll tell him it felt like the longest, darkest night.

And then the sun came up.

And it was a bright new day.

Arohanui x

What can we grow from crisis, where will we go from here? It’s time to re-imagine. Nothing is inevitable, everything is possible. - Pete Railand