Perfect Parenting?

Wandering along West Australian south coasts, wintry elements jostled for control. Our walk motivated is by a break in freak storms and driving rain plaguing this trip. I thought showing Tash my youthful realm might be cathartic. The real place, not just those photos on the lounge wall. So far mother nature has curbed many of those plans.

Lately any conversation with other family, siblings, even nieces resembles warfare, all filled with ultimatums and warnings about less than perfect parenting. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of those verbal repartees right now. A smidge of adult conversation, make a change from multitudes of needy pre-schooler fussy food exchanges, song singing, handholding and occasional bottom wiping.

Doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve told her not to kick sand, Tash still does. At least there are no sunbakers to suffer her grit attack. Instead, on this beach, a group of people pace about in small circles, gesticulating, as if engaged in internal monologues. I am about to throw myself down at their feet. Insist they take me into their group. Allow someone else to sing more renditions of nick, knack, paddy-wack give the dog a bone…

Before I prostrate myself on beach sand a man says, ‘these people are having therapy, you mind not disturbing them?’

Please and thank you notably absent. Terribly sorry, I missed a sign stating; Track to Greens Beach is closed to the general public because of a therapy group.

‘What’s therapy?’ Tash asks, luckily once we are almost out of earshot. What am I – Mummy Google?

Therapy is - what your Mother wants. To be gently nurtured by a therapist? Don’t really care if it’s psychoanalysis, physio, hydro, willing to try drugs, any type of therapy, counselling, acupuncture, yoga, Tai Chi; you name it, I probably need it.  My daughter is looking at me, gooey-eyed, still waiting an aloud answer, ‘it’s when you do something to make yourself feel better. Like ice and a bandage for a sprained sore leg, like drinking hot honey and lemon for a sore throat. What do you think can be therapy for sickness inside your mind?’

‘I don’t know.’

 ‘Well, you could be renewed by sitting on a winter beach. Many people believe the ocean’s constant shifting makes you feel better.’

A dramatic pause while we both stare out at waves trying to focus on a small part of tumbling herds of surf’s white horses.

‘See if you can follow where a piece of water moves to?’

By now, the person who asked us to move away attempts to assert authority at odds with his loose hippy robes. Chiefly by casting pre-occupied glances in our direction, as if our continued presence will somehow upset beachside biorhythms.

‘But how do you get therapy?’

Tasha’s question brings today’s tally of questions to about 56, give or take.

‘Some people use music; or write stuff down, or talk to themselves.’ I say, vocalising my own wishful thoughts.

Pimple like periwinkles cling to wave lashed rocks.

‘What are those?’ Tash asks. All I can hear is screeching…aaaargh, not another one! ‘Shellfish, clinging to the rock.’

I squeezed, which is difficult with slightly painful knees, into a lump shape on a glistening rock. ‘See! I’m a shellfish clinging!’

‘Yeah and I am waves crashing!’ With wide arms, birdlike Tash performs a bouncy dance. Her waves crash against my poor helpless periwinkle. Where does she pick up these mannerisms?

‘You are a free, wild thing, unable to be held back.’

 ‘Nope, I am a seagull, flying.’ This is accompanied by a similar dance performance.

‘There is a book about a seagull, Jonathon Livingstone Seagull, we all read it, when I was young. Jonathon, grew tired of flying like a seagull, he wanted to soar like an Albatross or Eagle.’

What a lovely thought, time to read a book in peace, even one as thin as Jonathon Livingstone Seagull.

‘What’s an albatross?’ I should have guessed a literary reference from my youth, too adult for Tasha.

 ‘It’s a beautiful bird which sails on air, hardly ever fluttering or moving a feather.’

‘Like those ones we saw, that just hang in the air?’

‘No they were hawks; they hover, like a helicopter.’

By now, we’ve walked to Elephant Rocks; giant pachyderm shaped lumps of granite.  Frozen in time as they crash through coastal shrubs on their way to an elephant’s bathing beach.

‘I’m going to climb to the top, and ride an elephant.’ I know she will return, disappointed, as these rock-phants do not kneel to allow a climber’s purchase. No child-climbing imperfections, racks, ropes or handrails exist out here. Nor injury prevention soft surfaces below, just in case of a fall. Should I be worried she will hurt herself?

When Tash finds me again, I am exploring some basalt ledges solidified in a process of crumbling down toward transparent waves. Different textured rocks, alien to flat, smooth, elephantine, granite. Glittering, black terraces step down to water’s edge, with cracks and lumps forming millions of gnome like heads.

‘I’ve found a throne.’ I say. Rank has its privileges, right? Why shouldn’t I get the best spot? Matriarch need, sometimes, to claim a crown.

‘Where’s mine?’

 Tash wanders about rocks to locate her seat of power, but only after testing two unsatisfactory niches. Grumbling accompanies her entire search. 

‘This is your throne, your majesty, and these are your people.’ Sweep of my arm indicates towards bowed heads of rock knobbles, masses of her court appearing unsatisfied, before their child monarch.

She sticks out her chin in a pint-sized parody of power, ‘you can call me – Your Highness.’

I find another seat, facing another way.

‘You’re facing the wrong way!’

True, I face land, not sea. ‘I’m not facing the wrong way. Only a different direction! Anyway who is driving this train?’

She laughs and runs away. Trouble is, directly toward the therapy group who are now shuffling back along a beach track. My heart sinks, what sort of people are they – recovering addicts, paedophiles, alcoholics, anger management cases. I bound up to my daughter. Even though I’ve told her, more than once, Tash doesn’t get stranger-danger concepts.

‘So cute, matching shirts,’ says one of this group as I frown, menacingly.

‘She’s not my mother,’ interrupts Tasha, ‘she’s my servant.’