DorkySon is learning to fly.
I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense that people so often use to describe teenagers – becoming more independent, testing boundaries, working towards personal dreams – although I suppose these things are also true.
I mean that every second Saturday, weather permitting, we drive him to a small aerodrome a few kilometres east of Hobart, where he sits at the controls of a Cessna 172 and learns how to keep it in the air.
Sometimes when it comes to writing a blog post, I don’t quite know where to start. When that’s the case, there’s only one thing to do. Begin at the beginning. So here we go.
Earlier this month, I dropped DorkyDad at Hobart Airport. He was heading off on his first solo travels in a long time: three weeks in North America, starting in Georgia and ending in Toronto, with a further five stops to see family and friends along the way.
It wasn’t a long goodbye. We hugged hard, mindful of the lane attendants and their zealous clock-watching.
“See you in 22 days,” I said.
“See you in 22 days and 16 flights,” he laughed. “Love you.” Continue reading
DorkySon and I have just got back from Adelaide, and my tender mama heart is full.
He turns 15 next month, so hopefully we still have a year or two more of family holidays. But even so, time is starting to feel like a precious commodity, and three full days of his company was a delight.
Last summer, DorkyDad took DorkySon to Canberra for a few days – compensation for a school camp that was cancelled during COVID-19 lockdowns. This year it was my turn and, given the choice of any city in Australia, he went for the city of churches. Although not, actually, for the churches.
(Just for the record, I am well aware that I got a better deal than DorkyDad. And I’ve been reminded of that. More than once.)
I kept an eye out for reasonably priced flights – and at some point late last year I got lucky in a Happy Hour Sale – so on the final weekend of the Tasmanian school holidays, we found ourselves at Hobart Airport. Bags checked in, digital boarding passes saved on our phones, and absolutely spoiled for choice with delicious dinner options.
That last bit might be an exaggeration. DorkySon had a pasta salad from Liv Eat, I had a rice salad from Liv Eat, and we split a KitKat on the plane. It did the job.
Once upon a time, many years ago, I stood for election to the Scottish Parliament. But it’s just as well I wasn’t elected. I cry too much, about too many things, to be an effective politician.
We still live in a world where no matter how important or valid a point you’re making, if you cry when you’re making it, people find that point easier to dismiss. They write you off as emotional, rather than rational. They say that you’re letting your feelings get in the way of the facts.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried over the last month.
I’ve cried on the phone to a staffer in Foreign Minister Penny Wong’s office, as I pleaded with that staffer to pass on the message that there is widespread support in the community for the Minister to demand a ceasefire in Gaza.
I’ve cried while walking the dog with my son, as I tried to explain to him why Palestine is something I have big feelings about.
I have cried sitting at my desk, watching footage of bodies pulled from under rubble, of bloodied limbs strewn across streets, of tiny premature babies carried in the arms of their doctors when there is no fuel left to power their incubators. I have cried learning about the existence of non-incendiary bombs that don’t explode on impact but instead discharge six metal blades that are capable of slicing through steel and concrete and destroying everything in their path. I have cried watching the forced displacement of many thousands of people – many of whom did exactly what they were instructed to do but ended up being shot anyway. And I have cried at the endless, awful stories of the children we have lost. Yahya, the boy who wanted to become an astronaut. Eileen, the girl who dreamed of owning a Lego toy. Ward, whose name stems from the Arabic word for flower.
Ten years ago, when we left the UK to move to Australia, we got a ride to Heathrow with a driver called Malcolm. It was a bit of a squeeze getting our massive suitcases into his car – but we’d hired him a few times before for trips to the airport, and it was hard to imagine choosing someone else for this big, emotional final drive.
Malcolm and DorkySon had always enjoyed a good chat. DorkySon was still into trucks rather than planes at that point, and his favourites were the big green and red Eddie Stobarts – a pretty common sight on the M25. Malcolm used to give DorkySon a heads up when he saw one coming, just to make sure he didn’t miss it.
Not long after we’d arrived in Tasmania, a parcel arrived in the mail. It was a model Eddie Stobart truck in a display box, that Malcolm had sent over for DorkySon.
It is astonishing, and lovely, how kind people can be.
Dorkymum | Stories from Tasmania 