Those tender primary school years passed us by quickly. David was a great student – and Wyatt made sure he was a strong sportsman, too. We were the family who were always running off somewhere – soccer training on Mondays, piano lesson on Tuesday, scouts on Wednesday, athletics on Thursday and then Friday night was generally football or cricket training.
Sometimes people commented that we pushed David too hard, which I found completely bewildering. He was just so good at so many different things, and I wanted to give him every opportunity to succeed.
‘He needs time to be a kid,’ my mother said to me one Saturday morning. We’d invited her and Dad to watch David compete in an athletics carnival, but almost from the moment of David’s first race, she sat by the sidelines in stony silence. While I was cheering him on and giving him pep-talks between events, Mum was scowling.
‘He has plenty of time to be a kid,’ I sighed, and Mum raised her chin.
‘Rushing around to activities every day isn’t good for him.’
‘Wyatt and I are in a position to let David explore a lot of interests. It’s good for him.’
‘Perhaps,’ Mum said, but then after a pause, she muttered, ‘but I’m not at all sure it’s good for him when his mother tells him that he should have come first every time he loses a race.’
‘Mum,’ I groaned, and shook my head at her. ‘You don’t get this at all, do you? I’m not pressuring him. He wants to be the best. It’s just my job to help him do it.’
‘He can’t be the best at everything, Ivy. He’s a kid – this is meant to be fun. Isn’t all of this sport about learning how to win and lose? How to play nice with the other kids? How to try and fail and accept when things don’t go his way?’
‘Of course! But he’s a special little boy and—’
‘Every kid is special,’ Mum said flatly. ‘If he doesn’t understand that, he’ll think he’s entitled to special treatment his whole life.’
‘You don’t get it,’ I snapped at her, and I shook my head in disgust. ‘What kind of grandmother wants her child to feel less special?’
Mum stared at me for a moment, then her lips compressed and she turned back to the field.
‘You’re right, Ivy. I don’t get it. So maybe I should keep my thoughts to myself.’
‘Maybe you should,’ I muttered. It was my turn to scowl. I should have known Mum would be like this. She and Dad never really took much interest in my hobbies or education, beyond the routine pat on the head when my report cards were good.
Later in the day, David moved from the races to compete in the long jump. On his first jump, he positively nailed his technique and flew through the air to land a good way in the sand. I leapt into the air and cheered, but just as I landed, the referee shook his head.
‘Foul,’ he called. David turned and looked straight at me, so I saw the way his triumphant smile faded all the way to nothing.
‘What?!’ I gasped, and left the spectator’s area to approach the judge. ‘Why was that a foul?’
‘His foot was over the line.’
‘David knows the rules, he’s always careful about that. You must be mistaken.’
‘Mrs Gillespie,’ the referee sighed. ‘I know what I saw. I’m sorry, but the jump was definitely a foul. Look, he’s still got two jumps left—’
‘No!’ I exclaimed, and I planted my hands on my hips. ‘David definitely jumped correctly. I’m sorry, I have to insist you reconsider.’
‘You can insist all you want,’ the referee said pointedly. ‘My decision is final.’
‘I’ll take it up with the organisers, then.’
Then he exhaled forcibly, and leant towards me and said, his voice low and urgent, ‘Look, Ivy – it’s a social comp. This isn’t even being recorded. It’s just for fun, okay? David misplaced his foot, it wouldn’t fair to the other kids to let him get away with it. Just leave this one. Pick your parenting battles, hey?’
‘Don’t you dare patronise me,’ I snapped, and just when I was ramping up to give him a piece of my mind, I heard a hesitant voice beside me.
‘Mum,’ David said quietly. ‘Maybe I did foul.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, David,’ I frowned at him. ‘I was watching; you were well behind the line. Let Mummy talk to Mr Jacobs quietly, okay?’
‘But what if I slipped a bit?’
‘David, you didn’t. That was a terrific jump and it should count.’
Right then, I happened to scan past the little spectator’s area looking for the head of the organising committee. My gaze stalled on my mother’s face. She was wearing a look of such stern disapproval that I stiffened. She had no idea! Her generation didn’t advocate for their kids, and maybe… just maybe that’s why I didn’t know to advocate for myself when I’d found myself seventeen and knocked up. Well, I wasn’t about to make that mistake with David. I looked right back to the referee and was about to launch into another appeal for a reconsideration, but then David tugged at my hand.
‘Mum, please. Everyone is looking.’
I sighed and shot the referee one last glance to let him know I still wasn’t happy, and I let David lead me back to the spectator area. He trailed behind me, his head down and his feet dragging along the ground.
‘Listen, Davey,’ I said quietly, and I crouched so that we were at eye level. ‘You’re a special little boy, and that was a really great jump. It should have counted. Mr Jacobs is just jealous because his son isn’t as clever at sport. And I’m always, always going to try to make sure people do the right thing by you, okay? I know you wouldn’t have fouled that jump.’
David stared at me, his brow furrowed, his expression unsure. I caught his upper arms in my hands and shook him gently, forcing his gaze to mine. ‘You didn’t foul it, did you?’
Something in his blue eyes sharpened. He raised his chin and shook his head. I was proud of the sudden confidence in his gait.
‘No, Mum. I didn’t foul it.’
‘Then next time, you make sure Mr Jacobs knows it. Got it?’
‘Okay.’
‘Go back and get ready for your next jump.’
He ran down the hill, and I sat beside Mum again.
‘Ivy,’ she said carefully. ‘Just be careful, love.’
‘He was robbed, Mum,’ I muttered.
‘Kids need to learn how to fail, Ivy.’
‘I’m not going to sit on my hands while he’s being victimised,’ I said abruptly. ‘Look, you said it yourself earlier. Maybe you should keep your thoughts to yourself.’
Mum sighed and shook her head, then went back to watching the competition.
She did have some funny old-fashioned ideas, my mother.
They were busy years, but they were such happy years too. I was watching my little boy become a little man. I took pride in his every achievement, and pride even in the way that I could see his potential well before others did.
When David was at school, I had a regular routine of chores around the house – laundry first thing, often then I’d bake, train the dogs around lunchtime, and enjoy some downtime in the afternoon. In winter, I liked to read by the fire. In summer, I liked to read on the back deck near the pool. I had to be militant with my downtime during the day because the afternoons and evenings were always full. I was the president of the Parents and Friends Committee at the school for most of David’s primary school years, I was often the secretary for his sports team, and he needed my hands-on tutoring. I really had to push him to keep progressing with his schoolwork. He tended to get bored quickly, and sometimes, his grades came in low – which was ridiculous, because he was by far the smartest child in his class most years.
‘This happens with gifted children,’ I told Wyatt. ‘They just need extra challenges… extra stimulation. His teachers just aren’t meeting his needs.’
Wyatt tended to just go along with whatever I suggested when it came to David’s schooling, but his teachers were a whole other matter. It was a constant battle to convince them that David needed constant challenges. His third-grade teacher streamed the class by spelling ability and at one stage, actually sent David home with the easiest set of words.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ I exclaimed. David grinned.
‘Easier is better, Mum, don’t worry.’
‘I’m not having it,’ I said flatly. ‘You use that brain of yours, Davey, or you’ll lose it. Trust me.’
So the next morning I walked him to the classroom and I asked his teacher for a word in private. Mrs White sighed as we sat opposite one another at her desk. We wasted no time on pleasantries, instead, she opened her palms wide and prompted, ‘What can I help you with this morning, Ivy?’
‘David is not working to his potential in your class. I wanted to let you know in person before I speak with the principal. I’m going to request he be switched to the other class.’
The teacher’s eyes widened and she sat back in her chair, surveying me with something akin to disbelief in her eyes.
‘Ivy, David is settled and happy here in my class. He’s working right on the levels we expect of a child in grade three, I have plenty of parents who’d kill to see a report card like David’s. Is there a particular problem we need to address?’
‘David should be with a teacher who can see his potential, not one who is willing to let him coast along as if he’s an ordinary child.’
She protested very little in the end, and the principal switched David to the other class without much fuss; I assume because he could see that I was right.
And once I requested it, the new teacher moved David into the advanced spelling group. It took a lot of work for us to catch up on the work he’d missed in those months with the sub-standard teacher, but I didn’t mind at all; I worked intensively with David at home on his spelling until his assessment results were back on track.
Wyatt’s influence on David seemed to trump mine sometimes, and I could never understand why, given I provided for all of David’s essential needs. Maybe Wyatt earned the money, but I was the one who used it to keep the house. I was also the person who organised David’s schedule and tended his hurts and offered hugs when he was sad.
But Wyatt was still a god to our son, and as the primary school years ticked past us, I began to see his influence shaping David’s interests and opinions. Sport was everything to Wyatt in those days, and David became borderline sport obsessed too. In the summer they watched the cricket, in the winter they watched the football, and in the window between seasons, they taped European soccer matches to watch later.
But nothing was more exciting than going to watch the town representative teams.
‘The Milton Falls Blazers are playing the Orange Tigresses in the rugby this weekend,’ I heard David telling Wyatt excitedly one evening. ‘Can we go?’
‘Orange Tigresses?’ I repeated from the kitchen. ‘Is that a women’s team?’
The sound of riotous laughter greeted me.
‘Women’s team? In the rugby? It’s the Orange Tigers, Ivy. You need your hearing checked,’ Wyatt was laughing hysterically, and David’s laughter mingled with it, like a little shadow of his father’s mirth.
‘What’s so funny about that?’ I said, and I walked to the door to the living area so I could frown at my husband.
‘Girls can’t play rugby,’ Wyatt chuckled with a smile. ‘It’s a sport that requires a particular kind of strength and power, and speed is important too. But all of that aside, it really does boil down to the mental game – I just don’t think women are built to be able to think the right way to play rugby.’
‘Wyatt Gillespie,’ I said, shaking my head at him. ‘You are such a Neanderthal! I’m sure women play your precious “rugby” in the city all the time.’
‘Ah, love,’ he sighed, and he rose and crossed the room to pull me close for a hug. I resisted initially, but he held me until I softened against him and then he brushed a kiss against my forehead. ‘Don’t take it personally – I’m not saying women aren’t as good as men. I’m just saying they’re better suited to other things, that’s all. I mean, look at you with Davey – you juggle so many things, and you make it look easy – I wouldn’t stand a chance of doing half of what you do with our boy. You were born to be a mother, it’s clear as day. But put you on a rugby field… well, you’re going to struggle, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Girls play netball, Mum, not rugby,’ David piped up. ‘If you really want to play some sport, you should try that.’
‘Yeah, Mum,’ Wyatt winked at me, then turned to David. ‘Does Rachael play netball, Davey? Maybe she could teach Mum.’
‘I can ask her if you want?’
‘No, thank you, David,’ I sighed, and I shook my head at Wyatt, who laughed again.
‘Hurry up with dinner, love – I’m starving,’ he said as he went back to his recliner. I glanced at my watch and swore as I realised how late it was. I hurried to the kitchen – Wyatt always liked me to have the food on the table by six, although that was often difficult when David and I were at after-school activities until late. I planned out our meals weekly and picked up the groceries on a Sunday from the store, and then I pre-cooked what I could, for nights like that one when Wyatt would be hurrying me up and I’d be trying to help David with his homework while the veggies cooked.
‘Come on, Ivy!’ Wyatt would call, groaning in exasperation, if the clock ticked even a minute or two past six without the food being on the table. ‘Jesus, woman, what do you do all day, can’t you be more organised?’
‘Nearly ready,’ I’d call back. David would inevitably be mucking around with his toys at the table again and the dogs would be yapping around our feet waiting for their dinner too and the whole evening routine could be so stressful, with so many competing demands and me at the centre of it all, trying to hold the family schedule together.
If I was running really late, instead of sitting down with the boys to eat, I’d stay on my feet – picking at a plate of food on the bench as I cleaned just to make up a bit of lost time. Wyatt rarely noticed when this was the case, although one time, David did.
‘Why aren’t you eating dinner, Mum?’
‘Mum’s hips are getting so wide, she can’t fit in her chair tonight,’ Wyatt grinned. I looked at him and bit back a retort – Wyatt too had started to pile on weight, in his case, when his focus shifted from playing sport to watching it. ‘Maybe if she skips dinner for a few nights she’ll be able to join us again.’
‘Mum’s hips aren’t wide, Dad,’ David frowned, confused. ‘And she does fit in the chair, she was just sitting in it earlier to chop up the veggies.’
‘I’m joking, son.’ Wyatt laughed. ‘It’s fun to have a joke now and again, isn’t it?’
‘Ah,’ David said, but then he laughed too. ‘Yeah. I get it.’
They both sniggered, and I rolled my eyes and kept right on tidying up.
But I did skip dinner that night, and the one after that.