Pauline Braniff
“I don’t feel four,” my little boy said the morning of his birthday, his small, sweet face creased with concern. There had been such a build-up to this day, he had expected an overnight transformation. Instead, he felt exactly the same as he did yesterday. Three.
“I’m sure you’ll feel more four tomorrow,” I assured him, not entirely believing myself. What does being four feel like? I don’t quite remember.
I do remember happy times at pre-school, finger painting and playing cubbies. I won a bride doll in a church raffle. The parish priest proudly handed her to me in a lovely presentation box. I called her Veronica. She now lives in a corner of my old bedroom at mum’s. Her blonde hair no longer long and lustrous due to many visits to my hairdressing salon over the years. I’m not sure which puppy to blame for the chew marks where her toes once were. More disturbing, her long-lashed blue eyes stare wonkily out of her head after being pressed too hard by some little kid who came over to play one day. The giant baby doll in Toy Story 3 looks spookily familiar.
At four, I nearly chopped off my big toe while playing with an axe-head in a neighbour’s backyard. But that was a minor incident compared to being three when I narrowly escaped being washed down an open storm water drain. I had followed my older sister out on a walk and climbed into the steep-sided drain but couldn’t climb out. I was lucky my frantic parents found me, snuggled asleep against the warm slope of concrete, before it rained.
My son hadn’t had any storm drain adventures, or axe-head encounters. At four, his hands were so soft I wanted to hold them forever. By the time he was 10, those hands had already toughened from years playing football and tennis and cricket. Now, he is 22. At some point, a grown man erupted out of that little boy’s body, and I am still astounded by this towering figure in my kitchen, with his wide shoulders and head of gorgeous glossy curls. His transformation complete, he says he doesn’t feel 22 either.
I don’t know that anyone ever feels their age. I recently turned 60, and I certainly don’t want to feel mine. We expect children to act their age but as adults we spend most of our time trying not to. And yet, we instinctively know it is something to celebrate. Those milestones we pass as small children are acknowledged with great fuss and exclamation. That urge to mark the years never really leaves us.
The 60-year birthday parties I am attending are full of celebration and joy. And an incredible sense of gratitude at making it this far with friends and family around us. Life can be a great leveller, and by 60, it has usually done just that.
I often tell new parents that four is my favourite age for children. They are 100 per cent themselves before school brings a bunch of add-ons that shape and shift them in unexpected ways. A small part of me would love to be back with my four-year-old son, answering his questions and soothing his concerns, piling cut-up fruit on a plate for him and his sister to eat while watching cartoons on TV. But, at 60, that long trip down memory lane also includes a few bus stops I’d rather not revisit.
So, here we all are. The years hurtling by so fast we should get a speeding ticket. Not feeling our age but sensing the weight of memories growing by the day. The soft hands we once held now holding ours, hopefully forever.
Pauline Braniff is a Melbourne writer.
