Riding The Waves of Life Together

This essay has reached the finals of Growlife Medical's 2023 Annual Essay Competition, with this year's theme being "Strong Family Bonds.

"I want Mummy to put me to sleep." I can hear Harry, my two-year-old, screaming in the lounge room. 

"Mummy's feeding Finn. Only Mummy can feed Finn. We need to share Mummy." My partner, Matt, tries to console him in a calm, even tone. 

In the soft light of the nursery, I look down at my five-month-old, Finn, who I'm breastfeeding. His little body is still, rhythmically moving his lower jaw, gradually taking longer between sips. His eyes slowly begin to shut, and his body grows heavier as he starts to drift off, oblivious to the chaos in the next room. 

"I want Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Muuummy!" Harry's cries continue out in the lounge room. I picture his squinted eyes, scrunched-up lips, and foot about to stomp. My chest tightens. I worry that my bond with Harry is being weakened, and that my heart is being torn between my two children. 

Matt and my decision to have a second child so soon was easy. We rushed back to the fertility specialist as soon as the dark circles under our eyes began to fade. Friends warned us that having such a small gap between children would be challenging, but I didn't pay attention. I forged ahead with what I had decided when I wrote my younger brother, Peter's, eulogy a few years ago. His death and the ensuing weeks, months, and years gave me cause to reflect on the happiest moments of my childhood and how my sibling bonds shaped me. 

The eulogy focused on things like our family's annual two-week pilgrimage to Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast. Every year, Mum, Dad and all four of us kids piled into the red Ford Falcon station wagon with the windows wound down to keep the hot, humid air moving. As soon as we arrived at Mooloolaba, we would dump our bags at the rental apartment and race across the road to the beach, our double-pluggers flying off, quickstepping across the hot sand, barely slowing down as we ran into the water. We bodysurfed without boards and competed against each other to see who could go out the furthest and catch the biggest waves. From about the age of ten, Peter usually won despite being younger. He caught waves that no one else at the beach would dare. After dumper waves, I always watched to check that his head popped up safely. He ignored me when I told him to catch the smaller waves closer to shore. One year, I overheard some grown men gasp about that kid catching the big waves and wanted to tell them that he was my little brother, the best bodysurfer around. We would eventually head back to the apartment when our stomachs grumbled, or the lifeguards packed the red and yellow flags away for the day. Between surfs, we ate enormous quantities of leftover Christmas food, played board games like Monopoly and Cluedo, and argued. I didn't mention the latter in Peter's eulogy. We argued over everything from who got which bed to who got the first shower after a long morning surf. We even argued over who was eating the most Froot Loops for breakfast. I always demanded that the Froot Loops be shared evenly and rationed so the two boxes would last as long as possible. 

And, of course, in Peter's eulogy, I didn't mention the time he nearly drowned. On the news the night before, wild surf conditions were forecast along the state's coastline due to a cyclone in the Far North. The surf reporter even mentioned that big wave surfers were expected to be out in force riding their surfboards at Alexandra Headland, the next beach along, but that the "usually family-friendly" beaches like Mooloolaba would likely be closed the next day. Sure enough, the morning greeted us with dark clouds threatening rain. From our balcony, we saw palm trees bending frantically in the wind beside the empty beach car park. Even the sturdy Norfolk pines were blowing wildly. We lazed around the apartment, bickering over the newspaper's comics section and reading musty books left behind by previous holiday-makers. Peter mumbled something about heading to the beach to "have a look". I saw him grab a towel and so I decided to go with him. 

Peter and I sat on the empty beach. The lifesavers' red “Do not enter” flag thumped in the wind, and no one was in the water. Close to the shore, the sea was like a washing machine with swirling white water. But I saw Peter's eyes drawn out further to the neatly formed towering peaks. 

"I'm going in," Peter matter-of-factly stated as he removed his shirt. He was gone before I could object. I remained sitting in the sand, my hair blowing everywhere. He navigated easily through the white water and swam out to the big waves. He looked so small amongst it all. I grimaced as he caught a few waves. But suddenly, he was out deeper, swimming back to shore. The water around him had changed to a dark teal, flat and flowing out to sea fast -—the telltale signs of a rip current. Instead of swimming parallel to the shore, Peter was swimming against the rip current. I ran to the shore, gesturing and screaming instructions about how to get out of the rip, but my voice was muffled, carried away in the wind. Without hesitating, I ran into the water and caught the rip current out. It was flowing so fast that I barely needed to swim to reach Peter. He was red-faced, wide-eyed, puffing, and spluttering, his swim stroke messy. I yelled instructions at him, but he still couldn't hear me, so I hand-signalled directions and led the way, hoping he would follow. I was relieved to feel his hands near my feet as he streamlined behind me, swimming across the current. Once we were out of the rip, we needed to catch one of the big waves back to the shore. A particularly large set came through, and though I'm sure I saw Peter's eyes light up despite his exhaustion, he waited for a smaller wave with me. As we clambered out of the white water together, an older couple who happened to be walking along the beach asked if we were okay. 

"Best surf all year so far," Peter said. It was the second of January. I don't remember them laughing, and I don't think Peter was joking. 

On the way back to the apartment, Peter and I agreed to tell Mum and Dad that we were wet because we had been swimming at the resort pool, an unspoken understanding between us not to worry them or jeopardise our freedom. 

"I probably would've been fine, you know," Peter said just before we entered the apartment, and this was all he ever said about the incident. I interpreted his use of the word 'probably' as his expression of gratitude. I offered him the first shower and even allocated him extra Froot Loops the following day. In retrospect, it all seems so minor now, but these were the sort of moments that forged our sibling relationships. Maybe I was always destined to be a mother with a career in healthcare looking after people, but I’m certain that experiences like this helped pave the way. 

"Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!" Harry's shrill cry drags me back to the present. I'm not sure why he wants me so much. I've been tired and grumpy all day. In the backyard this afternoon, I yelled at him so loud the neighbours surely heard. 

"Get down, Harry. Get back here now. I'll count to three." I yelled as he somehow nearly climbed over the tall lattice fence into the neighbour's yard. He was determined to look in their garden shed, convinced it’s full of treasures like lawnmowers, whipper-snippers, and shovels. 

Meanwhile, Finn lay on a picnic rug under the shade of the Poinciana tree, rolling onto his side to watch, giggling at his older brother's antics. Harry had never been as easy-going as Finn is now. Even at five months of age, Harry was boisterous and continuously moving. 

No longer allowed to climb the fence, Harry's attention turned to his little brother. 

"I get Finn's toys," he declared as he dashed to the toy box, returning with his arms full of toys, dropping some on the way. He started dangling toys in front of Finn like he's seen me do. He smiled as Finn continued giggling. Suddenly, Harry picked up a toy car and threw it at Finn, hitting him in the head. 

I remind myself that, amongst these chaotic moments, there are also beautiful moments. Harry was so excited when Finn did his first full roll earlier in the week. I was cooking spaghetti Bolognese in the kitchen, half-watching both kids. I was trying to keep Harry focused on building his train tracks so he'd leave Finn alone. I was stirring the mince, nearly about to pour coconut milk into the Bolognese instead of tinned tomatoes. 

"Roll Finn Roll. Roll Finn Roll. Go, Finn. Go, Finn. Mum, he did it!!" Harry exclaimed out of nowhere. Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of the end of Finn's first full roll. Harry was dancing, clapping, and cheering all at once. Tears welled in my eyes, but not for missing Finn's first roll. It was Harry's reaction that pulled at my heartstrings. He's taken to his big brother duties quickly and instinctively without my prompting. In my breastfeeding haze, I hope the two boys will be friends for life and continue to be each other's biggest cheerleaders. 

Of course, I hope they'll also have close friends who celebrate their achievements. Hundreds of friends and colleagues attended Peter's funeral. They were all so similar to Peter and told me stories about their common interests. But there was also a large ragtag group of family members, some of whom we only see at weddings and funerals. Despite the gap between seeing each other, the conversations with family members flowed easily, perhaps because we were raised with common values. We're bonded by shared history, and so understand the context for each other's flaws. I feel so lucky to have a blood family, as they make life much richer. 

"I want Mummy," the cries still emanate from the lounge room, but not so loud this time. 



"Daddy gets to put you to sleep. Yay! Let's pretend to be rocket ships and fly to your bed on the moon!" I hear Matt perk up at the gradual easing of the tantrum. 

"Wee rocket ships are fun!" Harry exclaims, and I picture him flying to his bedroom. He's forgotten how much he wanted me five minutes ago. This evening's bedlam has passed like tough times eventually do. Finn drifts off to sleep, almost ready to be delicately transferred to his cot. I enjoy the stillness a little longer, reminiscing and contemplating. I love watching Harry and Finn’s sibling bond form and hope the gap between them remains small. I hope their sibling bond continues to be one of their most treasured relationships throughout their life, and that they'll continue to be each other's loudest cheerleaders. I hope their relationship flourishes amidst the childhood arguments that will inevitably help shape their personalities. I already sense that the two boys are becoming the yin to each other's yang. I hope the sun shines for most of their days and that their sibling bond is formed as they ride smooth waves together. But most of all, I hope that when the sea is turbulent, they look out for each other and that the stormy days only serve to strengthen their bond. 

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