A Madcap Son

The monitors in my hospital room suddenly began beeping wildly, their alarms piercing the quiet. Within moments, nurses burst through the door, their faces tight with concern. Despite all the commotion, I felt perfectly fine. I couldn’t understand what had set them off.

“Lie down, Mrs Roberts,” the head nurse instructed firmly. “Why did you get out of bed?”

“I didn’t,” I replied, confused. “I just shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable. My belly feels enormous — seven months pregnant and everything aches.”

Seven years after my miscarriage, I struggled to conceive again. Doctors told me my uterus was positioned too far back, making pregnancy difficult.

Determined, I underwent an operation to reposition it, and just six months later, I discovered I was pregnant. Overwhelmed with joy, I called my husband at work to share the good news.

During the first eight weeks, I developed placenta previa — a condition that meant I’d need to spend most of my pregnancy lying flat on my back. I was admitted to the hospital, where my room slowly became my sanctuary for the next seven months. There were a few terrifying moments when I experienced bleeding and feared another miscarriage, but my little one was a fighter and held on.

At first, visitors came often, but as the months dragged on, my circle narrowed to my husband, Chris and my dear mother-in-law, Marge.

To pass the time and soothe my mind, I took up painting. Many of the pieces I created during those quiet days still hang on my walls.

The moment I cradled my newborn son in my arms, all the hardship and worry from the past seven months melted away, replaced by pure, unclouded joy. Steven entered this world — my world — and in that instant, nothing else mattered. The challenges faded, leaving only love and gratitude for the tiny life nestled against me.

Children, as every parent knows, seem to grow up in the blink of an eye.

One moment you’re picking up tiny shoes from under the couch, and the next, you’re left reminiscing about those simpler days. The memories, though, have a way of lingering. Sometimes, it’s the smallest stories that stay with you the longest.

Take five-year-old Steve, for example. From the moment he discovered the joys of toy cars, he was hooked. It wasn’t just a passing fad — by the time he was five, Steve had amassed a whopping collection of 150 Matchbox cars. Each colourful Ute and sleek sedan had a special spot on his shelf, and every shopping trip, without fail, ended with Steve pleading for just one more to add to his ever-growing collection.

What really amazed me was Steve’s memory. He knew each and every car he owned, inside and out. I’d often wonder how on earth he could keep track of which models he already had, but somehow, he always did. Even as we browsed the aisles at the local shops, Steve would scan the toy shelves with eagle eyes, immediately recognising any he didn’t yet possess. I still don’t know how he managed it!

Eventually, though, I had to draw the line. As much as I loved seeing his eyes light up with every new addition, my wallet just couldn’t keep up with Steve’s passion for collecting.

One day, when he asked for yet another Matchbox car, I gently showed him my empty wallet. “See, son, no money,” I explained, hoping he’d understand that even mums have limits.

Steve peered at my wallet, then, with all the curiosity of a clever five-year-old, fished out my health care card. He looked up at me, eyes wide with innocent wisdom, and said, “Just put it in the machine, Mum, and it’ll give you money.”

Smart kid or what?

At six years old, and now so much wiser about the world, Steve watched as I applied cream to my face one night.

“Why do you do that, Mum?” he asked.

“To get rid of my wrinkles,” I replied, pointing to the frown lines on my forehead as I rubbed them.

He considered this for a moment, then said sagely, “It’s not doing any good, Mum.”

Time seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. One moment, he was my little boy, and before I knew it, he was sitting behind the wheel of his very first car.

The thrill of newfound freedom was written all over his face. Soon after, his world expanded even further: he brought home his first girlfriend. I felt a bittersweet pang in my heart; my role as the centre of his universe had shifted. No longer the love of his life, I found myself quietly mourning the change, but proud all the same.

Then came the spark of a new fascination: motorcycles. His eyes lit up at the idea, but I couldn’t help but worry. “No,” I insisted through tears, “it’s far too dangerous.” Thankfully, this was just a passing fancy. The thrill faded quickly, and my heart could rest easier.

Through every stage, he remained a son who brought nothing but pride and joy. Never a moment of trouble. He was always generous and kind-hearted, qualities that shone brightly during his time at Marist College. His care for others was recognised when he was awarded the prestigious Champagne medal, given to the student who best looked after his peers.

University came next, where he completed both his undergraduate and master’s degrees with determination and hard work. From there, he secured his first job and began the steady climb up the corporate ladder, building a career with quiet confidence and resilience.

Life took an exciting turn when he joined a Contiki tour bound for London. It was there, amidst the buzz of new experiences and faraway places, that he met Julie, his true love. Their connection was instant and enduring. Today, Julie is his cherished wife and the devoted mother of my three wonderful grandsons. I couldn’t wish for a happier ending to his journey so far.

When Julie graciously swept in and claimed the title of first lady of the household, I was more than happy to let her shine.

These days, I wear my new badge of honour as the second lady with pride, less pressure, more time for tea, and free rein to poke fun at the domestic shenanigans.

Julie and I are a formidable duo, especially when it comes to consulting on Steven. He’s a puzzle we still haven’t fully solved, but at least we’re both working on it, sometimes over a cuppa, sometimes with a raised eyebrow, and always with a dash of humour.

Now, as “Nanny” — a title bestowed upon me by my daughter-in-law, I get to witness Steve’s supermarket strategies up close. The man is convinced the only way to buy potatoes is in bulk. Six potatoes? Far too dear, apparently.

So, off Steve trots to the spud shed, proudly returning with a whopping 10-kilo sack. Bargain of the century, he declares.

Julie, ever the pragmatist, points out the obvious: “We only eat six, the sack is cheaper, but we chuck half of them out!” The great potato debate rages on.

Steve is happy, Julie sighs, I laugh, and, inevitably, our bin fills up with the spoils of spud war.

Sometimes I find myself marvelling at the contradictions in life, and none more so than when I think of Steve.

How on earth does this madcap son end up leading a team of ninety at one of the country’s top companies? He’s the ultimate professional, the boss everyone respects, yet at home he’s as unpredictable as a kangaroo on a trampoline.

I found myself asking Julie about it, unable to hide my bewilderment. She just grinned and said, “Don’t worry, Nanny, that’s the other Steve, lol.”

Today is Steve’s 45th birthday. The house is bustling with excitement as my three grandsons, Joshua, Liam, Nicky, and Julie, gather around the cake. The boys insisted on having all 45 candles, determined to help their father make a wish. The sight of those little faces glowing in the candlelight, eager to pitch in, makes me wonder — have they inherited some of Steve’s wild spirit?

I turn to Julie and say, “Well, they’re all yours now — quirks, jokes, and all, including Steve himself.” She laughs, knowing full well the adventure she’s in for.

As for me, I’ll always be part of their lives, proud as punch of my lively bunch of boys and the family we’ve grown together. No matter how chaotic or comical things get, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Unconditionally accepting one’s children is one of the most significant challenges in parenting. Even within the same family, each child arrives with their own unique personality and often displays distinct behaviours. Parents need to value and celebrate each child for who they truly are, rather than who they might wish them to become. A highly effective approach is to recognise and nurture each child’s individual “islands of competence”, helping them build confidence and a sense of belonging.

Are you a mum or dad? We’d love to hear from you!

Share your stories and join the conversation with fellow parents. Tell us all about your kids’ antics — we can’t wait for a good laugh!

Thank you for reading, dear friends ღ.

© Stephanie Roberts