He turned 21 without us, and that near broke my heart

We haven’t seen him for so long. Through the long, hard months of Covid lockdowns and border closures, through the weirdly suspended endlessness of monotonous meals and fractured thinking, he’s not been with us. Picture: iStock

Covid, I’ve discovered, is good for something. Because a teenager has just declared they actually do want to go on a summer holiday with us. A rare occurrence; normally they don’t want to go anywhere near the embarrassment of the fam in public. Not that we’ve actually arranged a together-type holiday situation – rejection hurts – but we’re scrambling. Because a child really, actually, wants to be around us. This is hard to get our heads around because we’ve discovered our teens and young adults are like cats. Aloof, judgy, slightly terrifying, with occasional moments of needing to rub up very close.

In the Before Times there used to be skiing holidays. Traumatic for many reasons (I don’t get skiing holidays). We’d always leave the eldest at home because he refused to play along during that great extrication from parents during teen years. And so the Chap and I took deep breaths and decreed that our Ticki (short for Tickles, our perennial toddler nickname for him) could stay at home.

Yet no way would that be by himself, because we’d heard about those Facebook parties where the entire cohort of kids he’s ever met, and then some, end up in your world. We envisaged vodka bottles buried in the garden and babies made in our bed. So the only way it would work was if his elderly grandfather stayed to keep an eye on things. And to save our house. An excellent arrangement because the two, almost 70 years apart, adored each other. What could possibly go wrong?

Day Four. An early morning email from a neighbour we’re fond of. Kind of curt. She’d had little sleep. The partying had gone on until 4am, every night we’d been away, and she’d finally cracked. Because, well, no respite. “The music, laughing, swearing, singing.” Singing? What kind of party was this? A very jolly one it seemed. Repeatedly.

Cue one of those thunderous parent calls, to the eldest, who had to be dragged from his beauty sleep. Because, well, 4am. What’s the story morning glory? Seems his grandfather was toddling off to bed every night at 9pm and leaving his grandson to his quiet time, watching his shows; with dad falling blissfully asleep, oblivious to the party raging metres away. “Let him have some fun,” dad chuckled, begging for forgiveness for them both.

We’ve got our own back on the eldest. Right before Christmas, year after year, we’d troop off for the annual family Santa photo. Same dude every year with his beard and bare feet and boardies, and he’d gotten to know our particular breed of reluctant, eye-rolling teen. “Sit on my knee, Ticki!” “Get those reindeer antlers on!” “What’ll it be this year – Star Wars Lego or the Sonic Screwdriver?” “God help you with a family like this one.”

Our Ticki, deep in the terrible teens, had to be dragged to this torture. Bribed. Yet now, astonishingly, he’s promised to get home to us in time for Santa’s pic. Because, you see – and now I tear up – we haven’t seen him for so long. Through the long, hard months of Covid lockdowns and border closures, through the weirdly suspended endlessness of monotonous meals and fractured thinking, he’s not been with us. He’s been studying interstate. Stranded since early in the year. He’s turned that momentous age of 21 without us, and, well, that near broke my heart. A mother plans for these things. Since, oh, birth I’ve been taking photos for the slideshow.

And now our dear little Tickles is about to walk through the door, all 6 foot 3 of him. How can a mother’s love be so voluminous? We had assumed he’d arrange his flight for just after Santa’s sitting, but no, oddly. “I’ll be there for the pic, Mum.” So Covid. The great bringer-togetherer. When we realise what we’ve got, right under our noses all along. How precious it is. The cats are rubbing close.