THE MAKING OF HARRY FREUND
To Harry. My little man. My son.My son.
Your mother.
That word, mother, still evokes an emotion within me that I find exciting.
It's as if I am in a room full of people and I am trying to convince them all I am a doctor or an acclaimed author, except I have no idea how either of those people would act. I have had no training for this role, and feel it is only a matter of time before the curtains fall at my feet exposing me and the charade I so unconvincingly uphold.
Let's pull that curtain down now and paint the picture of who I really am.
I am a 25 year old girl who fell in love with a 27 year old boy. I have no idea how to be a mum, but I know exactly how to love, and my gosh do I love you and your daddy.
I always wanted to be a young mum, to not have forgotten how to dance, sing and play with my babies. If you have laughter and love, surely the rest will come naturally.
I hope I am right. I know they say not to put all your eggs in the one basket, but heck, I'm not that partial to eggs anyway.
So how do I begin the story of Harry? As cliché and predictable as it may be, I guess the best place to start would be at the beginning.
The Normanby. Respectable heritage listed pub by day, overcrowded sweaty meat market by night (hey, if I am going to tell this story, I am going to be honest). To be fair, it is only Sunday nights that respectability jumps down a notch or two, and it just so happens that this story begins at the Normanby on a Sunday night.
It was January 2009, I was single and having the time of my life. The past month had been a blur of parties, music festivals, friends, and lets be honest, a little too much alcohol (and little Harry, you are not to use these words against me as a teenager trying to justify the bourbon in the bottom of your wardrobe – ha! To think of you as a teenager blows my mind). This night in particular I was eager for a dance, and my friend Sophie begrudgingly indulged me my wish.
It would be a good time now to make it clear that I was not there to pick-up, get laid, score, or whatever other phrase your generation may come to use for sex... I can only imagine!
I was there to have fun.
Whilst standing under a beautiful old tree, whose huge twisting trunk fought up through the tiled bricks and loomed over the intoxicated youths that stood smoking at it's base, I noticed a young man who looked over at me from his seat and smiled.
That smile changed everything. That smile was the beginning of Harry Freund.
The young man came over and said “Hi” and conversation could not have flowed smoother had it been scripted.
The second I met Dan I knew I liked him. I asked him to come dancing with me at the Down Under Bar, an equally seedy, but much more lively backpackers bar in the city. No more than 10 minutes after meeting, I hopped into a taxi with a relative stranger and headed for the wild and gritty underbelly of Brisbane.
We entered the bar to find a disappointingly mediocre atmosphere. The usual scene of scantily clad travellers dancing on tables, cheeky boys too busy ogling fellow backpackers to notice their cheap beers spilling on the sticky lino underfoot and ridiculous bar comps like throw the hoop over the bulls horns, had given way to a desolate dance floor and too many self conscious tourists. It seemed the tourists needed some locals to show them how it was done, and we were happy to comply.
We looked at each other and knew what we had to do. We agreed to meet on the dance floor in 10 minutes.
Frantically we rushed around the dimly lit bar, encouraging anyone we could to join us. True to our word, we reconvened on the dance floor 10 minutes later, this time accompanied by an entourage of tourists who seemed befuddled as to how they had ended up thrashing their hips and screaming along to the trashy tunes.
Proud that we had accomplished our endeavour to get the better part of Europe jiving to the beat of Jessica Simpson, we came together to share our first dance and our first kiss.
It was a terribly romantic scene.
Your dad took the next day off work (once again, this is not to be used to condone any love induced sick days taken by a teenage Harry Freund) and we went to the beach.
I felt I had known him forever.
The similarities were uncanny. We both had a sister and a brother, had had a dog called Billy, had long term exes who we'd broken up with the year before and who had both moved to London, we'd both worked in video shops, and most importantly we both loved to laugh.
We were inseparable from this day forward.
Within a week we'd met the parents.
By one month we were holidaying in Fiji.
Two months we were sharing a mortgage.
Three months we were pregnant.
10 months we were engaged.
One year later we were parents... and so the story of Harry Freund begins.
Love
T
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