We had settled ourselves into our seats for the train journey from Barcelona to Valencia, around seven hours. Equipped with books and ipods, we were all prepared for a relaxing day. The scenery was a pleasant diversion: after the outskirts of Barcelona and neighbouring small towns, there was farmland and rows of old olive trees, twisting their roots into the dry and sometimes rocky earth.
Sitting opposite us were a teenage couple who got out their laptop and started watching a violent action-packed movie. Further behind was a class of Russian students and their teachers.
After about half an hour, a voice called out in French:
– ‘Does anyone here speak French?’
There was a small commotion as some of the passengers turned around to see who was asking. The aisle was blocked with an anxious young Frenchwoman with a large backpack.
– ‘Yes, I do’, answered a voice across from us.
– ‘Is this the train to the airport?’
– ‘No – I’m sorry, it’s not. You’ve made a mistake. This train goes to Valencia. It won’t stop for another twenty minutes or so.’
It was easy to see how the mistake could have happened. We had arrived as directed to platform five to catch the train to Valencia, and had seen this destination confirmed on the monitor above the platform. Ten minutes before the scheduled departure, the monitor had changed, and instead of our train bound for Valencia, the screen was now indicating that a train to the airport would leave from platform five, the Valencia train having vanished from the list completely. We let the train go and watched the monitor anxiously. The Valencia train reappeared on the list a few minutes later and then duly arrived, to depart a few minutes after it had been originally scheduled. You had to keep on your toes.
I turned my attention to the woman who had answered the Frenchwoman. She herself was not French, but Spanish, and she was travelling with three young children, a man and another woman. She was not young and her hair had streaks of grey, but she was clearly the mother of the children. While the man and the other woman sat behind, she sat with them: one beside her and two in the seats facing her, and she engaged with them for about three hours.
The youngest was in nappies, and she played with this little girl, jiggling her on her knee and playing ‘hide and seek’ with her hands. At the same time she was doing this, she was interacting with the other children on their level: giving the older girl a pen to do some drawings on paper, and the little boy a game of looking outside the train for a house or a cow. She seemed to know just what would interest each child, embracing the youngest so lovingly, it was clear the little girl was treasured.
At intervals, she sang with the children, a song in which she pointed to and named her nose, eyes, and mouth – in English. The children knew the song: they could point to all these features and name them in English.
One of the older children was getting bored by the drawing. Her mother got out some clips from her handbag, all different colours, and gave them to the little girl to play with. She combed her daughter’s hair with her fingers and amused the child by creating different hairstyles. After playing at this for a while, she turned to a game where the children made her imaginary snacks. Little cakes, an apple, a glass of something to drink. She mimed eating each one, then politely refused any more. She couldn’t possibly, she was full.
Now the little boy wanted something to do. He took the handful of hair clips from his sister. The mother calmly headed off the fight by distracting him with something he might like even more: her mobile phone, that he could use to take pictures of them. He became a cameraman. This was much better than a bunch of hairclips! The brief skirmish was skilfully resolved.
What exhausting work it is to look after children! It made me feel tired just to watch. This woman was teaching the children how to play with very few props, how to appreciate what they were seeing, how to be comfortable with not being the centre of attention, yet giving them each individualised care. They were being listened to and respected on their level. As well as all this, she was teaching them to use their imaginations, and teaching them English in a fun way.
I wondered whether people ever told her what a great mother she was. What parenting skills and attributes are required for this job? From her example, I’d say imagination and creativity, patience, a sense of fun, conflict resolution, multi-tasking, the ability to see a situation from several other perspectives, a willingness to be totally absorbed in the needs of others, and stamina. Love, and time. Not frustration, shortness of temper or abdicating responsibility to modern technology. Nor the means to buy toys, clothes or games. She reminded me of the best mother I know, my own sister, who has all of these qualities as well. The scene I had witnessed reminded me of my sister’s skill too. And of another time and place where she had displayed them.
It was December at home in Australia, and my sister and nephew (then aged four) were staying with us. It was a warm Saturday morning and I had just made scrambled eggs for my nephew. The frypan had been used earlier and I couldn’t be bothered washing it out before cooking in it, so had cooked the eggs in some rather brown oil that had been used to fry tomatoes. The eggs turned out grey. ‘Yuck’, said my partner. My nephew looked at his breakfast. ‘Yuck’, he echoed. ‘I’m not eating that.’
The air was charged with confrontation. My sister emerged from her shower, combing her long, blond hair. ‘What’s all this?’, she asked. We explained what was wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, she sat down beside her son. ‘I know, let’s do an eggsperiment. Let’s see if eggs taste the same when you can’t see them. Close your eyes.’ And he did, and immersed in the experiment, fork by blind forkful, ate them all. Just like the Spanish woman, my sister is a creative, fun-loving, patient mother, with gold-medal child distraction/conflict resolution capabilities who encourages a sense of discovery and even mischief in her sparkly son. I know some good mothers, but no-one as skilled as her.
Back on the train, eventually the Russian students were collected by their teachers and disembarked at a town most well known (according to our guidebook) for drawing families to its amusement park. An hour or so later, the woman with the children and her companions collected their few bags and also got off. To my regret, she left without me telling her how impressed I was with her parenting. Just as I have not told my sister.
The teenagers remained deeply engrossed in their movie. I wondered what they would have talked about or amused themselves with had they not had their computer. And what sort of teenagers would those three children grow into. Was the mother able to keep up the standard of care I had witnessed all the time? Did she, like my sister, also act like an art curator, who also puts together a program of educational, artistic, social, musical and physical stimulation to complement her own time with her children, while giving her a much-needed break?
The train trundled along, the scenery changed again, there were glimpses of the sea. We dozed, and read, and listened to music. Train travel is one of my favourite ways of travelling. And motherhood is a thought-provoking train of thought.
