The favourite child

“He’s your favourite,” he moans, looking distraught and hurt. I laugh. No, not out loud, but the laugh that only parents know, maybe only mums. This is not a zero sum game. Every child is precious, welcomed to the world with open arms. As I write this, I realise it is true in my privileged corner of the world, unconscious bias raising its head, as it does. There are many babies that come forth unwanted, but today I will write of my experience, my aroha, my life. I remember Sofie’s Choice, a movie so powerful, so raw. I see Meryl Streep, beautiful even in her gauntness, standing in the dark by the grimy railway track, the soldiers demanding she must decide: her daughter or her son? An impossible choice, and one I hope never to make.



(Photo: Rob McEldowney, circa 1999)

But this post is not about favourite children, (except that it is). It’s about favourite books, favourite songs (strains of Julie Andrews ring in my ears - “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”), and favourite foods. Well, maybe not music or foods, but let’s see. Let’s see where it goes, this stream of consciousness that I’ve been plotting for weeks - in bed at 4:00 a.m. in the morning; during home yoga in lock-down as I stretch in extended child’s pose, my forehead on the mat; as I snuggle on the settee (do you call it a couch?) reading, again.

Books are the fodder of celebrants; they are fodder for celebrants. I’m a voracious collector of ideas, of quotes, squirrelled away on Goodreads, screenshots from Libby, dialogue scribbled on the back on used envelopes or Red Cross post-its. Each book has its own character, its own form, and I choose carefully. I no longer read what I don’t like, or just read the pages I do like. Age has made me simultaneously adventurous and selective.

The very hip and talented Brene Brown reminds us that “stories are just data with a soul” and I embrace this. Do I have favourites? No - life’s too short and too deep for favourites. So here are a few for starters: rich tales, novels with a sprinkling of truth, plucking at my heartstrings and sending me for the highlighter.

  • A Gentleman in Moscow
  • Anything by Witi Ihimaera, a New Zealand taonga
  • Anything by Patricia Grace, another taonga in Aotearoa
  • I Found My Tribe
  • Anything by Barbara Kingsolver - her later novels are more polished, with experience and hindsight
  • To Kill a Mockingbird
  • Lily and the Octopus*
  • The Old Man Who Loved to Sing (a children's book, perfect for adults)

 ~

They stand together at the front of the chapel: the karakia has been done, my job delivering the eulogy complete. He, dressed in a faded suit that doesn’t quite fit, she with long lacquered nails and a sleeveless black dress, mascara gently smudged on her cheek. “He was our favourite uncle” she says, voice shaking with nerves and emotion. The guests at the funeral laugh. The laughter is bitter-sweet, other uncles sitting in the second row, inwardly hurting, outwardly brushing off the insult as a joke. A favourite colour, a favourite TV show, yes, but not a favourite person. We are too complex for that.

And finally, as the day has emerged from the dawn, I settle on a quote by Steven Rowley - from Lily & the Octopus* - an artful reminder of the conjunction of living things, as death nears:

“I can sit with her quietly, our bodies touching just enough to generate warmth, to share the vibrating energy of all living things, until our breathing slows and falls into the parallel rhythm it always does when we have our quietest sits.”

There are no favourites here, just love, compassion and a glimmer of hope. 

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