On the weekend I realised the last time I’d managed to do a proper handstand was when I was 25, just before I left Auckland to move to London. I’d do them against the door at Otis’ place in Grafton Road. That was before we got married and he raced off to the UK, leaving me to earn a pile of cash to bring over. Back then ten grand didn’t amount to much in pounds.
So, on Sunday I thought I’d better practice because I knew I couldn’t do it any more. With the kids sitting on the bed watching and providing the running commentary and some cheering along even, I went for it. It took about twenty goes before I got my feet up against the wall. The girls cheer. I falter and come down quickly. Up again. A few more goes and I’m up. Arms wobbling all over the place. The wood floor hurts the palms of my hands.
Every day. Every day the kids sit on the bed while I run at the wall and flip up into a handstand.
Day three, yesterday, I get up first go. I can do it! Mum you can do it!
Today, again. Up confidently first time.
Tomorrow. And the next day and the next I will keep doing handstands against the wall, staying up longer each new day.
I want to be doing this when I’m eighty.