Raising a biracial boy with two mums — a love story.

‘The Rhythm of Us’ - Short story written by B.K (Bree) Baker.

I hold you in my arms for an hour of normalcy. You look at me, confused and curious. For an hour, we are sacred. A bubble. I can tell I am in love.

It’s one a.m. I take you to the room, and you lie upon her.

The nurse turns to me,
“You can come back tomorrow at eleven.”

Our midwife argues, tapping the correct sign that reads eight a.m. Normalcy ends, a new rhythm of life begins.

I carry you to the park, fear hugging my heart. I once watched a seal at Shag Point cradling her pup — the same fear blanketed her heart.

A kid knocks you over near the slide. Your mother’s hand is on my arm.

“Wait,” she mutters.

The kid points at us, then laughs at you.

“Who is real!” he shouts.

You rise, kicking the tanbark his way. A little girl grabs your arm, and you both play on the swings.

I cry that night beneath the doona. I buy us matching Nikes online.

We’re in the supermarket when a man says something racist. I lose it; my voice rises. You let go of my hand and hide in the cereal aisle.

When I find you, your lip is quivering. I tell you I’m sorry, and we leave the trolley behind.

You pat my back as I carry you to the car.

Later, I open the wooden box in your drawer. We read the letter from the cool man. We love to read his words and imagine what Fiji might be like.

“Do they have Koa trees there, like in Hawaii?” you ask.

“I hope so,” I reply.

You are soft and open; I am tense and guarded.

I watch you receive your award in your collared yellow shirt. I harden thinking of you in your high school uniform, wishing I could keep you in a safe clique forever. Your mother squeezes my hand as the principal gives you the microphone.

You giggle when you see my face; the crowd giggles in reply.

I look around at the sea of adults. As you read your poem, a herd of smiles reflects back, while a few faces hold disgust.

I breathe.

“I am brown, and I belong.

I love my friends, white or black,

soft or strong.”

I watch the faces.

“I love music, I like to strum.

But I really love

that I have two great Mums.”

Everybody claps, and a few hands pat my back. Of all the faces, most are cheerful. The disgusted ones remain unmoved. I feel them like concrete through my chest, though I’m the only one who seems to notice.

I breathe again, and then I let go. I stare at your eyes, your wavy dark hair, the smile on your face that rarely fades.

In life’s own rhythm —
all that’s meant to be
will find where it belongs.

my wife, and my son Koa.