"Daisy? Sweetheart, where are you?" I discovered real quick why mothers are so exhausted at the end of the day. God help anyone trying to keep up with an eight-year-old when she's interested in something! My Daisy's such a happy kid, Shanelle – her teacher – is always telling me how friendly she is, always the life of the classroom.
"In here," lately she's been getting into music. The Playschool nursery rhymes she used to adore are for babies, as she keeps reminding me, with a cute little smile on her cupid bow lips, as if it's me she's humouring. Our CD collection is pretty broad, but from the melodious racket coming from the study, I think my little flower's discovered the old CDs. The ones that found their way into a cupboard when we ran out of space on the racks in the living-room.
"Mum come look at this!" I've always wondered what it's like to see the world through a child's eye, everything's so new and exciting. 'Why do I have to go to bed now Mum? There's so many interesting things going on!'. Daisy's always discovering something new, her curious little fingers finding things I'd given up on seeing ever again. Last week she found my aunt's long-lost garnet ring, stuck in behind a bookcase. I remember I used to play with that ring for hours on end when I was young. The ring itself wasn't anything fancy, just a plain pewter cast; it was the gem that fascinated me, the way it changed from black to a deep red when I moved it into the light. I wouldn't have been much younger than Daisy actually, around six or seven. It's amazing, the things you remember.
"What did you find love?" open cupboards and the surrounding mess are easy to ignore when my little girl's smiling like this. I'd gladly give her every pot in the cupboard (well, maybe not every single one) to use as drums for the band she tells me she's going to start with her toys, if it meant she'd keep smiling up at me. God knew what He was doing when He made kids; no matter what they do, they're all so adorable you just can't help loving them. He definitely knew which buttons to press, at least in me.
I wasn't the most popular person in high-school, wasn't pretty or particularly smart, and for a long time I could never figure out why I didn't care. Everyone else worried so much about what everyone else thought of them, how their hair looked, did their butt look too big in these pants, were they better off taking general or advanced English? Were they normal? I certainly didn't think I was. What were you if you didn't care about who you were friends with? My hair is naturally fly-away, my butt always looks big no matter what pants I wear, and I took advanced English because I thought I might as well give it a try. I probably would have done better in general. If high-school taught me anything, it was that I wasn't meant to be an academic or a socialite. There was only one thing I could do well as a teenager, and that was babysit. To most of the girls I knew, babysitting was just an easy but annoying way of making some extra money. They found it boring, a necessary evil until they got their hands on a 'real' job. I could never understand it myself, I loved to babysit and I always made time for it. By the end of high-school I had a small fortune tucked away, along with my final mark of 71%. I was happy with it. Even then, I'd come to love children.
Daisy is the apple of her mother's eye, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. We share a wide taste in music – she'll dance to any music I happen to play, no matter whether it's dance music or not – we both hate tomatoes, and we both love cheese. Unfortunately, she inherited my growing pains as well. Mum used to tell me about the growing pains I got as a child, how I used to scream and cry, and eat sliced cheese by the packetful, the only thing that would calm me down. I have vague memories of lying on the couch in the kitchen late at night, both Mum and I in tears; she kept giving me sliced cheese. Neither of us have been able to figure it out – why sliced cheese? – but I know it must work, because when Daisy has a bad case, she'll eat nothing but. It breaks my heart when she gets them; her amber-brown ringlets mussed from tossing and turning on her pillow, tears dripping down her cheeks, her dark honey eyes looking up at me, completely trusting. I can't remember feeling more helpless, usually I end up just like my Mum, holding my baby girl's hand and crying right along with her.
She hasn't had growing pains for a couple of months, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that means they've stopped for good. Here's hoping.
"Mum!"
"Sorry hon?" I have a terrible habit of doing that, just drifting off with the pixies. Once I talked about it with Daisy's paediatrician, Dr. Francis; she said she was amazed I still managed to do it what with Daisy around, but it was nothing to worry about.
'Over the years, you've trained your mind to block out what's happening around you, so it won't disturb what it is you're thinking about. What you have to do now is train your mind to focus again, force yourself to stop daydreaming by keeping yourself occupied. It'll take awhile, but I'm sure you'll manage it'
If only I had her confidence.
"Can we put this on?"
Of all the. . . .
The red and white cardboard looked a little tattered, but it still felt smooth as Daisy passed it to me. Three familiar faces stared back at me. Ironic, that she'd picked this one out of what had to be at least twenty or thirty CDs collecting dust in the cupboard. It's been over ten years since I've really thought about them except in passing. Has it been that long? Who'd have thought? I can still remember the day I bought it. I was on holidays with Dad, and I was bored as anything. I guess walking into town that afternoon was just something to do. There was never any real reason why I went into the CD store. It was a thirteen-year-old's natural haunt, a habit to flick through the singles, about the only thing I could ever afford at that stage. Maybe it was the bright red cover that caught my eye, maybe the fact that I'd seen them previewed in a magazine nearly two months before and they'd stuck in my mind. Whatever it was, I'd picked it up and bought it without a second thought.
"Sure," if somebody had asked me then if I thought my daughter would randomly pick up that same CD seventeen years later, I'd probably have laughed and asked them would I still have it in seventeen years. Well, me from mid-97, yes you do still have it, and you're old enough to admit it openly.

Daisy's already bouncing away to the opening guitar; she loves to dance. This song always reminded me of summer, and lazy afternoons spent lying in the grass of my parents' backyard, dreaming the hours away. You wouldn't think a person needed reminding that it was alright for the sun to shine, but when you're used to a drab greyscale existence, it's like opening a Christmas present and finding someone's given you your life back, something you hardly even noticed was missing. That was my 'MMMBop'.
I can still remember the words. After ten years, it's like hearing them for the first time.
"Who sings this Mum?" little Daisy's having the time of her life dancing around on our light grey carpet.
"Hanson,"
"Who are they?"
"They're on the cover sweetheart,"
"Yeah I know!" Daisy trying to roll her eyes is quite a funny sight, "But who are they? Why aren't they on TV?" that's what it all comes back to for her, so much of the music she knows she's heard on the Sunday morning video countdowns.
"They put out that song when I was a girl hon. I've had that CD for a long time,"
"How old were you Mum?"
"Thirteen," and I can't help laughing. Hard to believe her mother, at the ripe old age of thirty, was once a teenager.
"And how old were they?" she's stopped dancing, too interested in the history lesson. God, how old were they? The me from mid-97 could have rattled off their ages, birthdays, favourite foods and what have you without stopping for breath.
"Um . . . sixteen, fourteen and eleven I think,"
"What are they doing now?"
"I don't know sweetheart, they stopped recording a while ago,"
"How long ago?"
"Uh . . . they called it a day in 2002, that was twelve years ago now,"
"Oh. Okay. Can I get a drink?"
"There's water in the tap,"
"Can't I have lemonade?"
"No, you know that's there for when people come over,"
"But Mum!"
"Daisy,"
"Oh alright!" and with her bottom lip pouting as far as it'll go, she wanders off to the kitchen, dragging every step. She's a sweet kid, but what a drama queen!
Twelve years. Twelve years since they'd announced to the world that there'd be no next album. I suppose we should have expected it, but then things like that always come as a shock, no matter how much you expect them. Ask anyone who used to be a Hanson fan about the press conference, and they'll tell you about how they soaked their pillow that day, refusing to leave their rooms. Not me. I did soak my pillow when I heard, and I refused to leave my room for the rest of the day. But that's not how I remember that last press conference. I remember it as the first step.
I'm not anyone special. I suppose if anything I'd be called an average person. But in the months that followed that press conference, I learned that there's no such thing as an 'average person'; I proved it myself, you really can do anything if you want it enough. All it takes, is a little faith.