Letters from four prominent Australians to their mothers

Jacqui Lambie

Tasmanian senator and former Australian Defence Force soldier

Dear Mum,
My father thinks I’m an absolute angel but you, as a realist, know that I’m not. I’ll start by apologising for my behaviour over the years. There have been many incidents, but I am pretty sorry that you had to pick me up from the police station not once, but twice, when I was 13.

I spent a lot of time grounded when I was a teenager, and I’m not going to thank you for that! But something you said to me quite a few times – and it’s always stayed with me – is this: “It’s called karma, and when you have your own kids it’ll come back to bite you.”

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As always, you were right. But I got through everything with my boys with your support. One thing that really stands out to me is how much you helped me when I first fell pregnant. Nineteen, pregnant and about to be kicked out of the army … not on your watch! You made sure that I came home, had the baby, had my son sleeping all night at six weeks of age and supported me through all of that. Going back to a military career at all of 19 was really quite difficult, so I’ll always be grateful that you were beside me.

In the toughest times of my life, you have always been there for me. When I went through my battle with Veterans’ Affairs, there were times when we weren’t talking, but you were still looking after me.
You also supported me when I was trying to get my senate seat the first time round – you made it very clear you thought I was never going to make it, but you pretended that you did!

I know it takes a lot to upset you, but I can still remember the look in your eyes when I came home after I lost my senate seat. It almost broke me.

Writing this letter, I’m thinking a lot about my childhood, the record player and 200 records we used to have. You were really good about letting me have my friends over all the time to hang out and listen to them. We might have been living in housing commission, but they were probably some of
the best memories of my life.

You’ve always been the disciplinarian, and while I never showed it, I’m very grateful for that. You still have no problem telling me what to do, even though I’m almost 50 … although I probably still need it!
Thanks for being my mum,
Jacqui

Sunny Leunig

Filmmaker and magosopher (a cross between a magician and a philosopher)

The following piece is a short apology letter composed by Sunny three months before his birth, a time many regard as when he was at his peak and showed the most potential in life.

Dear Mum,
It’s now 87 days until I enter this world and I’m so sorry for what is coming. Nice try, but giving me a name like Sunny won’t stop me from being quite a sombre, dark and generally gloomy child.

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Unfortunately, this won’t change that much as I move through adulthood. There will be no sunny disposition and I hope you can excuse me for this. I would also like to pre-emptively apologise for the awful chaos and many fights between myself and my older brother, Gus. I would like to prepare you for our infamous great backyard sibling cricket championships of 1989. It will be an emotionally charged series where cricket bats will be hurled, windows will be broken, punches will be thrown, and piercing screams and obscenities will echo throughout our small home town of Euroa.

I’m sorry for the time our fighting will lead us to being hauled into line by security at the National Gallery for knocking a priceless painting off the wall. I guess I’m just sorry for you having to bear the burden of single-handedly raising two difficult and often troubled children.

I would like to also quickly apologise for all the usual stuff, like the underage drinking and smoking, the endless tantrums, the troubles with the law, the constant whingeing, the poor grades, the bong-water stains on the carpet and the many hours of profound stress and worry I will inflict on you in the future.

But I would also like to say thank you. Because, despite all my despicably appalling behaviour, you will somehow always love me unconditionally. You will also teach me the ways of the world, constantly holding my hand through the dark, and show me the value and wisdom of holding tolerance and respect towards others.

I will witness your own pain and heartbreak, and we will go through much sadness together. I promise that through these experiences we will build an unbreakable bond that will last forever.
When I am rich and successful, I will pay you back. Actually, that rich and successful bit won’t have happened by the time you read this letter but trust me – I can see into the future.

So, despite not being born yet, I wish to say that I love you already. This love will keep growing into something even stronger than the very forces that created the cosmos. In the meantime, on behalf of my future self – thank you and I’m sorry.
Love,
Sunny x

Turia Pitt

Bestselling author, athlete and mindset coach

Dear Mum,
Remember when I went away for work with my son Hakavai, and you came along to help out? It was the end of a three-week trip and I was exhausted, Hakavai was irritated, and your perpetual enthusiasm was excruciating.

We were slowly walking up the boardwalk, only one plane ride away until touchdown in Sydney.

“Mum, where are our seats?” I asked.

“How should I know?!” you replied in a haughty tone.

“Um, you’ve got the boarding passes.“

You peered down through your glasses (bought at the chemist down the road). I knew you couldn’t read our seat numbers.

“Here, give them to me,” I said.

“No,” you huffed back. As if to prove to me that you could indeed read, you made the following announcement in your boombox supersonic circus ringmaster voice.

“Masterrrrr Hakavai Hoskin – seatttt 25AAAAAAAAA!!!“

The other passengers jumped, startled by your announcement. We moved to our seats and while I got Hakavai settled, I saw you had spotted a new friend in the flight attendant. I tuned in to your conversation and heard you playfully admonish him, “I’m not from New Zealand, I’m from Tahiti!”

“That is fascinating, Madam.” His body language, tone of voice and lack of any expression indicated that he was anything but fascinated.

“Ah, so where is that?” he added with a modicum of polite interest.

“In French Polynesia of course! Everybody should know where French Polynesia is!“

“My uncle was president of Tahiti. Three times!” you exclaimed, with a knowing smile.

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“Ahhhhhh …” he looked at me through “Help me!” eyes and I pretended to be busy reading. I wanted to see how this was going to play out.

“Yes!” you proclaimed. “Us Tahitians, we’re proud of our culture!“

Just as I saw you draw a big breath, ready to launch into your next verbal barrage, there was an announcement over the PA and the flight attendant’s shoulders sank with relief. You settled back in your seat and started tickling my son’s feet. He giggled, enraptured by your clinking shell necklaces and the daisies in your hair. Your chignon was held up with an old ballpoint pen, you were wearing a vibrant floral shirt, and psychedelic-patterned tights.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of love and gratitude for you. I was a bit of a bitch to you on that trip. I thought about when I was a kid, and you took me to a big running race. I thought of the time when I won an award for my colourful imagination and you bought me an old clunky typewriter. I remembered when I was in hospital, and you were there every day, brightening up the place with your florid colours and raucous laughter.

I grabbed your hand and kissed it. “Love ya, Mum.” You smiled at me, and kissed my hand too.
Turia

Edited extracts from Dear Mum (Hachette Australia), edited by Samuel Johnson, on sale now.

This article appears in Sunday Life magazine within the Sun-Herald and the Sunday Age on sale May 9. To read more from Sunday Life, visit The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.