A Mother’s Love

Sometimes as we break through into adulthood and beyond – building new relationships, forging new careers, getting married, having babies; all the things that fall under the typical trajectory of life for many of us – it is easy to forget to thank those instrumental to our success.

For those blessed with the gift of a mother’s love, there are certain times when a girl needs her mum the most. Often at points when our bodies and minds intersect into an unknown abyss, filling us with curiosity and fear.

A first period; a potentially horrifying event, even when anticipated. In the 1920’s, my grandmother took the arrival of the sudden onset of blood loss to mean her imminent death; because of this, she equipped my mother with the knowledge of what was to come; my mother imparting this knowledge to me years before I needed it. When it happened to me for the first time, both expectantly and un-expectantly, I rang my mother to collect me from school. I remember my brisk walk to her car, the strategically placed scratchy wool of my school sweater, wrapped tightly around my waist in a double knot.

One year prior, my mother, like so many mothers, daughters, sisters within our wider community, had received a breast cancer diagnosis. I could not know how much I needed my mother, how much I would need her still but I remember lying on the couch, sobbing, my kitten nestled down on my chest – my parent’s timely acquisition – her soft fur, the purring of her motor as I held her tight, gripping onto the only reality I knew; a mother who was strong and well. 

On my wedding day, I was blissfully calm, my mother having tended to many of the finer details with her endless cross-checking of lists. I was told it rained the morning of my wedding. I didn’t notice. My sister-in-law arrived to have her hair done, updating me that the flowers were yet to arrive. I was dismissive of her. I was prepared to be Zen. My mother helped me into my wedding dress. She looked at me, at the two loose strands of hair either side of my face not swept up in my hairdo, tucking one behind my ear. 

‘It’s supposed to look like that,’ I said. 

It is likely that every bride experiences this moment when everything, the planning, preparations, seem as though they are about to come unstuck. 

‘This is not you,’ my mother said. ‘This is not how you wear your hair.’ 

I calmed myself, looked in the mirror, and tucked both strands back into my hairdo; she was right.

Approaching the birth of our first child, I was intent on training myself the way one might train for a marathon. I read ‘Birth Skills’ by Juju Sundin. I had a plan for my labour. I would move through each tool at my disposal, visualisation, breathing, until I had nothing left. While lying on the hospital bed – where I had been told to stay put (there goes my plan of moving around the room during labour, I thought) – I transported myself to the Muskoka Lakes of Ontario, floating along its smooth, silky water. Muskoka was the place of my mother’s childhood summers, which became the place of my childhood summers when were lucky enough to swing it. The midwife tracking the progress of my induction, turned the drip up, amping up my contractions and thus the pain. With each incremental increase I switched my practice, from floating to swimming, steadily making my way across the bay. 

My husband, who sat by my side, rather helplessly, looked at me with smiling eyes,‘Where are you now?’ he asked. 

Eventually I replied, breathlessly, ‘Muskoka’s long gone.’ But like a runner setting small, achievable goals, channelling all their strength just to reach the next lamppost, the visualisation of smooth silky water had got me there. 

My mother didn’t just give me the gift of Muskoka, she gave me strength by showing me how to be strong. An incredibly strong woman, with a high tolerance for pain – my mother will voluntarily sit in a dentist’s chair and take the drilling without an anaesthetic. She is selfless in her care for her family, often to her own detriment; up and down from the dinner table like a yo-yo, while struggling to digest her food. She recovered from her diagnosis some twenty years ago, of which I retain only a few strands of memory of this time, because she made sure that my childhood was a happy one. 

I used to tell my mum how beautiful she was. I used to make cards and pictures with pretty flowers and words expressing the far-reaching extent of my love. It is regrettable when you fail to recognise how fortunate you have been; how fortunate you are. 

And so, as I enjoy the friendship of my mother, the strength of her love – while continuing to forge my own path in my own determined way – I recognise that a girl may forever need her mum. Something I recognise in my mum, as she speaks of her own mother, Mary Clare, my namesake, who died months before I was born. A double-barrel name with no hyphen, written in just the same way, because, my parents agreed, no other name would do.

Baby Give it Up

A woman I worked with once described breastfeeding as ‘taking a peg, latching it onto your nipple and pulling back – yeah, that’s breastfeeding,’ she said, recalling her painful – and, by all accounts, I mean painful – memories of almost a decade earlier.Indeed, ‘twang’ is the sound my parents made when recalling my mother’s decision to give up breastfeeding her last baby some thirty something years ago. (Hopefully I received all the added health benefits and extra brain cells before she called it quits). At eight months with our first child, my own painful experience of breastfeeding involved teeth. 

One of the most supportive things my eldest brother (eldest by a matter of minutes because he is a twin) said to me before the birth of our first child: ‘Don’t feel pressured to feed. You do what feels right.’ A hands-on dad, with two children of his own, my brother was equipped to offer this advice, and I was glad to receive it.

However, there are many, I would suggest, who should resist the urge to put in their two cents worth. Despite being a personal decision, Breastfeeding is a highly politicised issue – the first baby to be breastfed in parliament making history in recent years. It is wrought with pressure. 

The pressure to feed. ‘Are you going to feed?’ a question often asked of expectant mothers (Ah…yes. I plan to feed my child. I mean, I’m not going to let them starve…). 

The pressure to continue. When things are just not working, caught in the undertow of expressing after every feed; Just keep feeding. Just keep feeding is the mantra of a new mother in a zombie-like state, clamping suction cups to her overworked nipples. 

And finally, there is the pressure to stop. As the baby thrives, growing big and strong, (and big!), the perspective of others changes – remember those I spoke of who would do well to keep their opinions to themselves? Despite the World Health Organisation (WHO) recommending ‘…breastfeeding up to 2 years of age or beyond,’ the societal pressure to ‘kick the habit’ sets in well before this milestone.[1]

This stage came rather abruptly for our first baby, born at ten pounds. (Even now as a six-year-old he is the size of an eight-year-old – A big, healthy, thriving boy.) ‘When are you going to give that up?’ well-meaning family members asked at the sight of this oversized baby nursing in my arms. A question put to me well before his first birthday. Probably as a direct result of my response, the question was then softened to ‘How long are you going to keep that up?’

In recent months, I gave up breastfeeding what we intend to be our last child. The decision came fairly easily – comparatively to our middle child for whom I felt much more conflicted in breaking this bond; that special something just for us. With our last babe, however, the timing felt right as I became ready to reclaim my body as my own.    

As my milk began to dry up, our baby, who was really knocking at the door of toddlerdom, happily folded her hands over a bottle of formula, making a sleep-inducing sound of contentment. 

In those final days, I offered my baby a last feed (and one more after that). I told my husband what I had done, quoting the Australian Breastfeeding Association as if to justify ‘my relapse,’ that weaning should occur slowly.[2] That second last feed was exactly what I needed. I sat in our bedroom, alone with my baby, looking down at her being soothed by my milk into a state of bliss.

The very last feed, however, had a different effect. It was affirming. For this mumma and her babe, the time was right.

[1]https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/infant-and-young-child-feeding, accessed 15/02/20

[2]https://www.breastfeeding.asn.au/bf-info/weaning-and-introducing-solids/weaning, accessed 15/02/20


Attention is something that seems to ebb and flow. A good speech almost always gives an indication of its duration in the opening lines, allowing the audience to listen to the content rather than wondering half way through: ‘How long is this guy going to talk?!’ As adults, it is quite common for the mind to wander. In meditation, you are told to acknowledge thoughts that detract from your quest for inner peace, ‘acknowledge them and let them go.’ Yet, just about every parent I know, with children old enough to talk, regularly express their frustration at being ignored; ‘He just doesn’t listen,’ ‘It’s like talking to a brick wall.’

As a teacher, in those first staff days at the start of the school year, I sit in an auditorium listening to speaker after speaker – fidgeting in my chair, checking my watch for the minutes left until morning tea – thinking is this what we put our kids through?

Eyes on me. Listening ears on. How is it we have such high expectations of our children, when most of us struggle to start the day without a morning coffee? 

And yet, I feel frustrated. I feel it when I ask the boys to put on their shoes more than once, to stay at the table to eat their dinner; not least, to stay in their bed of a night-time. I feel it when they run a little too far ahead on the walk to school, when they dart down a different aisle at the supermarket. I feel it when my seventeen-month-old lets out an ear-piercing squeal just to test out her vocal chords; mimicking her older brother whose squeal – very much intended for her benefit – is only slightly less offensive and equally obnoxious. 

As parents, we see our children as a reflection of ourselves. Just as we are happy to claim our part in our children’s achievements, we can’t help but feel a sense of inadequacy when they don’t quite meet our expectations. 

But consider that our children feel frustrated, too. They feel it when we serve up their milk in a red cup when they specifically asked for yellow. They feel it when we cut up their sandwich in triangles, when their preference has always been squares. They feel it when we have the audacity to presume, overtaking some seemingly menial task that was always going to be their job; like squeezing their toothpaste out of the tube. 

But this is human nature. In all of us, the mind is prone to wander.

For the second day in a row – after already having a chat about the importance of not running off – our big (usually responsible) school boy bolted down to the pirate ship at school pick up. Stranded with the pram between two sets of stairs, I was effectively stuck until our son chose to return from the playground. 

After a long chat and some consideration, weighing up angry mum versus pirate ship, our six-year-old was, indeed, apologetic, even wishing to consider how we might avoid this situation in the future. 

His suggestion – ‘But…do you think you could write me a note…to remind me?’

‘Sweet Thing’

While my robust, busy boys loudly stomped around the kitchen table, imitating a T-Rex, I observed the quiet, contemplative play of my niece sorting tiny beads into their rightful place. Despite our eldest son and his cousin being quite inseparable – both enjoying dress-ups, make believe and the company of each other far more than that of anyone else – the contrast between boys and girls was so apparent.

Peaceful. Calm. This is how it is to have a little girl, I thought.

At the local swimming pool, our toddler disappeared from the Women’s change-room to explore the disabled toilet next door; scarily close to the pools.  After what was probably only a few seconds, a swim instructor called out ‘Mary Clare… he’s over there.’ With a firm grasp of my child’s hand, I returned to the Women’s change room, exasperated, walking past a sweet little toddler sitting perfectly still on a plush pink towel, waiting patiently while her mother dressed. 

Quiet. Relaxed. This is how it is to have a little girl, I thought.

As the boys roared with laughter, having let one rip at the dinner table, I placed my hand on my then pregnant belly and thought, Thank God, I’m having a girl. Soon our household would experience the gender balance I craved.

‘The third child just goes with the flow,’ other mums told me, ‘they’re chilled because they have to be.’ Carted around everywhere, disrupted sleep, made to fit in with the family’s schedule; this is the reality of baby number three. A chiller and a girl! I thought.

And then…

So, this is how it is to have a little girl.

Our ‘sweet thing’ yanks bows out of her hair, loves her brothers’ trucks and is prone to giggle at fart noises. In fact, she can fart with the best of them. 

Turning around to find my toddler, pretty in pink, gliding a blue marker across our newly laid floorboards, I wonder why I had thought having a little girl would be somehow different. Pulling out power cords. Diving head first off the couch. Sorting through the recycling. Nothing is off limits from the curious mind of our ‘sweet thing.’

As our toddler girl pushes me away in her swimming lesson (her third one ever) or refuses to eat unless she has control of the spoon and the tub of yoghurt, I think, we couldn’t possibly have another stubborn, independent child; that spot is already taken… isn’t it?

And then, our ‘sweet thing,’ utters the word favoured by toddlers everywhere; ‘No!’ and I realise that boys and girls are not so different after all.


#TimetoRead No.9 April 5,2020 https://www.broadcastbooks.com.au/blog-1

As I sit eating a hot-cross bun in January, I think of how quickly we are thrown from one calendar event to the next. The Back to School signs bordering highways, brandishing shopping centres, clogging mailboxes have been preparing me for weeks for the return of a new school year – a cosmic sign grounding parents everywhere (especially the stay-at-homes) in the promise of an easier load between the hours of nine and three-thirty. 

At the end of the last school holidays, another school mum asked me how the holidays were. Apparently, my answer went against the tide. ‘Actually really good. I had two whole weeks at home with three children AND enjoyed it.’ The very next morning I was seen dragging my pre-schooler up the hill, kicking and screaming, after bolting to the back of the oval because it was time to leave the school family picnic – even at this event, moments earlier, I had professed feeling reinvigorated; actually, enjoying this mothering thing.

Now, I’ve learnt not to gloat about school holiday success (a.k.a. actually enjoying time spent with my children) because as soon as you acknowledge that you’re feeling on top of things, you lose your edge. Like sniffer dogs at an airport, kids have a heightened awareness, they sense complacency, the ease with which you parent and like a dog, they piss all over it, marking their territory if only to remind you that yours is an unconditional love. 

Just the other week I heard a mum speak about her darling boy starting high school; ‘and then I’ll be free!’ she said.  I get it, I totally get it. But sometimes I think I’m guilty of guiding my children to progress before they are ready. 

‘What if I can’t find you?’ my eldest son said, more than once, after I suggested we meet at a meeting spot in the school, instead of walking down to his classroom. 

Since it was clearly the instigator of undue anxiety, I quickly retracted my suggestion. ‘I will come to your classroom for as long as you need,’ I insisted, wondering how I would navigate all those stairs with the pram (or, perhaps, I would take the longer route).

‘What if I’m in grade six and I still need you to come to my classroom?’

‘Then, I will be there,’ I said because it’s not so terrible to feel needed. 

The Perfect Christmas

As mums, we share in a sisterhood. Women who have been there, who know what you are going through – sometimes shared in a look; that knowing glance between mums in a supermarket in the midst of a show-stopping, toddler tantrum. This sisterhood is particularly important at Christmas time. On a local mum’s Facebook forum, one mum professed the rocky ground of engaging an Elf on The Shelf, referencing the one night (or many) when having a glass of wine takes precedence (as it should) over relocating an elf.

‘Mum!’ My eldest son comes barrelling into our bedroom, one mid-December morning. ‘Elf hasn’t moved!’ 


Now enslaved by this tradition of Elving, I am compelled to explain myself to a five-year-old; to explain Elf’s inactivity, his doll-like stillness. Unable to cite the many valid reasons for this shortfall, to avoid cataclysmic disaster, I must remain covert. Identify simply as ‘Mummy’ – not a superhuman wonder-woman bringing Christmas joy to all. And when I asked my son, ‘What does Mrs Claus do?’ His response –‘bake cookies.’


‘Why did you move Elf there, Mummy?’ our pre-schooler asks, pointing to the elf clinging to the top of a lampshade. 

‘I didn’t…’ 

The next morning, ‘Why did you move Elf there, Mummy?’ our pre-schooler asks again, pointing to the elf peering out of the wine rack. 

‘I didn’t…’

Day three. Finally, the penny drops as intended. ‘Mummy! This one’s a magic Elf. It moved itself there!’ he says, excitedly, gesturing to the elf partially sticking out of an empty box of mince-tarts. 

Cheeky, cheeky Elf.

I am a candle burning at both ends. Not only must I oversee Elf relocation, nightly, I must also rise early every morning to engage in a non-threatening (despite the name) Elf Hunt. Bleary eyed, I slide into my slippers, careful not to wake the toddler-baby in the hope I may return to bed. Engaging in the hunt, I must mirror the children’s excitement (and disguise my own sense of relief) at discovering that Elf has, in fact, moved.

But, mostly, I think, the pressure to make Christmas magical is self-imposed. I am reminded of this at our Play Group Christmas Party, the thought for the day being that the First Christmas was not perfect. Joseph had to decide whether to stick with Mary after news of the Immaculate Conception – that can’t have been easy to get his head around. Jesus was born in a manger – not quite the level of comfort Mary had hoped for. Christmas is not about achieving perfection. Nor, is it about carefully orchestrating the relocation of elves. 

Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good Night.

In Conversation

Recently, I saw Helen Garner speak at The Melbourne Town Hall, presented as the opening discussion to a weekend of events declaring itself to be ‘unabashedly feminist.’ I love it, I thought, as I looked around the audience of mostly women, some visibly emulating the Helen Garner of a previous decade; a self-confessed overall-wearing feminist. 

When I was in grade five, I ran into my grandmother’s old glass door. Running feet first, the glass shattered into my leg, and I fell back into a confetti of glass shards. My dad was in the car, waiting for my mum, who was hanging out washing on the line. Excited by the prospect of a play at the park, I ran through the house, past my grandmother in the kitchen, straight into the door; so clear it appeared open. 

From then on, every time we visited my grandmother, I noticed the white pattern dotted along the new safety glass, painted on like continuous double white lines, there as a warning, ‘Do Not Cross.’ Though the scars do not bother me, tiny splinters of glass still remain, and it is still tender if I experience a hard knock to my leg. I remember laying on the white sheets of the hospital bed, my leg being tended to, people gathered around me. To sooth my pain, I remember my mother promising me – probably because it was the only thing she could do at that moment to feel less helpless –  that when my leg was better, she would take me to buy a pair of overalls. The ones I had been asking for, hoping for, ever since grade five camp. Even at the age of eleven, I was a feminist in the making.

When I think of my mother at the clothes line, my father in the car. I am reminded of the virtue of patience – very much a learned behaviour – and the many ways in which women are forever squeezing just another thing in to their day, be it a load of washing, dishes, making of lunches; one more thing to fulfil their domestic duties.

Another layer of complexity is added when mothers seek to engage in something for themselves. Sometimes the window of opportunity is so small, that we create a circumstance that is less than ideal, just to feel that some part of the day is for us. For me, it was breastfeeding while writing, supporting my baby with one hand, typing with the other. For other mums, it might be exercising while their little one climbs all over them. Whatever the case, perhaps, strange to observe, it is these moments that keep us sane. 

In response to questions about her writing routine, Helen Garner spoke of herself as a mother. As a mother, she wrote when she could. When the baby slept. Between school drop-off and pick-up. She wrote out of necessity because her time was precious. She spoke of how there was a feeling of something like resentment when her child was sick because she could not write. And she is right. Nothing, I believe, gives you greater focus than being a mother. 

Dogs and Children

This has little to do with introducing existing much loved ‘fur-baby’ with precious newborn human baby. It is not about establishing a harmonious household where dogs and children may co-exist, nor is it about the benefits of children growing up with dogs in an age of Dettol and hand-sanitiser. Instead, it is about the seemingly identical ways in which we engage with both dogs and children.  The two are almost interchangeable.

The house is still and quiet. The sudden realisation of this peaceful state quickly shifts into a wired state of angst. ‘Where is the baby? What is she up to?!’ Is she playing with power-cords, tugging at the lamp, or has she found some other dangerous fixation? I hear her gurgling happily, but, worryingly, she remains out of sight. 

I consider that she is likely engaging in some disgusting occupation, like Buddy the Elf eating chewing gum off the sidewalk. I rush to check the toilet, half expecting to see her there, grinning, holding herself up with the aid of the toilet-seat. The toilet is clear. I’m beginning to feel like a cop on a drug-raid. ‘Police! Come out where I can see you! Put down the toilet brush. Step away from the power cords!’

I follow the sounds of the happy gurgling baby. ‘Ah-ha!’ I am relieved to discover what she is doing is only mildly disgusting. As a toddler, I peed on my Aunty’s rug. Sprung, standing in my own wee, I pointed to the cat, stealthily shifting the blame, ‘Puss-cat did it!’ I look down at our baby, Havaiana thong in mouth, wondering if she is capable of such quick thinking. Prying my soggy thong from her determined little chompers and her tightly clenched hands, I am reminded of my husband one morning before work pacing around the house in search of his only pair of work boots; finding them sitting at the backdoor, decimated by dog slobber.

The similarities between dogs and children are not simply limited to the mess and destruction they leave in their wake, or the tendency to put inanimate objects in their mouth, resulting in drool-covered thongs or torn, soggy boots; it also applies to the way they gain our attention. 

From tugging at pant legs, to a ‘Yipe! Yipe!’ or high-pitched kettle-squeal (often resulting in our quick evacuation of public spaces), their tactics are persistent. My childhood Boxer dog, Ike, had a knack for getting pats, nudging at my side, until my hand seemed to naturally fall over him in a pat. 

Dogs and children are especially attentive when there is food around, climbing up while you sit trying to eat a sandwich, mayonnaise dripping out the sides, lifting it out of reach so that your lunch does not become their lunch. Failing the sandwich, they will usually go in for the kiss. Pouting lips or panting tongues, coming at you with all the saliva of a thousand teething babies. Sometimes slobbery. Sometimes disgusting. Dogs and children; be it a yawn, a head-tilt, a sneeze – everything they do is actually adorable.

Swimming Lessons

In Australia swimming lessons are often seen as a crucial part of growing up; our major cities located at the edge of beautiful bays and beaches. It is how we get our cool, surfie, bogan, beach-babe persona. 

First, it is about making our children feel at ease in the water. Swimming lessons start from six months of age, furious splashing and self-conscious singing of nursey rhymes. With a ‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall’ or a ‘Crocodile. Crocodile. Snap. Snap. Snap’ into the water they go – (unless your child has, of course, missed the cue, is busy filling their swim-pants or has taken a step back, just out of reach, in order to fraternise with someone else’s mum, dad, grandparent, or sibling sitting on the sidelines). 

In order to feel a sense of calmness in the water, our children are made to walk the plank while the other toddler-babies thrash about, destabilising their platform. Most toddler-babies choose to rip off the Band-Aid quickly, bolting across the mat and plunging into the arms of a near-stranger. For others, the fear is more debilitating. With little co-operation, a cat with claws, clinging to their owner, they are begrudgingly placed on the mat, stubbornly shifting their weight to become the opposite of buoyant and refusing to move an inch.

When the child begins to show some confidence, we see this as the ideal time to drive them head first into the water. This is usually followed by a look of terror or resentment (but no longer surprise) as they are fully submerged under water. Parent and swim instructor laugh, as the child resurfaces with a splutter and a cough.  ‘Aww, did you forget to blow bubbles?!’ Then, like Scooby Doo, the child leaps into Mum or Dad’s arms, hitching their whole body around their parent’s shoulders. 

We swim from one edge of the pool to the next, chanting ‘Paddle and kick! Paddle and kick!’ before turning the child onto their back to gently float across the pool, a request meant to instil a sense of calmness, but is somehow translated into ‘give me twenty stomach crunches;’ the child incessantly lifting their head to meet their knees. 

Maybe you have the over-confident child, the one who believes he or she can, in fact, already swim, pushing you away as they fly solo, twirling around in their inflatable ring, as they drift towards the small colourful balls they have been sent to retrieve. Finally, they load up their arms with more balls than they can carry, all of which float away from them before they reach the bucket. 

Whatever the case, even with the added hassle of croc-wrestling a toddler-baby on the change table to secure a fresh nappy, there is something about this whole experience that makes this necessary torture a national treasure for all to enjoy.


We arrive in the middle of the night. This is how it is for Elizabeth Gilbert as she embarks on the ‘Pray’ section of her bestselling novel. And this is how it is for my husband and I and our three young children as we embark on our first camping trip as a family of five (the middle of the night being any time after 7pm when kidlets are involved.) But instead of giving way to a spiritual awakening, experiencing God’s closeness in our very being, this ill-planned arrival of setting up camp in the night-time foreshadows the many, many challenges of camping with young children. While my husband pitches the tent, I sit in the dark, breastfeeding our baby in the front-seat, while the boys climb around in the back; hangry (hungry-angry) caged animals chomping at door-handles. 

There are times in every parent’s life when we are lured into a false sense of security that we may re-engage in pre-children activities; frequently evidenced by dads nursing shoulder injuries after attempting trampoline flips and other stunts they pulled off twenty plus years earlier. Like a Maserati mid-life crisis, all of a sudden living vicariously is no longer enough. 

On our bookshelf, we have a book from my husband’s childhood called Panda and Ganda. Panda is demonstrating to Ganda how to play a game of catching a ball in a cup, but in doing so, completely takes over, giving endless excuses as to why Ganda cannot yet have a turn. ‘Do you think Daddy needs to read Panda and Ganda,’ I’ll say as the boys wait (and wait) for their turn, as Daddy is no longer simply demonstrating which buttons to press on the Super Nintendo or how to handle the remote-control car. 

But if anything, the experience of camping is very much about sharing. Given the difficulties of our first camping trip – tears over freezing cold hands, wetting through nappies and the thousand other layers, getting boob out in the cold night air, stinky drop toilet toilet-training, refusing sleep in the great outdoors – I approach our most recent camping trip with much apprehension. The thought of more children than I have hands, outside a contained space is still bewildering. 

We camp along the Murray. Without the appeal of having a boat or jet-ski, we are met with scorching heat and dust, followed by rain, mud and giant Peppa-pig-style muddy puddles; that hold more magnetism to kids’ sensibilities towards fun, than a fun-fair. But eventually the weather becomes so miserable that the rain beats us and we seek shelter.

After the rain clears, I stand at water’s edge. Something quite ugly, now rather beautiful; a blue and purple sunset, still water reflecting a treed cliff-face, gentle smoke billowing out over the water. Tearing myself away, I greet my husband and children, still in the tent, having long sheltered from the rain. ‘It is so beautiful out there,’ I say to my husband, beginning to describe the sunset, ‘I wish you could see it.’

‘It is beautiful in here,’ my husband says without sarcasm, describing the beauty of being with our boys in the close quarters of the tent, the downpour creating a pocket of time just for a father and his sons; something seemingly chaotic, now rather beautiful.