In full bloom

We moved into this house almost four years ago – three days after bringing home our first child.  There was no insulation and possums lived in the roof.  My husband caught them with a $25 trap off Ebay.

My mum sometimes shares stories about half a house, bathing babies in copper bathtubs and living next door to a prostitute.  They had conversations on the porch.  Neither had fancy front loaders or Facebook accounts.

In some cultures women rest up to forty days following child birth.  I am thankful for a mother who gave me three that in hindsight feels like thirty.  On the day that we moved, I sobbed.   I thought I had it hard.

Hard is a baby that doesn’t come home or a husband that doesn’t want to.  Hard is a husband that leaves his young wife for the day with three cigarettes and loose change for milk.  Or a father who goes to buy cigarettes and never comes back.

Sometimes I want to tell the women of my mother’s generation “I am so sorry for the things you had to endure” but instead I continue tapping a smart phone because that’s what this generation does.

It took me a long time to notice the tree at the front of our house.  It’s taken me almost as long to feel at home here.  I still think about the twelve months I spent at my mother’s house – my husband, my mother and I forged a strong connection through death and sorrow and babies.  I owe it to her to put my phone down more often.  I need to stop and smell the flowers.