loudly, relentlessly

I wrote this post in the thick of winter, from a boundless marsh of illness, with a clingy baby and a moody not-quite four-year-old who whose daily meltdowns sucked most joy from our waking hours. Things have evolved, somewhat, but much still applies.

There is so much I feel I need to say about life right now. But life speaks for itself. Loudly, relentlessly.

Our days overflow. There is no stopping until we are dizzy with exhaustion. I feel in a state of constant drowning, often swallowed by screaming kids and mess and chaos. Unable to attend to the demands of work, because needy kids. Unable to meet the needs of kids, because work.

We've had weeks and months brimful of moments so calamitous and trying they are best put behind us. The dance between two houses continues to wreak a toll. I cannot fathom how we have been doing this for four years. The equivalent (in travel time, in packing/unpacking, in fullness of itinerary) of an interstate trip every fortnight, with two small humans in tow. It's unsettling to say the least. We have so little downtime. We have aged at warp-speed. I realise it's probably a thing among mothers of (multiple) small humans, but I have lost a lot of my bliss.

This island, these four years have been beautiful and astounding and we are ever grateful to have landed here. We've laid down memories steeped in saltwater and sunsets. Childhoods begun in the sand. Eyes drinking in the exquisite ocean-bound world. And there is all the bliss to be found here in these moments.

I think I am allowed to say, we have reached a place of in-between. We are dreaming up changes, mentally readying ourselves for life beyond the lighthouse. It's impossible to know what will evolve, but we are ready and willing and offering our best selves up to what the future may hold.

* Small point, but hat nappy up there belies the fact that I was cloth nappying until recently because nappy changes have become the penultimate screamfest.

a life less ordinary // keeping it real

I have just arrived home, nerves afire, wide-eyed and bone-shaking after the scariest drive of my life.

Up the Eastern Beach, in the seaspray dark, on a rapidly incoming tide, the black ocean licking our wheels, invisible drop-offs at our side, the creeks surging around us and the soft, wet sand dissolving beneath us, threatening to swallow us if we don't keep moving. 

Me at the wheel, my first real dark, dark night drive, because I missed a boat (but got lucky - there was an extra return today!) and need to get home.

And in the dark, it's an inexact science of tide heights, times, beach and weather conditions and a fair thwhack of guesswork.

I was lucky to have K on the radio at home talking me through it.

When we finally arrived home, there were chunks of sand in the wheels.

Nobody really gets the impossibility of living in this beautiful, crazy outpost.

What it takes.

A 12-hour return trip for a blood test (me today) // emergency physio (K yesterday). With little down time, because it's also a chance to replace the number plates that were stolen. And find screws to fit. After you call the RACQ to get the car-that-won't-start going, and convince them you're legit despite the lack of number plates and our failure to update our details when we replaced the plates six months ago - oops. Throw in a police chase because you're driving (without number plates) to catch a boat. Add some serious pain. Yep, K is having a really awful birthday week.

Can you tell we've had two really crap days involving two separate, trying, perilous pilgrimages to the mainland? 

We're lucky, so lucky to live where we do.

But sometimes, it just bloody does our heads in.

We watch sunsets soak their watercolour glow into complete horizons.
There is sand through our house and often in the bed.

Our small boy chases pelicans and dabbles on the shoreline.
Our cars are being eaten alive by rust.

We don't come within a credit card zap zone of a shop for a month.
But then spend several whole days doing nothing but.

We don't have to deal with traffic or pollution - except after a storm when we get half of south-east-Asia's rubbish on our eastern shore.
But don't have playgroups or playgrounds, doctors or libraries, supermarkets or swimming lessons.

I am so lucky to be able to mix paid work and child-raising comparatively seamlessly, mostly without commute and with the flexibility to be there when I am needed.
Did I mention there is often sand in my bed?

I yearn for a simpler life, yet this life less ordinary is complicated.

And I am so, so happy to be home.