I had a realisation the other night as I was sitting on the couch in my lounge room watching (dare I say it) Big Brother on telly, a few lamps on, the baby asleep, little Birdie with her Daddy reading stories, a blanket on my lap and my fingers curled around a hot cup of tea.
Life isn’t something I’m looking forward to anymore.
It’s playing out around me, minute by minute, day by day.
I watched Birdie walk out of the room after kissing me goodnight: her little girl figure, the shape of her, her walk, her hair. Her growing hands touched the doorframe as she wandered off to bed.
I had that momentary shock that you sometimes get if you allow it to come. The shock that never ceases to shock: I produced that, she’s mine, there is something where there was once nothing.
When I was a teenager I used to long for the day I had a family of my own and a house and a dog and a car and a bank account and could eat what I wanted and do what I wanted when I wanted and was officially Grown Up.
Now the day is here, yesterday, today, tomorrow.
I sat on my couch and felt intensely happy.
Despite the house being a mess. Despite feeling sick. Despite being tired.
I was happy. I am happy. I am in the middle of the life I so looked forward to. It’s not perfect. There are stressors. There are desires and stumbling blocks. There are arguments and moments of annoyance and frustration.
But in amongst it, stripping it away, taking away the bullshit: here I sit. With a hot cup of tea, a roof over my head, two beautiful children and the best husband I could imagine.
Now after you have finished gagging, I dare you to strip away the crap and the bills and the dirty washing and the toddler pinching your leg and screaming in your ear and see what you are left with.
I hope whatever it is, it’s full of love and raw happiness.