A Funny Little House

I must have driven past the funny little house a dozen times, which did nothing to improve its appearance. It had been on the market for a long time. The photos online gave nothing away. I kept thinking I should call the agent and book an inspection, but I didn't ever get around to it. A friend who had seen it described it as 'awful', so I let myself let it go. And then one day I felt compelled to look online again, and there was a date and a time. So I went.

It was dirty, dull, uninspiring. It smelled dusty, and of stale cigarettes. Every wall was a different shade of grotty beige, but for the glossy pink in the main bedroom. The shower screen was cracked, the grout in the tiles black.

And then I stepped outside, avoiding the monstrosity of the falling-down garage, averting my eyes from the cobwebs on the eaves, the lichen on the deck, the curious angle of the rickety fence. And my eyes fell on a tree in the middle of the yard. Surrounded by unkempt lawn, a few other straggly shrubs, there it was - a beautiful healthy lemon tree, bursting with ripe fruit.

I wandered some more, trying to see past the grime and imagine it all with fresh paint, furniture, laughter and good cooking smells. I imagined chickens poking about between the raised vegetable beds, an apple tree, rambling roses and creeping jasmine. I saw friends sharing delicious food on the back deck, enjoying the rare warm evenings of late summer. I saw my girls deep in the throes of another tightly choreographed musical performance, fighting over who's turn it was to sing. Could it even be possible?

I pocketed a lemon and went home to my rental.

The next day was Sunday. I cut the lemon in half and, with a handful of garlic cloves, shoved it into the cavity of a free-range chook. Before I whacked the pan in the oven, I just might have said a little prayer over the bird, or as much a prayer as a non-Christian girl can accomplish with raw poultry on the kitchen bench before her.

I closed the oven door, stood up and I wrote a single word and a question mark in the dusty grease on the rangehood above the stove. "Yes?" 

Over the following several weeks, I went looking for why it should be yes, when so much about it cried, "No!" It was tiny. It was ugly. The timing was all wrong. Other property wasn't yet sold. It was ugly. Things were entirely up in the air financially. Oh, the work it would require. A wombat lived under it. It was...ugly.

But there was the lemon tree.

I thought of the lemon tree in the backyard of my childhood home. Lemons remind me of my mum, who didn't mind a gin and tonic with a fresh slice. I thought about the funny little house, talked about it with family and friends. I made lists of pros and cons. I listened out for the signs. I did the research into money and legalities and potential termite invasions. I even pondered the street number and tried to determine if it was auspicious.

And every time I walked past the dusty rangehood, which I couldn't bring myself to wipe clean, I saw that question - "Yes?" And the universe, or whatever it was, kept throwing me positives. Without a huge amount of effort - as though it was meant to be - it became possible, and then it became real.

The day I paid the deposit, I finally cleaned the greasy rangehood in my rental. The question had been answered. 

I'd found us a home.

A is for Apple

 

For a brief time as a kid, I wanted to be a teacher. Noble as that career path would have been, I know it was less about a desire to educate and more about being able to write on the blackboard*. My short stint as a teenager giving piano lessons to a handful of neighbourhood kids drove the final nail into the coffin. As highly as I value education, and as much as I love to learn, I am not a teacher.

But back when I entered Year 2, back when 'teacher' was the answer I gave to every well-meaning adult who asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I took to school a set of handmade flashcards that I'd stayed up most of the previous night making. I had thought it through, you see, and I was going to teach my little sister and her kindergarten colleagues how to read. I think it lasted one lunchtime before they gave up on me and headed off to play chasies.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. One evening last week, this was the scene taking place in our lounge room - a very grown-up six-year-old taking it upon herself to teach her little sisters the alphabet. And perhaps she has more of the teacher's spirit than me, because she turned it into a game, sending them off for an apple from the fruit bowl, a xylophone from the music basket, a plastic horse from a bedroom, to illustrate her lesson.

They fight and argue with the best of them, these three, but it's these shiny bright moments of cooperation and care, the encouragement shown by a big sister, and the adoration of two little girls for one big girl, that lets me know we're doing OK.

* Showing my age, I know.

Red

:: My new Orla Kiely mugs, the perfect size for a homemade soy latte.

:: An Amelia Herbertson lino print bought last year on a trip back to my home town.

:: Fabric and yarn, always fabric and yarn

:: Raspberries, bought frozen, eaten as is and baked in everything.

:: A red door, pride of place in my new home.

Green

Never Ever Give Up On Dreams

I found this lovely print at Etsy. I thought it would be perfect for a certain little corner in a certain little girl's room. Clarence and Belvedere certainly agree.

Summer Days

The last Sunday of the summer. Nudie paddling in our luxurious courtyard pool. Even Pearl got into the spirit...eventually.

Farewell :: Hello

Seven and a half years ago, when the Garbageman and I moved in together, his pair of stylish blue Fantastic Furniture two-seater couches moved in too. They were a bit less grubby then, and did the job adequately for a while - a couch each to stretch out on and watch some telly. But for about seven and a quarter of those seven and a half years, I've been dreaming about a new couch. 

I have been less than polite about the couches over the years, yet I have used them tirelessly. I've sat on them, leaned against them, laid upon them with my legs sticking over the edges and even fallen asleep on them and woken up crooked and bent. And besides, the couch I brought into the relationship, long since gone, was a revolting pink floral number that was so uncomfortable in both its sofa and bed manifestations that I tended to use the floor. The blue couches were luxurious in comparison.

It's been seven and a half years of cohabiting with the Garbageman and his couches. Two rentals, a mortgage and another rental later; a big overseas trip, a wedding, three babies later; countless spilt drinks, crushed biscuits, melted chocolate, baby spews, nappy overflows and potty-training accidents later; with the stuffing coming out of the arms, the frame sticking up through the fading, threadbare upholstery, parts of it tacky to the touch with any number of unidentifiable substances; a gazillion attempts at vacuuming, sponging, laundering covers, throwing throw cushions, draping fabric to try and hide some of the above...finally, finally it's time to say goodbye. In my imagination, I am lighting a bonfire, throwing them atop the flames and dancing around whooping and cheering.

And now, like a streamlined, scotchguarded oasis in the chaos that is our loungeroom sits the 'Opera'. Colour: 'Pear'. Comfortable. Long. So, so clean. 

Hello, new friend. May you remain pristine and stain-free for at least a week.

Foot and throat disease

I've done something to my foot. I've been limping for about five days. And after a croaky kind of day yesterday, this morning I woke up and my voice was gone. So basically I can't walk and I can't talk.

I went to see the doctor about an X-ray. She leaned in and gazed at me intently, I assumed to hear me better as I struggled to get my vocal chords to make sound. Then she said, "You're very tired, aren't you?" She seemed to know what she was talking about so I nodded. There followed a series of questions. How many children do you have? (Three). How many days a week do you work? (Three) Are you still breastfeeding? (Yes) Are you taking any supplements? (No) Do you smoke? (Not anymore) Is your husband supportive? (Very) She nodded sagely. Then sent me off for blood tests to check iron and calcium levels, and, finally, the X-ray I had come for in the first place.

I shall await the results. And in the meantime, if only for the sake of Lola's bedtime lullaby session, I hope my voice returns - tonight she told me I sound like a man.

Coffee and squares

Two nights ago I got eight blissful, uninterrupted hours of sleep. Last night it was back to the bad old days, with about half a dozen or so middle-of-the-night wake-ups from the whiney-pants twins, then a bright and cheery good morning from their big sister at about 6am. I needed coffee. My morning cup of tea has been spoiled by a recent attempt at going dairy free (don't ask - we're trying to get to the bottom of some digestive and other issues with one of the breastfeeders). Black tea's not my thing, but I can handle black coffee if it's made well. Alas, my first attempt at a pot of plunger coffee went terribly wrong - too strong and beyond repair with no recourse to extra milk. No mind, the babes were having a nap so L and I left them with the Garbageman and scootered up to the local cafe. The first sip of my soy latte was heaven. Unfortunately, an absent-minded swipe of my arm saw the rest of it sprayed all over the floor. Deep breath. 

Back home after a stop at the park, I popped the kettle on to attempt plunger number two. Dum-de-dum, chores to be done, things to tidy, washing to hang, pour the water over the coffee, walk away, pick something up, put something away, return to the pot...something's wrong. Kettle hadn't boiled, the water I'd poured over the coffee had been cold. Sigh.

I did eventually get a cup of coffee. I'm still tired, though. The good news is this week's mighty achievement of finally, finally, finally learning how to make a granny square. 

Friday

It has been a long week, and I have scraped through this Friday with full-body exhaustion and a to-do list a mile long. But in the spirit of silver linings, here are some things that have brought a smile to my face amidst the fug:

:: Flowers from my mother-in-law's garden.

:: Handmade treasures arriving in the post from my clever Brisbane friend.

:: Birthday presents for the in-laws' 70th birthdays - photographed, printed, framed and wrapped.

:: This scootin' fairy princess (with her skirt caught in her knickers).

:: Finally getting the new sewing machine into action.

 :: This little sausage finally starting to talk - the most beautiful "bah-bah-bah-bah" I've ever heard. (She's a bit slower than her twin sister with these sorts of things - rolling, sitting, babbling. But she wins hands down in the comparison stakes when it comes to eyelash length and tickly feet.)