We’ve been busy. So busy. Laundry has been piling up through the week. Thank GOODNESS for mum and her folding expertise, otherwise it would have buried us by now.
Busy working. Busy with life. Preschool. Lunches. Then work increased. Then I went mental contacting bookshops and other places and people in the lead up to my book launch next month.
Then there was the Byron Bay Writer’s Festival, and we all took in as much as we could. Between busy and life, we sat down where we could and enjoyed a sunshine breakfast, or an extra coffee, but still the weeks have been running at crazy pace.
Last Saturday, we slipped away to the rainforest. We walked the girls right into the depths of the Minyon Falls, and back out again. Talking of backs, mine was killing me, as I carried my enormous two-year-old the entire time. But she needed extra cuddles. Did I mention the busy thing?
The rainforest was good for us. As was that delightful afternoon spent hanging at Doma, the surprisingly wonderful Japanese outdoor eatery in Federal, of all places.
Busy is good for productivity. My work is flowing. And my book launch month is packed with fun and activity. But after a week or so of busy, cracks start to show. Husband and I get snappy. I get weary towards my kids. Little things – little them things get irritating. And it’s not fair. It really isn’t.
Getting out of the house – why so hard? I don’t know why, but every single blimmin’ day it seems to be impossible. Getting dressed. That simple task. Suddenly so much harder, because there aren’t extra hours for this simple task to take extra hours. And irritation levels rise.
Trying to cook dinner. A request to make slime. And while we are at it, ‘Can you print off more pictures for me to make a book?’ Dishes pile up around me. Just grateful the laundry is already folded as the dishes have their own plans for takeover.
In the busy, my kids’ faces are close to mine. When things are close, they seem bigger than they actually are. A child’s voice sounds louder than it actually is.
Sitting on the beach on a marvellously perfect winter’s afternoon yesterday, I cradled my oldest child, who seems particularly big, especially close up. She’s big. For 5. Tall. And she’s loud. Chatty. Amazing. But loud. Her presence is so big in the room, I sometimes forget how small she actually is.
I cradled her, and sang I See Fire. For no particularly reason. We looked out on the ocean, and rocked from side to side. She sunk into me. Still. Quiet.
Then I noticed her feet on mine, resting. Still. Quiet.
And her feet were so small.
I really do forget how small she is. Especially when it’s busy. But it’s worth remembering.