It’s sale day today. Our house, which we have loved to pieces, is going under the hammer. We built the sandstone walls, planted a Japanese garden, turfed the yard, and paved the back patio. We spent hours creating spaces that the three of us, (and our adored pets Jack the dog and Anna and Lexi the cats), would love. I think I’m supposed to feel sad about it but I don’t really. I just feel…well, nothing really.
I’m remembering the times we’ve had picnics on the lawn. Remembering Jack learning to swim in the pool. Remembering Lachie climbing up and down the back stairs. His first steps. Finding out I was pregnant with you. Coming home from our honeymoon and opening our wedding presents. All in that house. I’m trying to force myself to feel some nostalgia but I can’t. I have one singular vision in my head from morning to evening at the moment. It’s of you at six months corrected, (hopefully six months chronologically too, although maybe that’s reaching), and Lachie under a Christmas tree at our new home. The home we bought the night before all this happened. The one we move into in a month. Opening presents. Taking photos. Smiling. That’s my vision. There is only room for looking forward in my mind right now. That’s where we are headed. Not backwards.
Dad called from the auction. I’ve been waiting nervously for an hour or so. These things are supposed to go quickly, but this one dragged on. I suppose that could be a good sign, but when I am helpless to offer any help in here it just seems frustrating.
It’s good news – we got significantly more than the reserve. We have enough to pay our new mortgage and we are moving in April. It’s all happening.
He’s arrived with contraband dinner, (one of Mum’s casseroles, yum), and we are watching some TV show he downloaded onto his tablet. Actually, that’s not true. He’s falling asleep in his chair next to me clutching my hand, succumbing to those large bags under his eyes. And I am here thinking about a million things other than a TV show. I’m relieved, and now I can focus on you again. But the voice in my head has a new message for me now. “It’s about to get hard. But you’ll get through it, I promise.”
Well this morning I am reminded again just how blessed I am to be your mum – and your brother’s. You saw the rabbit man again today, and I hesitated, overthinking the best way to handle it. Your brother, ever the negotiator, stepped in assuredly.
“Moose,” (It’s his nickname for you, even though he can say Lucy now), “remember what mummy told us to do if someone is bothering us?”
You were still screaming at this point. He gave you a cuddle and you begin to relax. In a moment you are both giggling involuntarily. I’m watching with a smile on my face and thinking I dodged a bullet.
“Moose, you just say stop I don’t like it.”
“STOP I DON”T LIKE IT! GO AWAY!”
“That’s right. Did it work?”
“Maybe he’s not going to hurt you. If he’s a kid, maybe he’s here to play with us, because it’s Easter soon. Or if he’s a grown up, maybe he’s here to look after us.”
You are calm, but still a little bothered. You shake your head, resigned to your fear.
“Ok. How about this.” He walked over to where Mr Rabbit usually sits on the couch and sat down. You gasp, shocked.
He lets out a raspberry, a long, ridiculously silly one and you are both laughing again, that childish, gleeful laugh that only a pre-schooler can muster.
This is clearly a language that a grown up cannot understand.
“What just happened?” I ask, entranced by the exchange. Lachie, who has an answer for everything, pipes up with a huge, satisfied grin on his face.
“I just farted on him.” I’m too shocked to respond, and trying very hard not to laugh. “Don’t worry mummy. Mr Rabbit won’t be back. That was a really smelly one!”
And we dissolve into giggles. Because after all, that’s pretty funny.