The sound of silence...

Mothers Day is this Sunday, and yesterday a little bag of scented pot pouri and a painted card came home with my daughter from preschool (along with half a sandpit in her shoes) ... bless.

It will be my third Mothers Day, but my first as a mother-of-two and I'm looking forward to it like it's Christmas! Not for the gifts (I have mine already, slight misunderstanding about the date, but I'll tell that story a bit later!) but rather for my romanticism of two little talcum-scented, pajama'd cherubs with tousled hair tumbling into my bed at their usual ungodly hour with promises of Cappuccino and, if I play my cards right, a tray laden with pancakes!

Mothers Day is, of course, a rite of passage for mothers. As it should be! Motherhood is a full-time, 24/7 position that offers no long service leave, lousy overtime penalties and no lunch break!

This year I am prompted to reflect on WHY I became a mother. There's lot's of reasons, of course. The ability to justify buying way too many Easter eggs (they're for the kids!), for starters. Having an excuse to decline attending undesirable social events. Decorating a cubby house. Having a trampoline in the backyard. Reading pop-up books. That sort of stuff. ;)

Given this blog is really a lot about motherhood you might be surprised to learn I had no early ambitions to be a mother. It was always something I saw myself doing one day, but it wasn't until I turned 30 that I really thought seriously about it. It hit so fast, I didn't see it coming. And it hit hard.

Where once I was completely fulfilled with my own life, I suddenly felt... well... bored. With myself. With my life which was then all about work and saving up for holidays and clothes and stuff. I shopped. A lot. But none of it filled the growing sense of emptiness growing inside me.

I've never really spoken publicly about my journey in falling pregant with Fern. I still find it difficult to be completely open. I was 30. I was ready. But life sometimes throws a curve ball ... when you are not pregant and you want to be, it seems like everybody else in the world is having a baby except you.

A year goes by. We're trying. And every month there's nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. And then it it's Christmas. And here comes my REAL reason. My reason for wanting. Needing. To have children.

It's Christmas morning. Early. I still awaken early and excitedly on Christmas like I'm a child. But I'm not a child. Nor do I have any children. And it's never been more obvious.

It's Summer and the windows are open. And the sound of children squealing excitedly peals in. Laughter and tinkly little voices.

And inside my own home it is silent.

Silent silent silent.

The sound of silence can be deafening.



And it's empty. My home is immaculate; designer Christmas tree brandishing silver designer baubles; gifts in white paper arranged artfully underneath... but across the hall from ours, is an empty room. I keep the door ajar, I'm not willing or ready to close it yet.

Fast forward two years and I awaken on Christmas morning to the sound of laughter and tinkly little voices. Except, this time it's coming from that once empty room. Last night's peas are smushed on the floor, there are My Little Ponies littered on every surface. The Christmas tree is decorated in all the colours of the rainbow, hastily wrapped gifts stuffed underneath. It's pandemonium. And I am happy. My heart is full.

And that, THAT is why I have children.

They fill my home and life and heart with song.

Happy Mothers Day xox