This (domestic) life

Alison Camroux; 14/11/09;

“Mum, this chicken tastes good, you’re a good cook.” “It’s fish, sweetheart, and thank you,” I reply. “Mum, I just ate the fish’s arms,” says my three-year-old son. We are sitting in our courtyard. A cool change has swept through after a stinking hot Melbourne day. I glance around at the baby paddling pool, sand pit and scooter, and think how life has changed. Gone is the makeshift bar and fire drum. It’s 6pm and we have already finished dinner. A few more hours and we will be in bed. The night ahead will be much the same as previous sleepless nights.A cry interrupts my thoughts and I duck into the bedroom to settle the baby. I’m met with a big grin, squealing, kicking legs and flaying arms. At only six months old this little boy certainly knows how to communicate. I pick him up even though I know I really should try to settle him back to sleep. He shows his joy by burying his head into my shoulder, his tiny hands giving my neck a warm hug.