When we arrive in the delivery suite there’s a little crib set up with blue blankets. It confirms in my crazy labour mind what I already know in my heart to be true. This little bubba is going to be a boy.

After a fast and furious (but strangely enjoyable labour) he is here. Big blue eyes, long lashes and the most perfect Caesar haircut.

A mumma’s boy right from the start he makes the first few days pretty hard and I’m keen to get home. I loved the hospital stay the first time around and can’t understand why I’m feeling so trapped here now.

I’ve packed our bag and I’m just waiting for the squawk so I can feed him, change him and get him dressed to go home.

As I remove the little flannelette hospital gown I trace the outline of the love heart and the “C” on his chest. I tell myself firmly to throw it on the bathroom floor with the rest of the dirty laundry.

I can’t.

I’ve never stolen anything…ever and I’m feeling a bit sick. I try to justify to myself why it would be okay for me to take it home with me. I know it’s completely the wrong thing to do, but for the first time in my life I really don’t care.

I stuff the little gown into the side pocket of our overnight bag. I feel my heart begin to race. I can hear it thumping in my ears. The heat and redness in my cheeks has risen steadily from my toes. My breathing quickens and I stare anxiously at the telephone. I’m willing it to ring.

Finally, the phone does ring and I gather my baby, my bag and myself. I flick off the light and head for the elevator. I just want to get myself, my baby and my hospital gown as far away from the scene of the crime as I can.

With heart still pounding I walk briskly through the hospital foyer and out into the cold July night. I’m thankful for the darkness and the freshness in the air.

More souvenir stories here.

We’ve been in the car for 3 Sesame Streets. The car whizzes by Gnotuk Primary and I know we are getting close.

The bitumen turns to dirt and we pass the Delaney’s farm. We’re all bouncing in the backseat of the car now, not just from the pot holes but from excitement too. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be at the “country cousins”.

We reach the end of the road and turn left into the driveway. The car rumbles over the cattle bridge. I stare longingly at the Oak trees lining the driveway. They would be good climbers if they hadn’t had their lower limbs trimmed.

The drive comes to an abrupt end at the front lawn of Eddington. The car is parked and unpacked at the front door. We’ll only use this door twice this visit.

Once we’ve been welcomed we are reminded of the house rules. “No animals in the house, shoes off, scullery entrance only, eat everything on your plate, only 2 teaspoons of Milo”.

Bind and I will share Jen’s bedroom and Cal is in The Boys’ Room. We dump our bags, kick off our sneaks and head straight for the scullery. The grown ups are already enjoying a cuppa in the sitting room. The fire is roaring and Rod’s socked feet are toasting nicely. Marg and Rod and the four cousins are all wearing “homespuns”. I chuckle to myself knowing that Dad will have his on when we come in for dinner.

Mum jumps up from her seat and follows me out to the TV room. She grabs my arm and reminds me that “farm talk” is for the paddocks only. I nod and join the gumboot clad crew kicking gravel in the driveway.

We lose the afternoon in the woolshed, the shearer’s quarters, the machinery shed and playing in the cypress hedge. Bind and Cal and I are making the most of the “farm talk” rule. We swear like troopers and then giggle crazily.

Our stomachs tell us when it’s time to head back. Aunty Marg has dinner on the table when we get home. After dinner the boys make us Milo topped ice cream in a cone. It’s clear that they’ve learnt to get around the two teaspoon rule.

Bedtime is announced and we all scramble into our PJs and hop into bed. The sheets are thick and the beds are perfectly made. No doonas for the country cousins. Their blankets are heavy and warm. Aunty Marg knows all about hospital corners.

Mum and Dad kiss us goodnight and then Aunty Marg bustles in and bustles them out. She sets about tucking us in. She’s pretty strong and when she tucks those blankets in I roll a little to the left and then a little to the right. The tuck secures me in the centre of the bed and I’m aware that my eye lids are heavy. I feel safe knowing I won’t move until the morning.

More tucked up in bed stories here.

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I’m sitting in the kitchen watching the minutes roll over on the digital oven clock. It’s only been three minutes since I last asked “Is it time yet?”. I don’t want to bug Non but I’m just about bursting with anticipation.

I can’t sit still. The swivel chair I’m sitting on is moving constantly. Swivel left, swivel right, swivel left, swivel right. Non is busy preparing something at the kitchen bench and peers over her glasses at me. I know the constant motion is annoying her but I can’t help it.

I’m not sure how I successfully negotiated an afternoon alone at Non’s, but I’m feeling extremely pleased with myself. We can’t ever get the precious dolls out when the littler kids are around because of a recent breakage by Cal.

Finally, Non gives me a little nod. I’m up and out of my chair before she can change her mind.

I open the sliding door to the dining room. The air in the dining room is cold and moist and smells like a mixture of Mr Sheen and liqueur. I wrestle with the aluminium step ladder, being careful not to bump into the sideboard or the dining chairs.

I climb up the ladder and cup my hand under the olive green key tassel. I love the way it feels, heavy and soft at the same time. I turn the key in the lock of the glass doll cabinet.

The dolls have been collected from all around the world. They are just souvenir dolls but to me they are so precious. I’m sure it’s got something to do with the fact that they are stored up so high, under lock and key. Their glass and mahogany home is so decadent. Surely they must be worth an absolute fortune.

I carefully remove each one and lay them one at a time on the velvet runner on the sideboard. Once I’ve made my selection (always leaving the broken marketeer and his wagon behind), I lock the cabinet and carefully carry the little figures back to the kitchen.

The next hour is filled arranging and rearranging the dolls on the kitchen table and listening to the stories of where they were purchased. It’s clear from the way Non speaks that they really are valuable. They are memory anchors for her and memory makers for me. They well deserve to be treated with such care and respect.

More careful stories here.

It’s a freezing Melbourne day.

I’ve got the heater going in the car and it’s nice & cosy. I have to force myself to turn off the engine. I’m staring across the road at the “manor” and willing myself to go in. I tell myself it’s too cold to get out of the car, acutely aware that’s not the real reason for my reluctance.

Non hasn’t recognised me for months. The visits are painful for me and I’m sure her as well. She’s not one of those sweet little old ladies who retain their social niceties and chat merrily about church, hydrangeas, cooking, suitcases and their cats. The visit isn’t easy. I force the conversation and offer prompts.

Remember?
Warm moccasins, hand knits, sweet treats, close cuddles, leather gloves, working together, imaginary games.

Remember?
Pancakes, deep baths, silky pillowcases, strong perfume, daytime television, cross word puzzles, travel stories.

Remember?
Tic Tocs, shared dreams, dinner parties, Max Bygraves, the garden, Pop, your girls….me?

Non doesn’t, she can’t.

Occasionally I see that she is searching the far reaches of her failing mind, but she comes up blank.

She stares straight through me. When she does speak she is often angry and argumentative. I can’t blame her, I’m sure I’d be the same. I suppress the urge to scream.

This is no way to live.

I leave feeling completely drained.

The grieving began long before she died. I do remember & I cherish.

More remember? stories here.

“The Lodge” is a disused church camp with about one hundred acres of bush attached to it.

Our “more front than Myers”* mum has negotiated a lease arrangement with the owners of “The Lodge” and the bushland. She pays them an absolute pittance and in exchange we get full use of The Lodge and the bush. We build a holding yard so that our ponies can sleep overnight when we are up for the weekend. We renovate the bungalow and fill it with our belongings, we construct elaborate air riffle ranges with old cups and plates and cookware from the old kitchen.

It’s every kids dream and we have to pinch ourselves every time we drive through the gate.

As we approach the gate there’s a heated discussion about who will be on duty. It’s raining hard and it’s warm in the car. I “win” and haul my oilskin coat on before I dash out of the car to the gate. I wait for mum to drive through and then quickly close the gate and leap back in the car.

Mum stops the car but leaves the headlights on so we can see to light the gas lamps. We all rush into the bungalow. It’s absolutely freezing and the three of us are jumping up and down on the spot to keep warm. Mum sets to work unlocking the storage cupboard and pulling out all our belongings. She lights a couple of gas lanterns and finds that the mantels need replacing on a couple more. She leaves us with one primus and instructions to make our beds.

We roll out our sleeping bags and grab a blanket each. It’s going to be a really cold night. Once everything is organised in our room we drag on our gumboots and prepare ourselves for the mad dash over to The Lodge. We hold our primus up high and see that mum has created a fairly crude bridge system over the puddles in the wood shed.

The puddles and the bridges are negotiated easily and we open the lodge door to find the fire roaring. Mum’s had to rearrange some of the furniture to avoid the drips coming through the rusted roof. There are already a series of puddles forming in the sawdust floor. We are confined to our carpet square for the night as the rest of The Lodge is dotted with soggy sawdust pot holes.

We all head straight for the fire to toast our bottoms. The three of us stand too close to the roaring fire watching mum replace gas mantels in the half light and listening to the rain on the tin roof. We talk sleepily about how much fun we are going to have tomorrow and how full of tadpoles the swamp will be.

More rainy day stories here.

* for non-Australian residents: More front that Myers