Gratitude. (Introducing Laxmi.)

Being a mum has made me soft.

I don’t mean in the physical sense – although I don’t think you can escape pregnancy without rounding and softening a little physically. Unless you are a supermodel with freakish genes, a personal trainer and a personal chef, and even then it’s a lot of work. I mean more personality-wise.

Although I was never really that ‘hard’ before Little Red, I liked to think of myself as quite tough – strong, independent and extremely capable. But since I became a mum, I feel softer and more vulnerable emotionally and mentally, much more disorganized in general, and a little lost.

The other night I was up late feeding Little Red. She looked so peaceful and trusting as she sucked away at my boob, snuggled in, all cosy, hand squeezing my chest to try to get more out. She clearly felt content, warm, loved and safe.

That’s the thing that gets me the most. Babies so completely and utterly, horrifyingly, trust and love – and rely on – you. For. Everything. And they know no different to what you give, be it good or bad. A baby’s innocence and need is heart aching and heart breaking. It is also completely endearing and triggers a protective instinct that I never before thought possible in someone as self oriented as me.

It got me thinking about all I want Little Red to have. Peace. Security. Safety. Love. Curiosity. Adventure. Travel. Fun. Confidence. Perseverance. Independence. Good health. Kindness. Humour. Strength. Empathy. To not want for food and drinks. A good education. A happy home. Lots of cats. Love, respect and appreciation for nature. Faith. And the freedom to choose what to believe in.

That got me thinking about all the other mums in the world, and what they want for their children. Mums in Syria and Iraq. Mums in refugee camps and on refugee boats. Mums in drought-stricken and impoverished developing countries. Mums in developed countries who are struggling to give their child what they dream for them – from basic needs to more. Sitting there, late at night, looking at Little Red, my heart broke for these women and their babies. And for how they may feel when they look at their babies, hearts full with adoration, awe, worries, fears, longing and hope. My heart broke for the possibility that their hopes may never be achieved.

We have a healthy, happy and loving family. We have a nice home, with a beautiful garden and killer views, in a safe neighbourhood, in a safe city, in a safe country. We don’t fear bombs falling on us. We don’t lack food. We don’t have to search for clean, fresh water or carry it in buckets up hills (like my host family in India does). Our air is relatively clean. We have access to a range of high-quality healthcare. We have access to a range of education, and opportunities to study and work (or not). We have pretty safe jobs with reliable incomes. We have these things and more for which to be grateful.

Consequently, Little Red’s chances of having all of the things I wish for her are pretty high. But what are the chances for the babies born in environments that aren’t as safe, comfortable or healthy? For whatever reason – a Sliding Doors-style twist of fate, or choice or chance – Little Red has ended up with us. For whatever reason, we’ve ended up with her. But it might not have worked out that way. And for many families it doesn’t always turn out so well. We have more than we need, but there are other mums and babies who are not as lucky.

Lately, these thoughts hit me at random moments, square in the chest, winding me and leaving me a little teary. They remind me of how incredibly blessed I am with all I am and have, including material things, safety, opportunities, freedom, and loving family and friends. This makes me want to work hard to be worthy of such blessings, to do more to help people who aren’t as lucky. To share the love.

After contemplating this for a day or so, I told my big-hearted boy what I’d been thinking about. Before I’d even finished telling him what I’d been thinking about, he suggested that we sponsor a child. It’s something we originally talked about a few years ago, after our trip to Cambodia and Vietnam, when we saw the malnourished street children begging. But for many reasons, and for none, we hadn't got around to it. 

I know I said this blog would focus on happy, positive, nice things, and this post is a wee bit depressing. But the positive, nice thing is that despite all the crappiness and inequality in the world, we can do something, no matter how little, to try to help someone (human or animal) who isn’t as lucky as we are.

I know that no sponsor program is perfect, and they won’t solve global poverty or feed all of the hungry in the world. They won’t put an end to wars or help to balance international politics. But sponsoring a child will make a difference to that child and their family, and even their community. And I reckon that’s pretty nice.

So, I’d like to introduce Laxmi. She’s a nine-year-old girl from Nepal and the newest member of our family. That's all we know about her so far, but my boy thinks she's probably got attitude, based on her wonky tie, nose ring and hippy beads.

One day I’ll drag him over there to visit her. I know of a nice little café bookshop in Kathmandu we can stop by. It does a mean thukpa and momos.

Spring.

We're roughly half-way through Spring in the Southern Hemisphere and my garden is a veritable smorgasbord for bees. It’s stunning. And with the future for bees so uncertain (see here and here), it’s nice to know that I’m doing my little bit to help their (and our) survival.

At the front of my house, lavender bushes are covered in purple blooms that kids walking by pick every day. Daisies bounce in the breeze. Wisteria cascades over the walkway above our front door in delicate lilac waves, its musky scent almost overpowering every time you walk past. When I open the windows in the front lounge room, the sweet jasmine perfume rushes in with the warm air. The jasmine outside the windows is smothered in fragile pink and white stars that only last a couple of days before browning and being replaced by new ones. Roses seem to grow another inch of glossy green leaves every day and their new buds are pushing through the foliage. And my boy’s pride and joy, his weeping cherry, has a dozen or so new white blossoms on the ends of its otherwise still-bare branches.

In my backyard, the rosemary hedges have sprouted groups of tiny pinky purple petals that look a little like orchids. These flowers always surprise me and make me smile, because I never equate rosemary with flowers, but more its tough, sticky leaves that go so well with roast potatoes and pumpkin. Herbs that went dormant over winter, like horseradish, echinacea, bergamot and burdock, have started poking up through the mulch. This also makes me happy – I hate the thought of losing any plant.

Calendula offers sunshine with its bobbing bright yellow and orange flowers. Lemon balm – a weed in my garden, but my favourite herb – promises long stems of tiny white flowers of which bees are particularly fond. Thymes and savouries are topped with layers of tiny pink and purple flowers.

My garden is plagued with violets. Some are tiny seedlings with leaves smaller than the nail on my pinky finger, and others are almost knee-high, their roots and shoots thick and strangling nearby plants. Parsley, borage and mullein have self-seeded in the most unfortunate places, like the crack between the path and shed. I’m not sure how their roots will take hold enough to support them. After-dinner mint has burst its rocky boundary and taken up residence in the grass. Pineapple sage, covered in bright red, cylindrical flowers, continues spreading through the ground next to the shed, no matter how often I uproot its feelers. And this year, cat nip has successfully taken on cat mint, no longer struggling in its shadow, but growing strong with thick foliage of tiny leaves and long stems of blue flowers falling over the path and ledge. Despite this gallant effort, our cat Indi has taken to lying in the middle of it, sleeping off her post-cat mint high, leaving the poor cat nip deflated in the middle and bushy around the edges.

I’m not quite sure where I’ll plant my summer vegetable crops, with the winter and spring crops still going strong and little space left in the garden. Silverbeet, kale and salad greens have filled two temporary veggie plots to bursting – a feast for the lucky snails. Snow peas and broad beans are in full bloom, with baby peas and beans already starting to weigh down their stems. Beetroot, radish, leeks and onions persist despite my lack of watering. The garlic will soon be ready for harvesting, its shoots starting to wither.

Some of the raspberry canes are already showing signs of another bumper crop, with white flowers peeping between the leaves. Raspberry and loganberry runners have again spread through the garden, and I’ll have to pull them out before they take over again. The neglected lemon and lime trees are budding nicely – and in need of a trim and fertilliser.

The lawn and its weeds are flourishing. It is thick and green and scattered with daisies and dandelions and ribwort. It now needs fortnightly haircuts – although this won’t last long once the warmer weather hits and it dries brown again.

And it’s not just bees that love my blossoming garden. Magpies, minah birds and blackbirds perch on the edge of my hanging baskets and pull out threads from their coconut fibre lining to use to make their nests. These birds also snack on the leftover cat food and bread I leave out for them (and the neighbours’ cat). Kookaburras are the only birds who stand up to the minahs, laughing raucously as the minahs try to chase them out of the neighbours’ trees every afternoon. Brightly coloured grass parrots, king parrots and rosellas have returned, flitting between native trees and our deck. Doves, corellas and cockatoos perch awkwardly on the edge of our bird feeder – meant for smaller birds – flicking seed into the garden and pot plants below, where it grows into unusual grasses and corn. We also have new visitors this year, a pair of ducks, who snack on snails and slugs, giving my herbs and veggies some respite from the onslaught of these slimey residents, and the cats new entertainment.

At night, we hear possums running laps across the roof, giving new meaning to the pitter patter of little feet. They nest in the wisteria, balancing on the arch over the door. Tawny frogmouth owls sit on the power lines or trees, quietly watching passersby below and calling out to each other when they think no one is listening. Actually, I hear all the birds at night when I’m up feeding Little Red. No matter what time it is. I don’t think they’re familiar with the concept of sleepy time (but then, neither is Little Red).

Last week, Bella brought in her first presents for us for the season. Geckos sans tails. When I’m in the garden, I see geckos scurry to hide in the violets or rocks. Despite the size of her belly, Bella is pretty strong and fast – faster than Indi and clearly the better hunter of the two. My boy and I do our best to rescue the geckos and release them outside somewhere she won’t find them again (hopefully at least until they regrow their tails). Bella is most unimpressed when we do this, and will search for hours for them under the couch or behind the blinds, ignoring their still-squirming tails beside her. I don’t mind it so much when she catches flies in the window inside though – and we’ve got plenty of them at the moment. But hearing the loud crunch as she eats them makes me gag. Every. Single. Time.