living in the land down under

 When I married Shea nine years ago, and he promised in his vows that one day, when I was ready, we could move back to Australia, I had no real concept of what that may look like. When it might happen. How long it could be for. I think I was too busy giggling and feeling nervous and trying to say my own vow that I promised to do all I could to ensure he never go hangry again. 

Oh friends, how I have failed on that vow. Though I have gotten better at identifying the symptoms of hangriness and can rush to rectify the situation, I really haven't mastered the art of prevention. I have mastered the art of glaring at Mountain Dad pointedly every morning that Lox stumps and grumbles, moans and mopes his way through our morning routine; wretched until he gets some breakfast in his belly. 

"YOUR genes,"  my eyes message, as they bore into Mountain Dad's bemused face.

Despite those questionable genes, he is a man who fulfills a promise. As I write this, I sit in a funky restaurant situated in a disused railway signal box. It's in the heart of downtown Newcastle, just a short ferry ride from our sleepy peninsula suburb of Stockton. The kids are at home being babysat by my parents, and while I walked here from the school where I now work, I'm waiting for Mountain Dad to arrive by ferry. It's our ninth wedding anniversary and here we are celebrating in Australia. 

I was remarking to a friend the other day that it's funny how you can move across the planet and without really intending to, recreate your habits and lifestyle practices of your other home. I think for us, that tendency is at times a blessing and sometimes a limitation. On the one hand, it's beautiful to mosey our way through the days following similar rituals as those we have in Whitehorse. I continue to do my morning yoga before the crew arise and I make my coffee in the same pot (we shipped it) in the same way. We still have porridge most mornings and we're still rushing to make it out the door on time. Of an afternoon, the kids tinker with lego and jump on the trampoline which, just like our Whitehorse one, consistently gets gaping holes in the netting and creates regular mending jobs for Mountain Dad. We eat a similar meal plan as that in the Yukon and our evening follows a pattern that is exactly the same, including the yelling and hair pulling frustration of our distractable children. There is comfort in these routines, the rituals unique to our family.

Sometimes though, I think the desire to create the same life, but elsewhere, makes it challenging for us. I want a replica here, of the tribe of female friends that get me out on skiing or mountain biking adventures in the Yukon. Seeking fulfillment of the gap I feel, I get impatient with the slowness of making new friends. Mountain Dad likewise is missing his Full Moon Club cohort. We rail against having to drive forty five minutes to go for a mountain bike ride. We protest at having to drive half an hour to get to the grocery store. We miss the strong connection we have to our Yukon community; a connection borne of years of experiences, investment and memory making occasions. We know we're being impatient, but we strive to seek that fulfillment. 

At the dinner table, we reminisce about life in Canada and laugh about the quirky changes that living down under entails. Like how we're eating kangaroo lasagna rather than moose. Or how, in summer here, the coconut oil that we cook with is liquid all the time as it's so warm. And we have to keep the choc chips in the fridge because they melt in the pantry. We love that we have palm tree's in our backyard here, like we have spruce tree's in Canada. And the kids marvel at how easy it is to get ready for school when you can just throw your school uniform on and not think about your outfit. 

I marvel at how, regardless of the country, I'm still berating them for carting their mucky shoes indoors, only here they're tipping sand out instead of brushing off snow. Though the setting be different, much of the madness remains. 

We miss our community, but appreciate the new connections we're slowly building. We sometimes wonder what on earth we're doing, especially through the tumult of Covid and uncertainty of seeking an income. However, despite it all and despite his general state of hangriness, his indomitable and often irritating enthusiasm, or his inability to drive past an unwanted pile of some strangers possessions on the kerb without riffling through them, our dear Mountain Dad remains a man true to his word. As per his wedding vow of nine years ago, we are indeed living in Australia. Our life of adventure continues. 

Cheese toasties on a typical free Australian public BBQ. I'm reaching for my gin and tonic that we carried down on the back of our bikes in a jar. Here's to you, Sue and John. 

The view from our Stockton peninsula toward Kooragang Island (inland). 

Life aboard Feisty. Little Laide made a nest for herself under the table. 

Outside our house. The ice cream trucks earn a business here, even in the depths of winter.