Lying in bed, trying to conquer insomnia, I noticed bright intermittent flashes of light illuminating the night sky.
I slid from under the quilt, padded to the living room, and peered out the window, trying to locate the source of the light.
White, blue, and green electric balls of light, accompanied by loud bangs, were exploding from the power line strung high on the other side of our road. Showers of red embers were falling to the ground.
My imagination went wild: what if the explosions caused a fire while the street was asleep? What if our homes burnt down? Perhaps I should stand guard at the window, keeping an eye on the power line. I could ring 000 at the first flicker of fire. (I’ve done that before.) Could I remain on duty, keeping everyone safe until dawn, when the world would awake?
Fortunately, it wasn’t long before my husband appeared. “We’ve lost power. What’s going on?” he asked. He looked out the window, and his small, sleepy eyes dilated with surprise when he saw the balls of light flying from the overhead line across the street.
Andy took charge and headed out our front door to investigate. He met a neighbour doing the same thing. She’d phoned the electricity company, asking for help.
Then, at 2 am, a cherry picker truck arrived with electricians on board. A fire truck appeared, too, just in case. Neighbours in pyjamas gathered in the drizzle to see what would happen next. A man lifted high in the sky diagnosed the problem: a resistor had burnt out, and the power was surging unrestrained. He applied a temporary fix. People returned to their homes. The crisis was over. No longer on duty, I returned to bed.
Parents are always on duty. We pray, guard, comfort, provide and defend, looking after our families and keeping them safe. How do we do it, day after day and night after night? What keeps us going when we’re tired and want to curl up, give up, and maybe run away?
Love.
Love illuminates the way. It makes strong out of weak. It brightens the dull and monotonous and fuels the daily repeat.
Love keeps us awake when others sleep.
Here’s a short love story from my book Radical Unschool Love:
Because I Am a Mother
We can endure a lot when we love, can’t we? Love helps us do things that seem almost impossible.
I remember a winter when I had to nurse seven children all at once. They caught some dreadful bug at exactly the same time. They coughed. They sneezed. They drooped. Their temperatures rose alarmingly. I took a couple of them to see the doctor. The next day I took a couple more. “Are you back again?” the doctor asked. And the day after that: “Do you have a never-ending supply of children?” No, he didn’t say that. I made that bit up.
For days, children huddled under blankets while I measured out medicine and popped thermometers into mouths. I held hands, stroked foreheads, and read stories. In odd moments, I cooked meals, washed dishes, threw clothes into the washing machine, and swept floors. Oh yes, I also fed the baby. She was sick too. But I wasn’t. I knew I was living on borrowed time. Those germs were going to get me in the end. Except they didn’t.
I tell this story to my daughters, and they ask, “What would you have done if you’d become ill as well?”
“I’d have looked after you regardless.”
Why? Because I’m a mother. It’s got something to do with love.
During the summer of 2019/2020, I spent many nights awake on bushfire watching duty while my loved ones slept:
Mother on Duty
At 10:15 am, my youngest daughter Gemma-Rose appears in the living room where I’m keeping track of the bushfire activity near us. (Through the window, I can see the fire trucks and other vehicles arriving and leaving our road.)
”You slept in for a long time,” I say. “You must have been tired.”
Gemma-Rose nods. I understand. Living with a bushfire in our village is exhausting.
”I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I say. “While everyone was asleep, I was awake having a fire adventure. Do you want to hear about it?”
Gemma-Rose settles next to me on the sofa to listen to my latest bushfire story. It goes something like this:
Last night at 1:27 am, I woke up when my phone vibrated with a notification from the RFS (Rural Fire Service).
Here’s the rest of this story:
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