Flicking through an old photo album this morning I barely recognised the person who appeared before me. The string bikini clad snippet of a thing with too much sun on her shoulders and not enough cloth on her body, the dark haired girl with woven wool wrapped tightly about her throat grinning madly under the Eiffel Tower, the carefree lass toasting nothing in particular with a long flute of champers....and manicured nails.
That stiletto heeled girl has long walked off into the sunset. The wardrobe is far less full, the crinkles around the eyes have deepened and my belly now bears the scar of two heartbreakingly long and arduous labours. But time has given me clarity...and peace.
When I reached the pages filled with my man and my babies I felt at home. This chapter of my life however influenced by my past existence is my greatest work. I have changed; I have grown and am so immensely proud of inner battles I've fought...and won. There is still work to be done.
My home is my everything now and those that fill it are my world. I have wholeheartedly embraced this role and have thrown myself into it's daily, often mundane tasks. I cook from scratch, I sew, I make do. I breastfeed and cloth nappy my smallest, I thrift, I renovate, I don't vacuum as much as I should. I knit, I grow vegetables, I still have too much sugar in my tea, I make mud pies with my babies, I smile often. I am happy.