by MESHEL LAURIE
My son brought a rock home from our walk around the block the other day. It’s from a meticulously kept garden in the street behind ours. I always try to make sure the rocks end up back where their master intended them, but on this day, one rock was skillfully secreted in a pocket and made it all the way back around the block to our house.
It wasn’t until about 3 hours later actually, when the rock smuggler emerged from his afternoon nap clutching the rock that I realised what had happened.
Unfortunately my husband realised too.
It’s sixteen years next month since we met at a work-for-the-dole scheme in Melbourne. Good times. Since that magical day on the smoker’s landing of a Salvation Army facility, we have endured the usual ups and downs of coupledom. We’ve lived in countless dodgy flats, endured endless family visits and dragged ourselves through plenty of ill-conceived holidays. We pushed through the emotional minefield of infertility more or less together and ended up with IVF twins for our trouble. But that you see, is where our trouble begins.