It's been really hard adjusting to life in a village.
We've been here almost 8 months now. I am used to half familiar faces knowing my name, my baby's name, my life history. I'm no longer surprised when i see a sheep standing in the middle of the road. Talk of hunting, shooting, hounds, cows and tractors fail to go over my head anymore. And I've given up expecting to be able to pop out to the shops for swimming nappies, OK magazine or a decent coffee. There is very little indulgence here. The winter is cold and harsh and people chop their own wood before night sets in at 5pm. There's no fancy restaurants to distract you from the daily grind, and even if there were, you couldn't afford to eat there because the economy is completely f**ked (or so the tv keeps telling me...)
But this morning, as I drove through the snow capped mountains and watched flakes fall to the ground I though of how lucky I am to be living here. We went to mothers group in a church and a little old lady held Little Cwtch while another one sang bible songs on a guitar. It was all very peaceful until a toddler absconded with the John the Baptist doll and another tripped over her own feet and upset a table full of candles. It's a simple life here of cups of tea and women who have 5 kids and who say "it's all I've ever wanted!" as their youngest pulls their hair and their eldest sneaks off to impregnate someone. Most people have heard of Melbourne. Some people have never travelled to the town 30 miles away though. Why? Never had the need. It's a simple life.
While little Cwtch sleeps, I can hear the village children and their dogs playing in the street. It's a snow day, which means no school. There's no sounds of traffic in the morning, just roosters and the river beside our house. Sometimes a tractor will chug past and little Cwtch will stir for a moment before the world becomes silent again.
My midwife recommends drinking a pint of Guiness before bed, to get the extra calories I need for breast feeding. My health visitor tells me to have little Cwtch in bed with me. My husband dips her dummy in his beer when it falls on the ground at the pub. No one raises an eye brow...except for me. It's just so different here. I've thrown away my Gina Forde book and started reading Becoming a Calm Mom instead. I still wonder when I can paint Little Cwtch's nails....
In Melbourne, the sun is shining, people are spending their days at the beach. If we were there, Little Cwtch would probably have licked an icy pole by now, instead of a beer soaked dummy. She would sleep with her arms flung above her head instead of all swaddled up in a fleecy blanket. Her Australian Grandmother would show her the garden instead of her Welsh Grandmother singing quietly to her in a language i cannot understand. And her Australian cousins would laugh and play and squeal with delight in her company. Here, her cousins here take turns passing her between them, three quiet little girls, a fireplace and a system for getting equal time holding the baby.
I've always wanted to suck the juice out of every experience. I have been addicted to new things, the thrill of change, the oddness of a strange situation. And this is no different. The snow falls and dogs bark in the street. Little Cwtch sleeps upstairs and my midwives tell me some women take to motherhood like a duck to water. These last 9 weeks have felt more like I am a cat being thrown in a bath, but we are getting there. The fire burns. The river runs. The snow falls. This is my experience of being a mother. So different to anything I ever imagined. Overwhelming, strange, beautiful.
