I had one of those mornings where the sense of overwhelm hung over my shoulders like an itchy cloak. Things the kids could do yesterday, such as put on a pair of shoes or sit together without wrestling, they apparently could not do today. Every bit of crafting material was strewn across the house, my folded washing had been upended off the bed to make way for a game of hide-and-seek, a cup of milk was plundered recklessly onto the floor.

Those little things.

The itchy cloak prickled.

‘Let’s get out of the house,’ I declared, knowing myself well enough to predict the rest of the morning if we didn’t get some air.

Out we went, bikes in the boot, off for a bush track bike ride.

The first half was fantastic. Lots of hills to ride down, peppercorn trees to sit under, ants to ‘feed’.

The second half was hard work.

‘I’m too tired to ride back’

‘Carry me’

‘Carry my bike’

‘I can’t do it!’

‘It’s too far’

My sage advice, that sometimes good things mean a little hard work, was drowned out by their harmony of wails.

I’m in hell, I thought.

So when the youngest child demanded I take off his helmet and carry it, my overwhelm spoke to him by declaring his helmet would stay on the track unless he picked it up – I was already lugging a backpack and two bikes.

The little one sat down on the track and cried. My sense of frustration was still so acute I couldn’t find the compassion the situation obviously warranted.

Thankfully, my oldest could.

As I walked on, encouraging the littlest one to ‘keep going we’re nearly there,’ the biggest one turned back, picked up the littlest one’s helmet and said, ‘Are you okay my little brother?’

One of us was being the grown up, even if it wasn’t me.

I asked Bobby if he would mind holding Sid’s hand to help him walk back to the car, and he did, both of them now laughing at the situation. Me? I thanked my lucky stars they’re mine, while mentally shaking myself out of my strop.

We then headed over to our friend’s house, a home to five children with the markings of them everywhere.

And you know what I realised today?

I realised that despite them having all of the stuff that comes with a seven person family, it never feels like mess there, ever. It just feels like a place full of love. Like a family plays and laughs there, makes trouble, shares stories and draws you in with open arms, because that is exactly what happens.

It’s the kind of place that cannot be built of money. No carefully drawn architectural plans or expensive rugs or handwoven baskets can make a house that full of love. That kind of home is made of the people in it.

And so I walked from their home feeling lighter than before, leaving laughter and happy chaos echoing in their four walls, and returned to my own home with fresh eyes.

A home of dirty floors and boys who wrestle till they cry but carry each other’s helmets when the walk gets too long.

What a happy place to be.

Eliza xx