On a hot night last night, alone for a rare, brief interval, cold beer beside me, I ironed three or four loads of washing.

Oh Saturday night, you have changed.

I ironed, and sipped beer and contemplated my days.  I ironed a faded little blue t shirt with a picture of one of Maurice Sendak’s eternally endearing wild things dancing upon it.  Inside the collar was the name of one of my oldest, dearest friends little boy.

Hand-me-downs are precious.

I smiled and a happy little tear formed and rolled down my cheek, that my son should be wearing clothes pre-loved by Ayesha’s little boy.  We have been friends since we were just children ourselves, and what a sweet little thing it is that our boys should both wear this cloth upon their skins.

This last week has been really hard.  Boodi’s meltdowns are getting worse, and the NDIS funding for critical early intervention therapy is horribly, bureaucratically stalled, for who knows how long. In these early days we have none of the supports or knowledge that should hopefully be in place later.  We are very much floundering in deep water, and we are still standing in the same place on that road where I was so sure four weeks ago that we would finally begin to make progress.

In the midst of this desert of helplessness has been the lush green oasis grown by  love of friends and family, old and new, reaching out helping hands, throwing life lines in a dozen different ways, with phone calls or messages, with their own fears and worries in common with ours, with envelopes and love,time and practical knowledge and links and advice .  I don’t know where we would be without all of this generosity and love.

It makes me think that we will be ok, somehow.