A Deck, a Caravan, and a Lesson in Gratitude

Right now, I’m sitting on the couch in what Lachlan and I optimistically call our “living room.” It’s a 6m by 9m deck off the side of our caravan that we walled in ourselves....a project that began with the noble aim of creating a warm, dry space and quickly turned into a father and son bonding session involving too much sawdust, a few questionable measurements, and more swearing than a Bunnings car park on a Saturday.

The leather couch is old, the kind you sink into whether you want to or not, and the boys are spread around me doing their schoolwork. The conversation drifts in and out....a question here, a comment there....the sort of sporadic chatter that fills a home without demanding anything of it.

It could be anywhere. An exposed deck under a gum tree, a brick bungalow in suburbia, or a mansion looking out over the sea. The rhythm would be the same.

The kids don’t care about the backdrop. Their lives carry on with the same small dramas, the same sparks of excitement, the same mix of chores, lazy starts, great conversations, and the inevitable brotherly scuffles that flare up and fizzle out like summer storms. They measure their days in shared jokes, in who gets the last of the toast, in whether the dog’s in the mood to play, and in the satisfaction of a well-earned Milo after a morning’s schoolwork.

That’s the thing about children....the physical setting matters far less than the emotional one. A safe, warm place is enough. Beyond that, it’s the love in the room, the interest in their thoughts, the way a conversation over lunch can wander from dinosaurs to space travel to “why do people get old?” without anyone thinking it odd.

Our boys may not yet live in a palatial home (and we’ll get there), but they’re no worse for it. In fact, I’d say they’re richer for these close quarters. They’ve learned to negotiate quiet time, to share space, and to work together when they want something. Sometimes they do it well, sometimes it’s a mess, but they’re learning.

This is the quiet gift of homeschooling. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it swallows chunks of your personal time. But it also delivers something you can’t buy...more of those small, deep moments that build a life. The conversations you’d miss if the kids were away for eight hours. The insight you get into how they think, how they problem-solve, how they view the world.

There’s a certain magic in hearing your children reflect out loud, in being there not just for the big “firsts” but for the thousand little observations that make up their mental landscape. The way Eli can turn any maths question into a story about dragons. The way Lachlan, mid-writing task, will suddenly wander into a theory about why the dog always picks the same patch of grass. The way Angus will ask a question that sounds like it came from a philosopher in a five year old’s body.

These are the moments that, if you blink, you miss.

And sitting here watching and writing, fresh coffee by my side, laptop on my lap, music playing softly in the background, I’m struck by how much of life’s beauty hides in plain sight. The world moves around us...trucks bringing in sand to the property up the road, rain on the roof, wind in the trees....and yet in here, the rhythm is our own.

It’s a rhythm I didn’t always have.

Most families don’t. The 9-to-5 grind has a way of swallowing whole weeks without warning. You get home from work, eat, clean up, get the kids ready for bed, and wonder where the day went. Weekends fill with sport, shopping, repairs, and catching up on all the things you couldn’t do during the week. You tell yourself, “It’ll be better next year,” or “I can’t wait for that holiday,” while quietly dreading Monday.

That used to be me.

But FIFO, for all its challenges, has given me something I never had before....time. Time in blocks big enough to breathe. Time to start the day slow, to set our own pace, to forget....sometimes....that this is rare.

Of course, I still fill my time with my own priorities and projects. I’m as guilty as anyone of getting caught up in the to-do list. But every now and then, I remember to stop. To sit in this makeshift living room with my kids and just notice the life happening around me.

These close quarters have brought us closer, literally and otherwise. We talk more because there’s no disappearing into separate corners of a sprawling house. We eat together because there’s one table. We argue and make up faster because there’s nowhere to sulk in peace.

And in between, there are these moments of quiet connection....like this one...where I’m not part of the conversation so much as an observer. Watching my boys interact. Listening to the easy ebb and flow of their voices. Feeling the warmth of their presence without needing to add anything to it.

It’s like watching a dance. Everyone knows the steps, even if they’re making them up as they go. And for a brief moment, I’m just sitting inside the music, smiling to myself, grateful for the tune.

This morning, I’m thankful. Thankful for the work that makes this life possible. Thankful for the woman I married, whose energy and vision shape our days in ways I can’t always see in the moment. Thankful for the six magnificent humans I’ve helped bring into the world.

Life is good....even when it’s not. And being alive and present, in the middle of it all, is a gift worth noticing.