I should have known to turn around–and part of me did at least, as I watched car after car head the wrong way down the one-way slip near our house. One of them even approached me with a lowered window in the driving rain, its owner attempting to say something as I angrily drove past all the people breaking the rules on this dreary morning.

As we approached the curve ahead, the water’s depth grew, and I finally saw what was redirecting traffic: a fallen tree at the top of the hill. I pointed it out to the boys, who responded with approximately seven thousand questions (most beginning with Why), and turned around myself. That day would go on to be one of the stormiest in Sydney’s recent history, with mass erosion on the beachfronts and flooding of businesses and homes.

And the thing is, we could see it coming. The weather reports didn’t forget to warn us, didn’t neglect to recognise that a storm was on its way. There are just some times when preparations are in vain, when you can’t do anything until after the storm hits.

This blog used to be graced by a header photo of me and a nearly-two-year-old version of The Kid, sitting on the beach in Seaside, Florida, he with his characteristic pre-surgical head tilt and I with a beer on the other side of me. We were facing the water, its waves lapping before us, while a collection of dark grey clouds loomed above and ahead of us. I took it a bit literally, knowing as I did that TK’s surgery was approaching and that he should really be talking by then. I hoped those clouds didn’t include another chemical pregnancy and setback to our hoped-for-family of four. My second grandmother had just passed away, and those clouds carried grief within their billows. On the beach that day, though, all we could do was wait: wait for the storm to hit, then pass.

This year in Sydney has been more of Real Life. Gone was the idyllic kindergarten year for TK, with its constant triumphs and perfect teacher. His treasured therapist moved on, and we approached his Year One hesitantly. So much change, again. The year brought teacher woes but, still, victories. Another wonderful therapist. Some exclusions, as is typical with age, but new friends in his circle as well. New ones in mine too, more Fridays full of playdates and champagnes, more hangovers and wondering over drinking habits, more weight gained as comfort grew. A new church after a sabbatical. Another new house, dammit.

We’re rounding the corner on our second year here, approaching our third, and besides the house, we’ve capped it off in our traditional way, with LB’s and TK’s birthday parties. TK’s was this past weekend, in the house we just left: empty of furniture but full of people; a bounce house out front and water games in the back and beer and bubbles inside. This year has both flown by and felt like a marathon. It’s had more cloudy days, metaphorically speaking, but deeper and fuller ones. More serious talks over the wine glasses–but serious talks are my favourite kind–the ones that hold both laughter and tears are really the only ones worth having, I think.

I didn’t see TK or LB for most of the party–they were busy running around with their friends. Last year, when everyone started singing to TK, he hilariously ran around the corner to avoid the attention. This time, he merely covered his face partially with his arm, not enough, though, to hide the grin that stretched across his features. He clung to me, but loosely. He has come so fucking far.

I’m in awe of this boy who has undergone multiple knives, countless waiting rooms, MRI machines and offices; who has moved across the world and through three houses, who sees the world through lenses I’ll never fully have and deals with obstacles I’ll never fully understand and rises to meet every challenge in ways I’ll never fully know. I’m in awe of his brother, who waits patiently for his brother in waiting rooms and cars, who repeats himself when TK doesn’t hear him the first time and asks TK to repeat himself when he doesn’t understand (“I don’t know what you’re saying, buddy”), who cracks jokes with an ability beyond his years. I’m in awe of their dad, whom they recently have taken to calling Jason, and how he’s led us, because of his hard work and irreplacability, to this new home, to three houses, each better in some way than the last, to views I never imagined. I’m in awe of the grace that has been in charge the whole time, grey clouds and sun, storms and their aftermaths.

I’m tired because we just moved and because my stomach is cramping with a virus TK likely passed onto me. I’m emotional because it’s the Christmas season and with the hot weather here, I’m playing carols nonstop to make me remember. I’m reflective because it’s the end of another year here–another year away from family and so many friends, and another year embedded among more friends. Also, I have to pee and I’m holding it in, and I’m trying to avoid unpacking. There’s a lot going on.

On TK’s trip to the art gallery a few weeks ago, I was drawn to a colourful painting and read the card beside it, which described the artist’s “theory of colour harmonisation based on analogies between colours of the spectrum and notes of the musical scale.” Which, to me, is a fancy way of saying that there harmony exists because of the differences–in colours, in notes, in people–not in spite of them. Spectrum is obviously a fraught word for me but I often forget how there are so many different examples of it around us. As one of my favourite, yet somehow also strangely terrible in hindsight, Christmas movies might say (paraphrase): spectrums actually are all around us.

This is good news for me as I slow to a walk, stomach cramping, around the harbour behind our (new, again) house and see some clouds gathering to the west. There could be a storm coming: in my bathroom? In the sky? In life? But once you emerge on the other side of enough storms, you develop this weird ability…to see past them.