Making the Right Decision

The Man and I were at a really bad place in our relationship when we decided to give our old life the flick and start from new.
'The farm' became our hope and saviour.
To anyone else in SA a 'farm' or 'property' is usually a stretch of spinifex-studded sand bigger than Tasmania.
To us, it was two little blocks of land looking over miles and miles of wheatfields all the way out to the Flinders Ranges – The Man's favourite place in the whole world.
At childcare and kindy The Kids would talk incessantly about 'the farm'.
If they saw pictures in a book they'd point out farmers, dungarees and tractors.
I didn't have the heart to point out to them that it would be more a case of gardeners, straw hats and a push-mower.
They just don't put those kind of pictures in board books about 'careers'.
Here we were, the capitalist children of hippies, servicemen and hoons trying to balance careers and self-sufficiency - it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 'Old MacDonald'.
While I was slugging away on production weekends at the paper, The Man would pack up a trailer full of books or furniture, throw The Kids in the car and drive the four and a half hours to 'the farm'.
I didn't get there as often but I knew we'd made the right decision when, two months before leaving, I ran away with The Family for a weekend at 'the farm' and discovered The Kids hadn't even touched the boxes of toys we'd taken down and the TV was only tuned in to SBS and ABC - and even they were snowy.