Leaving Ireland felt like being cast as a member on Alone. The training wheels were off, and it was just the two of us.
I’m famously stubborn when it comes to luggage. Unless absolutely necessary, I refuse to pay for a checked-in bag. This character flaw (or strength?) is truly tested in Europe where they’ve started charging for anything that doesn’t fit below the seat. I came to my senses just before booking and caved (slightly) — four weeks in unpredictable weather couldn’t fit “under the seat in front of you.” I bought one 10kg bag that was allowed in the overhead compartment, selfishly squishing Méabh’s clothes into a small backpack. At this point, it’s become a game between the airline and me — just how far will she go to not pay for any of the extras? At home, I always win, but on this flight, I was forced to not only pay for luggage but also buy a $5 protein ball for the hungry hippo sitting next to me.
Which brings us to the fjord-land escape of Norway, and the remote wilds of its southern peninsula — our first Workaway.
Options for Workaway exchanges are endless if you’re an adult — single or in a couple. But finding a host for a solo parent with their three-and-a-half-year-old? It felt like Tinder — and we were being swiped left. Carefully pitching ourselves as honest, hard-working Aussies (complete with an independent, self-entertaining toddler who definitely doesn’t have tantrums, demand constant attention, or eat anyone out of house and home), we hoped that with some luck, we’d find a match. And so it was: a Norwegian family of four were delighted to host the unconventional duo.
Luckily, we were picked up from the airport by our host — because after Méabh had just broken her Elsa drink bottle, I was not in the mood to navigate Norwegian transport with a toddler in tow.
Living forty minutes from Oslo on Nesodden — a peninsula between the Oslofjord and Bunnefjorden — our temporary home awaited. Nestled between pine forests, which I can only imagine is a winter’s delight, their home looked like it belonged on a Scandinavian postcard. The contrast between the wooden cabin-style house, uncut green grass, and tall timber trees would have made it my dream home in winter. In summer, the pollen count and itchy eyes may have dulled the beauty slightly — but it remained wonderfully magical all the same. On the last day, I could’ve easily been mistaken for Sneezy — Snow White’s favourite dwarf — had it not been for my tall stature.
Our hosts? Once free-spirited, well-travelled hippies — now laid-back family folk, living peacefully among the lush forest landscape. Several wooden buildings made up their home — small huts with grass-covered roofs, where I half-expected to see a goat munching on top each day. Our abode, separate from the main house, was a spacious traditional yurt.
The joy of travel lies in finding connection where lives are worlds apart. Life at home is busy, aggressively social, fast-paced — lived among the skyscrapers (Adelaide’s version). Where we embrace a pragmatic, no-frills lifestyle, our hosts, by contrast, lived guided by a more spiritual practice — admirable, but a far cry from the daily gym sessions, flat whites, and smashed avocado of Croydon Park.
Over the years of mental health nursing, when empathy fatigue was high, I mastered the art of “smiling and nodding” during conversations that were perhaps… adjacent to my beliefs. In this case, I smiled at dinner time when blessings were sung. Méabh laughed — I’ll teach her tact one day.
Two weeks were spent on the property, with very little exposure to the outside world, apart from the 100GB of data I used to watch Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders at night. Our host family opted for a more grounded lifestyle, rather than pursuing the daily grind. The mum and children (aged 5.5 and 2.5 years old) spent most of their days at home. In my entire life, I’ve probably only spent Adelaide’s “wild” three-day lockdown completely at home, so staying put was moderately uncomfortable for me.
Mornings began with the usual greeting of “I’m hungry,” from my bottomless-pit toddler. Waking up in sweat in the cosy yurt, we were met with the sun high in the sky, fully illuminated at 6am.
Never fully relaxed, but never rushed either, it felt vastly different to home. Where a flat white had touched my lips by 7am after sweating it out at the gym, here, the pace was slower. A selfless side of me surfaced — one I thought had long escaped. Filtered coffee provided the fuel I needed to throw myself into performative play, with quarrelling children, and unload and reload the dishwasher an abnormal number of times.
TV and sugar were limited to “occasionally” in this household — which meant Méabh, fresh from being unapologetically spoilt by her grandparents in Ireland, was likely experiencing screen and sugar withdrawals. Naturally, I was determined to strictly enforce these healthy habits following our Workaway. Then I remembered I’m parenting solo while backpacking through Europe with a toddler — and that idea was swiftly thrown out the metaphorical window.
Evenings were spent enjoying a shared meal, often outside, in the high northern sun, before wind-down saw a 5.5, 3.5, and naked 2.5 year-old in the yurt’s bed reading English fairytales. Thankfully, and likely saving my sanity, Méabh is a lover of sleep and drifts off early. This leaves me enjoying much-needed solitude in the home of the midnight sun.
Challenges included an overflowing compost toilet and smiling through gritted teeth as the eldest child informed me that the brown bread wasn’t “that healthy.” Méabh showed her stubborn nature (or was she just being a toddler?) by refusing to drink from the purple cup, and I witnessed tears from their daughter when I said no to purchasing an $18 sticker book at the supermarket — on the occasion I escaped the commune.
Lessons learnt included patience, patience, and more patience. I also learnt that I can keep a kitchen tidy — and, in fact, that I need it to be tidy. In a house of chaos and disorder, I realised I like neither. I discovered a very subtle Type A personality trait in myself that I’d never really known existed. I also discovered that my tolerance for theatrics in kids is so extremely low that I’m judging myself, and that my next career will not be one in childcare. I learnt that no matter where your beliefs lie — whether you’re into homeschooling, God, or Jesus himself — your life is infinitely better when you let your child watch TV without guilt. Finally, I learnt I have a wonderfully resilient, adaptable, and forgiving toddler who makes this motherhood journey (that I still am utterly confused about) that much easier.
We made it to Oslo once, via ferry, on our day off where I spent an astronomical amount on coffee, a pastry, and apple juice. My relationship with money when a) travelling and b) with a toddler fluctuates. Knowing Scandinavia is outrageously expensive, I had no choice but to adopt a “ah, fuck it” mode as I tapped my card on the EFTPOS machine. Once, I bought less food for myself, knowing Méabh wouldn’t finish hers. Sadly, she was onto me — and when I stealthily stole some of her chips, she yelled, “Don’t do that ever again! I’ll tell Daddy if you do it twice!”
Spending time with this family forced me to move at a snail’s pace and see motherhood through a different lens. It was challenging but fruitful; I learnt more about myself and my girl.
I’d still spend upwards of five euros on a flat white in some eccentric or modern café and cram three activities into one day. The backdrop to my life would still be beyond the home. The adrenaline of that busy lifestyle is still something I crave. And eating out or ordering takeaway would never become dull. But perhaps, days with my toddler at home weren’t so bad after all.
