When my siblings and I were kids, we were undoubtedly a handful.

My dad worked around the clock, so it was my mum’s job to ensure my youngest sister was looked after, I was dropped off at kinder, my oldest sister was dropped at primary school and my brother was dropped in high school.

The car rides home were loud, as you can imagine. Four chatty kids all fighting to be heard over one another, each with our own stories about our days and our teachers and our friends, each urgently requiring our mother’s attention.

She was patient with us all, and listened tentatively to all of us jabber until we pulled into the driveway.

When we all got older, we asked where she found the tolerance to lend an ear to our bickering and anticlimactic stories, to the sounds that would fill the car and unequivocally give anyone a headache.

She smiled.

“It’s called selective hearing, I only hear what I want to hear”.