by Mia Freedman
I quickly breastfeed Remy while distractedly trying to answer seventeen questions from my inquisitive daughter about life, the universe and Dora the Explorer. My mind is elsewhere and I try hard to wrestle it back. I’m already thinking about what I want to write today. Being present and appreciating the moment is still something I struggle with.
So is anxiety. From time to time I still return to my therapist when I feel like I need some help, when I feel overwhelmed or confused about something. I’m far better now at asking for help in all aspects of my life—emotional and practical. From our families, from my girlfriends and from Jason. It doesn’t quite come naturally yet and the words often stick in my throat, but the benefits of asking are manifold and the alternative sucks. I understand now that I just can’t do it alone. Sometimes even just saying ‘I’m not coping’ makes coping a little bit easier.
I hand over Remy to our beloved nanny, Mel, and he gives a delighted squeal. With Mel officially in charge of the kids for the day so I can write, I quickly scrub off my TV make-up, scrape my hair into a ponytail and emancipate my muffin from my fat-sucking underwear. Ah, sweet relief. I change into jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers and head to my desk with a giant cup of tea, the first of a hundred for the day. I begin writing my column, I post on my website, I trawl the internet for information and inspiration.
At lunchtime, I walk up the road to my local café, and while I wait for my sandwich to be toasted, I glance over at the pile of magazines. I feel mildly curious but mostly ambivalent. Once, I’d have descended on them hungrily. Now, I’ve become one of those people who absentmindedly flick through magazines in cafés, at supermarket checkouts and at the hairdresser. I will always have a great affection for magazines and enormous respect for the people who produce them. Mags were my first media love and I feel that kind of slightly wistful nostalgia you have when you think about past boyfriends
Many of my friends remain there. One of them, Bron, is getting married next weekend and Jason and I are looking forward to her wedding. In an uncanny echo of my relationship with Lisa, I first met Bron when I was editing Cosmo and she applied for the role of my PA. We clicked the moment she walked into my office and while I gave her the job almost instantly, I knew she was made for far bigger and better things. Over the next few years I promoted her to beauty editor and then editor of Dolly. With every promotion, she out-performed my highest expectations. A year or so after I left ACP, she was appointed editor of Cosmo and her first day on the job was…my birthday. In the cycle of mentoring and friendship I learned from Lisa and Pat, Bron is one of many women I was proud and lucky to nurture while I worked in magazines and one of only a handful to become a close friend as well.
I pay for my lunch and quickly walk back home to finish my column before deadline with the radio on and the sounds of Coco and Remy playing in the background.
As a woman and a Libra, I still struggle to find the elusive balance between work and family, socialising and solitude, writing about life and participating in it, and the million other things competing for my time and attention, inside and outside my head.
I am reminded once again of those people who spin plates on sticks. Women’s lives are a lot like that I think—spinning plates. Just when you think all the plates are stable, one wobbles and then suddenly four are teetering as another two crash to the ground. Occasionally, like today, I have brief flashes of contentment when I feel like all my plates are spinning at once. I know it’s fleeting, this sense of balance. It’s a day-by-day and sometimes moment-by-moment proposition. But on this day? At this moment? The plates are spinning and I smile.
THANKS
If writing a memoir is somewhat like having a baby (and it is—long gestation period, discomfort, confusion, weight gain, loss of inhibitions, indignity, joy and the desire for pain medication), there are so many people who helped me deliver this book and to whom I am so grateful.
Firstly, to Paula, Wendy and Kirsten, for listening to me vent, telling me when I’m being ridiculous, reading countless early drafts, making tea and soothing noises and being the most incredibly generous, patient, supportive, wise and inspirational women I know.
To my parents who have given me nothing but support and love and understanding, even during the times in my life when I’ve been a complete pain in the bum. Also to Lynn, Nita, John, Rod, Les, Joy, Mick and Beryl with love. And Marian. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
To Julian, for being the finest double godfather in the land. And to Nobby, Pete and Mike for your invaluable male perspectives.
To my cherished girlfriends Justine, Nikoll, Bron, Zoe, Maria, Amanda, Tessa, Sophia, Jackie, Sophie, Nicky, Lisa, Louise, Emma, Leila, Natalie, Vanessa, Sarah, Sonia, Tania and Nicole for your ongoing support and friendship. Our conversations colour every chapter of this book.
To Lisa Wilkinson and Pat Ingram, the best bosses and mentors I could have hoped for. To my agent, Tara, at Curtis Brown, who has calmly talked me out of the trees when necessary and is the most unflappable woman I know.
To Shona and Mel at HarperCollins, who have always had faith in me and understood what this book was going to be, even before I did. To my editor, Jo, for your kindness, patience and huge smarts. It’s not easy editing a former editor. You’ve taught me so much. And to Jane, publicity guru, for your inherent understanding and guidance when I’ve wanted to hide under my bed.
To all the readers of mamamia.com.au, who give me so much encouragement and read what I write every day.
On the home-front, enormous thanks to Melissa for enabling me to write this book knowing that my children are so well loved and cared for. And Gabby, you too.
To my three beautiful muses, Luca, Coco and Remy, for putting up with a mother who is so often writing inside her head and for giving me more joy and laughter than I thought possible. And finally, to Jason…one word…love.
ABOUT MIA
Mia Freedman became editor of Australian Cosmopolitan at the age of twenty-four—the youngest-ever person to edit the magazine in the world. She went on to become Editor-in-Chief of Cosmopolitan, Cleo and Dolly. She is a much sought-after commentator on television and radio, and currently writes a popular column for the Sun-Herald and the Sunday Age. She also has her own website and blog at mamamia.com.au
Mia lives in Sydney with her husband, three children, dog and two ducks.
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MORE MIA
If you’re keen to contact Mia, discuss her book and read more of her writing, head to mamamia.com.au
There, she writes every day about body image, motherhood, celebrities, relationships, fashion and pop culture and continues her quest to reassure women that whatever they’re feeling, they’re not alone.
Also by Mia Freedman
The New Black
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2009
This edition published in 2011
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Mia Freedman 2009
The right of Mia Freedman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Freedman, Mia.
Mama Mia: a memoir of mistakes, magazines and motherhood / Mia Freedman.
ISBN: 978 0 7322 9238 6 (pbk.)
ISBN: 978 0 7304 4992 8 (epub)
Freedman, Mia. Working mothers—Australia—Biography.
Periodical editors—Australia—Biography.
Women—Australia—Identity.
Parenting—Australia—Social aspects.
Motherhood—Australia—Psychological aspects.
Motherhood in popular culture—Australia.
306.8743092
Cover design and illustration by Natalie Winter