by Lauren Sams
Right before I went into labour with Pip, we’d gotten into a huge argument and I’d told Ellie that I wasn’t going to be the kind of mother she was – that is, totally consumed by her child. I still felt guilty about saying it, but as each day passed it became increasingly true. I loved Pip but she couldn’t be the only way I marked myself in the world. She couldn’t be the only thing that said, look at me, here I am. It was unfair to her and it was a lie. It wasn’t that she wasn’t enough to define me, she just wasn’t the only thing that did. And that’s OK. That’s normal.
Isn’t it?
‘It’s good to have a community, George. Having a newborn can be isolating. The days are long, and they’re repetitive. I mean, it’s amazing, don’t get me wrong, but it can be tough.’
There is a list of unspoken rules about mothering that everybody seemed to know – except me. The number one rule of the Motherhood Code was to never be outright negative about parenting. Sure, you could say that there were tough times, or that you had a shitty morning, but it always had to be tempered in some way. ‘Sure, he threw up on me seven times in a row before 7 am today, but you should have seen his face – soooo sweet! Makes you realise that it’s all worth it.’
‘I have a community – you. And Neen. And my mum. Jase. Kevin?’ Kevin, my mum’s husband (it felt odd to call him my stepfather – they got married when I was twenty-six) had welled up with tears when he’d laid eyes on my little girl, and planted a rose bush in her honour. At first I’d found that creepy – it was like she’d died – but now I thought of it as sweet.
Ellie nodded, staring intently at a hair-covered sultana she’d found on the carpet. ‘What is this? We’ve been off sugar for months. I can’t even remember the last time I bought sultanas . . .’ She glanced up at me and focused. ‘Look, it’s all well and good to have us, George, but you need people on your schedule. You need people who don’t work, who can hang out with you between naps. Because those days are going to be really, really long, George. They can be lonely. And you don’t want to turn into one of those women who does nothing but breastfeed and watch TV all day.’
‘That sounds amazing, Ellie. I would love to be one of those women.’
Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘No, you wouldn’t. Maybe for the first few weeks, but after that, you need structure. Naptimes. Bedtimes. Breastfeeding schedules. You can’t just laze around and wait for Nina to get home.’
So I went to mother’s group, and truth be told, it was not quite the seventh circle of hell I had imagined it to be.
The mothers were nice. But they all knew the Motherhood Code, and the main thing I felt when I was there was envy. They all seemed to have their mum personalities figured out. There was Organised Mum and Hipster Mum and Foodie Mum and Stylish Mum. They had opinions on co-sleeping and formula feeding and even private versus public school. They talked about discipline tactics they would use in the future and they knew how they felt about smacking and outdoor play and organic food. I didn’t understand it; they had been doing this for as little time as I had – how had they figured it out already? I didn’t feel comforted, like Ellie had said I would, or part of a community. I felt judged and inferior, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how these women had cracked the code of something I found so bloody hard.
I was jealous of the young mums because, god, it had to be easier doing all this in your twenties, right? It would make the sleepless nights more restful, the never-ending days seem less like work. At the very least, they’d have to be less jaded.
I was jealous, for obvious reasons, of the women who wore activewear almost exclusively and made it look good. I was still in my maternity clothes, mainly out of laziness but also because of a pouch of flub that refused to budge. What was their secret? Drugs? Surgery? Some sort of powerful laxative tea made from illegal substances like rhino horns? I was willing to at least read a pamphlet about whatever it was.
I was jealous of the mums, no more experienced than I was, who seemed far more at ease with their new role. I doubt any of them had to be taught, by a nurse, how to hold their new baby. I mean, what could come more naturally than holding your own child? A lot of things, apparently, if you are me.
But now, it was over. This was my last mother’s group. Next week, when the mums sat down to coffee and banana bread, I’d be in a meeting or checking my emails or editing copy. I couldn’t wait.
We’d started mother’s group in the local clinic, with a tall, excessively confident woman named Sharon who, by way of introduction, got us to share our birth stories not five minutes after we had met. Another commandment of the Motherhood Code: never abbreviate a birth story. That particular meeting went for three hours as twenty women described, in excruciating detail, the journey their babies made from uterus to hospital bed.
Now we were on our own, and met at a cafe every Wednesday morning for decaf lattes and attempted conversation.
‘Hey, George!’ they all sing-songed as I rushed in, late as usual. I waved back and forced my biggest smile. How did they all manage to get out the door so easily? To me, it was an obstacle course, my own mini-Tough Mudder (with similar amounts of disgusting fluids) to be reckoned with daily.
I sat down next to Harriet, my favourite, who signalled to the waitress that I would need a coffee. Like me, Harriet was making it up as she went along. She was sort of Hot Mess Mum. The difference was, Harriet rolled with it with unbreakable chirpiness. She was a bubble that could not be burst. She didn’t worry about what other people thought, which was confusing and refreshing. It also defied the Motherhood Code, which I loved.
‘Hey! How are you? Hi, Pippa!’ Harriet peered down at my chest, where Pippa was lying, strapped into the Ergobaby. Six months in and it still took me ten minutes to do it up.
Pippa cooed back at Harriet, her gummy smile sending rivulets of spit down her chin and onto my top. There were no two ways about it, I had given birth to a dribbler. The first couple of times Pip had released a torrent of her own saliva on me, I’d committed to changing my shirt. But then it started to happen five times a day and I ran out of tops. So now I just stuck the blow-dryer on it and went about my business. I had officially become disgusting. Worse, I didn’t even care.
‘Hi, Harriet,’ I said, wiping Pippa’s chin with a napkin. ‘How are you?’
‘Great, thanks,’ she smiled. ‘Well, you know. I was up all night with this one, but what can you do? I think he might be teething.’
Harriet’s baby, Charlie, was the biggest baby I had ever seen. You know how some people can estimate how big dogs will grow to be from the size of their feet as pups? Well, you knew Charlie was going to be a bruiser when you saw the size of his head. He totally owned his Giant Baby status, too. Charlie was the noisiest one, the one who needed to touch all the things, to be seen and heard. I liked him a lot.
‘Oh no. God, I hope Pip never gets teeth. I am not prepared for all that,’ I said. ‘Strong decaf flat white, please,’ I added, to the waitress.
‘Strong decaf?’ She raised a single brow, her pen hovering hesitantly over her little notebook.
I nodded. ‘Yes please. I need decaf –’ I pointed to Pip by way of explanation ‘– but I really like the taste. Strong decaf, please.’
She nodded grudgingly – how dare I come up with my own coffee order, just like everybody else did, every single day?
‘I hate this place,’ I whispered to Harriet. ‘Why do we come here? It’s so overpriced and the staff are such hipster shitheads.’
She laughed and nodded. ‘That is why we come here,’ she said, cocking her head towards Jane, the self-appointed president of mother’s group.
Jane. Jane was Organised Mum and Involved Mum and Stylish Mum, all rolled into one. Jane was to mothering what Kobe Bryant was to basketball: she just did it better than anyone else. There wasn’t much point trying to keep up with her – she was far and away more competent than I’d ever be. I could picture Jane, ten years from now, running the P&C and hand-sewing
her kids’ ballet costumes and Instagramming their nutritionally-balanced-but-still-delicious lunch boxes. Jane was born to be a mother, born to lead the other mums, born to choose where we all drank overpriced coffee.
I didn’t dislike Jane. She was really lovely, if I’m honest, and had, on more than one occasion, given me exceptionally useful (if unsolicited) advice. She taught me how to settle Pippa after a feed (newsflash: babies cannot burp on their own) and how to swaddle her so her arms wouldn’t come out ten seconds after I put her down.
But like decaf coffee or Zooey Deschanel’s music career, there was something about her I just couldn’t fully embrace.
I rolled my eyes at Harriet and smiled.
‘Hey, my mother-in-law bought me these cute little bibs for Charlie. I’ll give you one for Pip, it’ll help with the dribbling.’ She reached down into her bag and fished around, producing a triangular floral bib. ‘Not sure why she bought flowers for a boy – here you go.’
‘Are you sure?’
Harriet nodded vehemently. ‘Of course. Think of it as a back-to-work present.’
I smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, love.’
As the waitress deposited my coffee on the table, Jane tapped her empty cup with a spoon, bringing the mums (and some of the more alert babies) to attention.
She cleared her throat and looked my way. Oh geez.
‘George and Pip, we know this is your last day with us at the best mother’s group in the world –’ pause for smiles and laughter ‘– and we are so sad that you have to go back to work. But we will all keep in touch because we need to see this little one –’ she pointed to Pip ‘– and when we can all have a glass of wine again, we’ll need to organise a mummas’ night out!’
More smiles, laughter, nodding of heads. I stifled an uncharitable groan.
‘Anyway, we will definitely miss you, George. You’ve become a really great friend –’ had I? ‘– and we wanted to give you a little something to make going back to work easier.’
I smiled. I had to admit, the world needed women like Jane. Women who remembered to buy the presents and celebrate the occasions and maintain friendships in real ways.
‘Thanks, guys . . . you didn’t need to do that. It’s so sweet, but, honestly, I didn’t expect anything at all.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ said Min, her teeny-tiny premmie strapped to her chest. ‘It’s the least we could do. We feel awful about you having to go back!’ The words stung like a slap – why did they feel awful about me going back to work? All of their husbands were back at work, why couldn’t I work, too?
Next to her, Irish Katie (a nickname I had given her on the first day, when I struggled to remember my own child’s name, let alone anyone else’s), nodded. ‘It’s not going to be the same without you, George. We’ll miss you and wee Pip.’
Jane beamed as she handed me a beautifully wrapped box.
‘Thanks, everyone, this is so lovely,’ I said, unwrapping it. Inside were bags and bags of . . . tea?
‘It’s lactation tea,’ Jane offered. ‘In case your supply goes down when you go back to work. Just a little something to make life easier.’
I forced a smile. ‘Wow, great idea. Thank you. Thanks, guys, this is a really thoughtful gift.’
And it was. But I couldn’t help but think that this thoughtful gift also came with a side serving of guilt.
‘How’re you feeling about going back?’ Katie asked.
‘I feel OK. It’ll be hard, I think, but manageable,’ I said, lying through my teeth. I felt ecstatic. But I couldn’t admit that here – major breach of the Motherhood Code.
I love Pip. Of course I do. (Motherhood Code: anything remotely negative must be prefaced by ‘I love my child’.) But as I suspected long before having a child of my own to take care of, I did not love the monotony of being with her every single day. Each day was exactly the same as the one before it, give or take an explosive poo. I hated the struggle of getting her down for her naps, a twice-daily routine that set my teeth on edge and my heart racing as Pip screamed for me to pick her up. I had no idea what I was doing, and yet I had to be in control – I had a baby to take care of, for god’s sake.
There were moments of brightness, of course. Moments that made the drudgery less dreary, like when Pip would suddenly stop in the middle of a screaming fit, open her eyes wide as if to say, ‘What the hell is going on here?’, smile and nestle into me, falling asleep instantly. Or when she would reach out and tenderly touch the pages of Guess How Much I Love You, as if she understood the words. (Genius!) Or when she would gurgle at me through a porridge-y mouth, or bang on her high chair with her tiny fat fists as I walked away – only to break into a grin when I turned back. When her personality shone through, I was captivated. I made this? How?
But those moments were like full moons – I knew they would come around eventually, but they sure did take their sweet time. You had to go through the entire gamut of emotions, hours and hours and hours of them – before those shiny baubles of beauty arrived. I was sick of cleaning up spit and coughed-up milk. I was sick of feeling my arm grow leaden as I rubbed Pip’s back so she would finally (finally, please!) go down for her morning nap. I was sick of tiptoeing into my own bedroom with the stealth and panic of a mouse for fear of waking her.
I needed a break.
So I was going back to work.
‘Will Jason help out much?’ asked Jane. Good question, Jane. Good question.
My ex-boyfriend had responded to fatherhood much as I knew he would: with limited-time-only enthusiasm. His biggest contribution so far had been dressing Pip up in a yellow Tour de France onesie and staging a photo shoot with her. He couldn’t quite believe it when, after twenty minutes of having a DSLR in her face, she started bawling and would not stop. Until that moment, I think Jase believed his daughter was an actual doll. He had the gall to ask me, ‘Has she ever done this before?’
‘He’s going to help with daycare pick-ups,’ I lied, ‘and when Pip gets a little older she might spend a day a week with him.’
Harriet cocked her head in confusion, knowing the truth. I shrugged. Jase had not offered to help at all, but it was easier for people to think he was being the father I needed him to be.
The truth was, I didn’t trust Jase to do much. While I had been learning a new language, acquiring the skills I needed to take care of Pippa, Jase had been living exactly as he had before. My life had experienced a seismic shift, but Jase’s had barely been nudged. He had scoffed at me when I suggested I might need to go to Tresillian with Pip because she didn’t seem to have an off switch. ‘It can’t be that bad, George. Just ride it out,’ he had said, as if raising a newborn was one of his bloody cool-downs, blithely unaware of the flare of my nostrils. He had no idea how difficult life with a baby could be.
‘That’s great!’ said Jane. ‘You’ve got it all figured out, George. I honestly don’t know how you’re doing it. You’re so calm. I’d be a complete wreck.’ She was lying and we all knew it. Jane had never once been a wreck, not a single time in her life.
I shrugged again.
‘It’s true!’ said Min. ‘I’d be stressed out of my mind. But you’re just so on top of everything, George. I mean, I haven’t even read a book since Alex was born, and you’re starting this amazing new job. You’re our Sheryl Sandberg.’
The whole table laughed and I joined in. I wasn’t Sheryl Sandberg, of course, but maybe I was the closest thing they had. I didn’t understand their collective lack of ambition, the way they desired nothing more than to stay at home with their babies. Weren’t they bored? Weren’t they tempted to run for the nearest bus every time they heard the Yo Gabba Gabba theme song? Weren’t they ready for a glass of wine by 11 every morning?
They weren’t. But I was. So what was wrong with me?
Chapter 2
The crying was the worst part. Of course I knew that babies cry, but I didn’t realise you couldn’t block it out. I didn’t realise how long they could cry fo
r (forever, seemingly) or how loud their cries could be (somewhere between monster truck and Kris Jenner shouting at Rob). I didn’t realise there were different types of cries for different shades of rage, or that there were times when absolutely nothing would calm them. For the first brief, few glorious days of Pip’s life, she had (quite unfairly, I feel) lulled me into a false sense of hope and not cried once. Now, any time I attempted to settle her, she screamed and screamed like she’d just seen Donald Trump take his weave out. I was baffled. What had happened? What had I done wrong? How did anyone put up with this long enough to get to the ‘out’ part of ‘cry it out’?
I was running out of analogies to describe how I felt about the whole thing. It was a puzzle I couldn’t find all the pieces for. It was a marathon I hadn’t trained for. An obstacle course that never ended. An exam without answers.
The second – the very, actual second – I began to feel that I was finally getting a handle on just one aspect of this gig, something would change. I’d finally perfect the way I held Pip as I fed her, only to find her wriggling away from me the next moment. I’d manage to put her down for her morning nap without a struggle, but as soon as I crossed the threshold of the door, she’d be wide awake, as if she’d successfully micronapped for, oh, point-ten-of-a-second and didn’t need to sleep any longer. I would figure out the intricate origami of swaddling her only to see her little fist pump out, Jesse Owens-style, ten seconds later. It was a game I could not win.
I’d lost count of how many people told me to ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’. As if. It’s the second biggest lie you can tell a mother. (The first is ‘don’t worry, you can’t break them’. What a lie! They didn’t know that. I might break Pip. What about that plant they told me wouldn’t die? Dutifully, I never watered it – and it withered away to crumbly brown tendrils.)
Sleep? I had shit to do when my baby finally napped. Life had not stopped because I had given birth. In fact, it had sped up. But every time I counted on Pippa to sleep through something – coffee with Harriet and Irish Katie, a walk to the shops, a phone call with Mum – she’d invariably pick that one nap time as the one she was deadset on skipping. And not just skipping – she’d wail through, puncturing the air with her screams, making conversation – not to mention dignity – impossible. It made organising anything a struggle of mind-bending proportions. I’d always have to sift through the various scenarios: if she slept, I’d need to put her in her pram, bring a blanket and try to avoid noise. So I’d have to walk the long way to the shops, where you couldn’t hear the road-works, and then I’d have to choose the stores that didn’t blare muzac at you as you decided how many mandarins you could afford that week. If she didn’t sleep, I could get there quicker but I’d have to find things to entertain her. I’d have to pack a buggy book and maybe a rattle for her to throw on the floor approximately every ten seconds. And if she got hungry before we got home, we’d have to find a place to feed, somewhere quiet so she wouldn’t jerk her head back every time someone ordered a skim latte, revealing to everyone to the exact circumference and shade of my post-partum nipples (larger than a 50-cent piece and the exact shade of Ribena).