by Lauren Sams
I was not Olivia Pope. I was not handling it.
By stark and ironic contrast, Nina handled it beautifully. In between nightly Tinder dates and swiping right on essentially any man under forty without facial hair, Nina settled Pip as she wailed, patting her tummy gently and knowingly, running on pure instinct. She talked to her easily, something I found odd and difficult. What was I meant to say to a six-month-old? What did we have in common? Did she really want to hear about Lemonade? Nina effortlessly narrated her actions to Pip: ‘I’m just going to pop your nappy on now,’ ‘Let Aunty Nina put a bit of Sudocrem on your bottom,’ ‘OK, I’m wrapping you up nice and cosy for bedtime.’ She knew what she was doing and I had no idea how. It felt like the day I’d been sick in primary school and missed the lesson on long division. Now I was thirty-five and still didn’t know how to divide 450 by 7.
Even Jase, when he was there, seemed to be, at the very least, comfortable with Pip. He picked her up with ease, held her close and rocked her as he sang from the Vampire Weekend oeuvre. A few times she had drifted off to a deep, peaceful sleep as he did this, leaving me slack-jawed and overwhelmed with jealousy. I had to put Pip to sleep twice a day, every day, and even now, most of the time I gave up and just lay down with Pip until she fell into slumber.
And the worst part was, everyone could see how at ease Jase was with Pip. Of course I wanted him to feel comfortable with her, but I felt like it was happening at my expense. At her ‘head-wetting’, every guest just about masturbated over how ‘great’ Jase was, how ‘hands-on’ he seemed, how ‘lucky’ I was to have him.
It was Jase’s idea, of course, to ‘wet the head’.
‘What?’ I asked, confused. Pip’s head was already wet; she never stopped bloody dribbling.
‘Wet the head, George. It’s a tradition. You got a baby shower, so the dad gets to wet the head.’
‘Actually, I didn’t have a baby shower.’
He paused.
‘Well . . . we can do it together. Wet the head together.’
‘Mmm . . . what is it, exactly?’
‘I don’t know. A piss-up, I think.’
‘Alright.’
So we invited our friends and family (including Jase’s mum, who insisted on calling Pip ‘Phil’ for reasons entirely unknown to us) to the pub down the road and Jase raised a teary toast to his firstborn. It was quite sweet, but I was infuriated by what the toast implied: that Jase had done more than buy a pram and help Nina build a cot for Pip (and truth be told, Nina did most of the building). That he was there, night in and out, to help settle her. That he knew what it was like to listen to her cry for close to an hour and feel helpless because he couldn’t calm her down. Everyone but me cheered as he recounted Pip’s birth story – which he only knew second-hand – and raised a glass as he talked about the way he fell for her instantly and how much he loved being a dad.
Of course he loves being a dad, I thought. He gets all the fun bits. The easy stuff.
Afterwards, in between Jase’s mum Tracey asking me approximately every 2.5 seconds when we were going to baptise ‘Phil’ (never), almost every guest made a special trip my way to tell me how great Jase was. Actually, they didn’t tell me: they asked me, then expected me to agree.
‘Isn’t he great?’
‘Wasn’t that a great speech?’
‘He’s such a great dad, isn’t he?’
Nobody told me I was such a great mum.
Even the other mums at mother’s group, who had only been mothers as long as I had, were better at it. Harriet was so relaxed and at ease with Charlie, it was like she had been his mum her whole life. Nothing was a bother, nothing was too much trouble. Charlie was a baby like any other, in that he frequently spewed and often cried and sometimes shat his pants, but Harriet just dealt with it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that she’d given birth to Charlie with nary more than a sneeze, after which bluebirds flew down to sit on her shoulder.
And while nobody could call Jane relaxed, at least she knew what she was doing. If Harriet’s parenting was defined by calm, Jane’s was about assertion. Jane was a pack leader, determined to steer Evie away from any danger and mould her into an organic food-eating, Tchaikovsky-listening, Margaret Atwood-reading adult (who happened to have a medical degree and an MBA). She had memorised What to Expect in the First Year. She knew the safest way to feed, hold, sleep, walk. It was Jane who’d explained to me how to check rashes for signs of meningitis and how to tell a normal cough from whooping cough. She’d told me about the night GP and the breastfeeding hotline and Tresillian. She knew everything, I knew nothing.
I had never been so bad at a job before. If I was getting paid, I’d have been fired by now. Maybe I had some potential, but I certainly wasn’t living up to it. I was putting in the hours, sure, but I wasn’t getting results.
On Pip’s four-month-birthday, the pressure valve cracked. Like every day that had preceded it, it had been very long. But it wasn’t a bad day, not entirely. The house was a mess but I had grown used to that. Pip had had two short, fitful naps, but at least she had slept. She’d thrown up on my clothes twice but I’d managed to handle it. Things would get better, I kept telling myself. It’s not always going to be like this. I didn’t quite believe it but I couldn’t afford to contemplate the alternative.
While Pip was down for her afternoon nap, I threw piles of washing in the machine and then hung them out. I washed the dishes and tidied the piles of magazines that covered the kitchen table. I straightened corners and put away the general detritus that Nina managed to ignore by virtue of almost always being on a date. I made a cup of tea and drank it when it was still a little bit warm. It was forty-five minutes of victory and it felt good.
It was Wednesday: bin night. I calculated Pip’s nap time – I probably had five minutes to throw the recycling in the bin and take it to the street. Then everything would be done. The house would be clean – in a relative sense, anyway. I could not control anything about my child, but I could control this.
I listened for any sound of Pip rousing. Nothing. Phew. Maybe – maybe – when I got back from doing the recycling, I’d be able to sit down by myself for a few minutes. The thought was both tantalising and ridiculous. How had I got to the point where sitting on my arse for more than sixty seconds was something to get excited about?
The bin was close to full with baby-product packaging and the bottles of wine Nina had begun to plough through with astonishing speed. I added some old magazines – ‘Bruce and Kris more in love than ever!’ – and a few more wine bottles. When had Nina found the time to drink these?
Eileen’s bin, however, was near empty. Eileen was our neighbour, the kind you could count on to know exactly who’d been walking down our street at 3.37 pm the previous day. She’d add little details like what they were wearing and carrying and if they looked ‘a bit shifty’. She would have made an ace reporter. Or private eye.
Of course Eileen’s bin was empty, because Eileen must have been eighty if she was a day. How many bottles of blackberry nip could you get through at that point? I snuck round to her bin and shoved our surplus cardboard in. Done. I might get my few minutes of peace.
‘Georgina?’
I spun around. ‘Hello, Eileen! How are you?’
She raised her very thin eyebrows at me. ‘What are you doing, Georgina?’
‘Um, just putting the recycling out. Bin night!’
She narrowed her eyes as her mouth became a slit. ‘I can see that. You’re using my bin.’
‘Oh, well.’ I paused. Did it matter? How could it? Eileen crossed her arms and stared at me, awaiting a response. Scratch the reporter vibe – she was a high-school principal through and through. ‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But . . . it’s bin night. And ours is full. So –’
‘I know what your bin is full of,’ she said, her voice sharp and high. ‘Alcohol.’
I cleared my throat. My time on the couch w
as slipping away. If I didn’t leave now, I wouldn’t get it. Not today, and maybe not for a long time. I had to seize this opportunity.
I began to back away.
‘Yes, there are a few bottles in there,’ I said, trying to be playful and casual. Ha ha ha, Eileen, we’re all friends here. ‘But, um . . . the bins are going out tonight, so it’s no big deal. Thanks Eileen! Let me know if you need anything from the shops tomorrow! Happy to pop down for you.’
‘It’s a big deal to me. Get your rubbish out of my bin.’
‘Are you serious?’
Eileen stared.
‘You want me to take my rubbish out of your bin?’
More staring.
‘You’re serious.’
She nodded, motioning towards the bin as if to say, ‘Get a move on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s not your bin. It’s mine. It’s for my rubbish.’
Now I stared. She couldn’t be serious. It was fucking rubbish, for fuck’s sake.
‘But . . . your bin is empty and our bin is full. And technically, the bins belong to the council, so . . . I think it’s fine. And they’re going out tonight anyway. I really don’t see what the big deal is, Eileen.’
She scoffed. ‘I pay my council rates, it’s my bin. Not yours. Kindly take your rubbish and leave.’
I felt my chest begin to tighten. Was this woman serious? I was doing all the right things – I cleaned the house, I did the washing, I was recycling for god’s sake – and all I wanted was 120 seconds of silence and alone time. And this woman was taking it away from me.
‘No.’
Eileen’s mouth formed a shocked O.
‘Excuse me, young lady?’
Secretly thrilled at being called a young lady for the first time in fifteen years, I nonetheless rolled my eyes. ‘Eileen, it’s rubbish. It will be gone by tomorrow morning. Calm down. I’m not taking it out. I have to go back to my baby now. Goodbye.’
‘Now you listen to me!’ she yelled. ‘Get back here and take that rubbish out!’
‘Or what?’ I snapped, exasperated. ‘It’s just bloody rubbish, Eileen. I need to get back to Pip.’
‘Don’t you swear at me, young lady.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘I’m not a young lady, Eileen. And you’re not in charge of me, or anyone. It’s rubbish.’
I heard her huff with indignation. ‘You are a very, very rude young lady, Georgina. If this happens again I’ll have no choice but to call the police.’
From inside, I heard Pip begin to cry. It was all over. Two minutes. That was all I’d wanted. Just two minutes that were just for me, that weren’t hijacked by another tiny person’s needs. And now my two minutes were gone.
I spun around. ‘You know what, Eileen? Go –’ I was vertiginously close to telling an eighty-year-old woman to go fuck herself. What was wrong with me?
Eileen peered at me, ready to pounce on whatever came out of my mouth next.
‘Yes, Georgina? What was it you were saying? Because to my mind, the only acceptable thing for you to do now is to apologise. Your behaviour is completely uncalled for.’
I groaned, hearing Pip cry from inside again. Sod it. ‘No, Eileen. I’m not apologising. I couldn’t give a fuck that I upset you.’ I turned to leave but as soon as the words left my mouth, prickles of heat made a rash across my body, covering me in shame. Oh my god. I swore at an eighty-year-old woman. Next stop: A Current Affair.
I turned back.
‘I’m sorry, Eileen. I didn’t mean that. I’m really sorry.’
Eileen just shook her head and turned around, hobbling away as fast as her Zimmer frame would take her.
Oh my god.
‘Eileen!’ I called out, as Pip’s cries grew louder. ‘I’m so sorry, Eileen! I didn’t mean it. I won’t use your bin again! I’m sorry!’
She didn’t look back, but it did take her a good three minutes to shuffle back inside.
I headed inside and cuddled Pip into me as if she were a salve for the horrible words I’d said. I couldn’t do this. I was – pardon the pun – rubbish at this. I hated being home all day. I’d had a romantic notion of walking Pip to the park, spreading out a picnic blanket and lying in the sunshine in mother-daughter bliss. The last – and only – time we had attempted that, a couple of stoners from Sydney Uni came over and asked if they could share some of Pip’s rusks. It took every shred of my remaining dignity not to ask if I could share one of their blunts.
The monotony of daily life with a baby was about as romantic as watching the footy finals. I loved Pip, I felt it with all of my body, but I also felt like she was a stranger. I didn’t know what she wanted from me, and even if I managed to figure it out, I didn’t feel like I could give it to her.
Sometimes, in darker moments, I suspected I had been right all along. I had never wanted to be pregnant. I didn’t want to be a mother. I was no good at it.
A few days later, I got the reprieve I’d been so desperately waiting for.
‘You’re leaving?’ I was shocked. Lee loved being at The Weekend. She was the founding editor. She’d shaped it into the clever, snappy read it was. And now she was going?
‘Yep. John got a job offer in Washington.’
‘DC?’
‘Yeah. It’s pretty exciting. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, you know?’
‘How long are you going for?’
‘I’m not sure. Six months at minimum. Probably longer.’
‘Wow.’ I wasn’t sure what to say.
‘I want you to be editor, George. I’ve talked to Meredith and she’s keen, too. You can do this.’
‘Who’s Meredith?’
Lee paused. ‘Hold on.’
I heard the click of what I assumed to be a door shutting.
‘You there?’
‘Yes,’ I said, dangling a teether in front of Pip to distract her from gnawing on my earlobes. I wish I could say it worked.
‘Meredith’s the publisher. She’s . . . she’s got a big personality.’
‘She’s crazy,’ I translated.
‘Well . . . she’s very good at what she does.’
‘And also crazy?’
Lee laughed, but it sounded high and thin. A little like Meredith herself, I suspected.
‘Not . . . “crazy”, per se. More like . . . interesting. She has a lot of ideas. She’s very hands-on.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said, reading between the lines. Lots of ideas = do this absolutely impossible thing immediately and ask no questions. Hands-on = extreme micromanagement.
Pip stuck a curious finger in my ear and I tried not to yelp.
‘Look, I’m not meant to start for another six months –’ I said, phone wedged against one ear as Pip literally chewed the other. At two months, the chewing had been cute. At four, with a tooth edging its way down her gum, it was pretty bloody painful.
‘I know, I know. But look, this is the job you’ve dreamed about, George. The team here is great. I’m biased, of course, but it’s a great brand. All the hard work – the initial stuff – is done. You just have to keep it ticking.’ She paused. ‘Or not, of course. You’ll be the editor, you can do what you want.’
‘You want me to be the editor?’ It was like I’d only just heard what Lee was saying. ‘Of The Weekend?’ I tried not to let too much hope show in my voice. I had dreamed of working for a magazine like The Weekend my whole life. Smart, witty, topical, ahead-of-the-curve, it was a Saturday supplement that car advertisers loved and readers genuinely looked forward to. It was that excellent mix of insightful profile, hilarious essay, in-depth reporting and, of course, a recipe or two at the back. I loved it. I was meant to be going back as features director – this was much bigger.
‘Yep. George, I really think you’re the right person for the job. The only person, truth be told. I know you’ll be able to handle Meredith and the advertisers and the bloody freelancers who never turn in their copy on time. You can do all that. And hey, the money is good. You�
�ll even get a car spot,’ she added.
‘I can’t drive.’
‘Oh.’
‘Will they give me a driver?’
‘Sure. What else? Personal trainer? Chef? Stylist? Maid? Someone to massage your cuticles at whim?’
‘Just whatever Anna Wintour gets.’
Lee laughed, for real this time. ‘Done. Look, George, I know you can do this. And don’t worry, you’ll be able to leave on time and do all the stuff you need to do with Pip. It’s a really family-friendly place. They’ve just run this big HR campaign about leaving on time and taking lunch breaks and there’s even a breastfeeding room. So you can keep feeding Pip! I promise, you can work it all around Pip. She’ll still come first. And I mean . . . don’t you want to be an editor again?’
I did. I really did. I missed working. I missed being part of a team, firing off ideas and fixing things and making stuff. I had always loved the day the mag went on sale. I’d walk past the newsagent near my office and feel my heart skip as I saw shiny copies of Jolie on the stands, waiting for readers to dive in.