Crazy, Busy, Guilty

by Lauren Sams

  Fifteen minutes left. OK, time to get real. No shower, no way.

  Nina, where are you?

  You run to the bathroom and scrub your face with a baby wet wipe. Then you do your pits and ladybits, followed by a liberal dousing of deodorant and Narciso Rodriguez. No time for primer, it’s straight on with the foundation. It’s been so long since you’ve applied anything but SPF15. God, you look so different with foundation on. Like you may have actually eaten a green vegetable in the past three months.

  You find the blush and sweep it over your cheeks and see the life come back into your face. It’s you! It’s you again! You exist.

  A quick flick of mascara, eyeliner and a slick of lipstick. You look like you jumped out of the pages of Jolie. No, really. You do. You lose track of what you’re doing for a second and stop to admire yourself in the mirror. Wow. You’re, like, really pretty when you’re not wearing tracksuit pants.

  You pull your hair up into a loose, messy pony and give your head a decent spray of Elnett. You look good. You look really good.

  You wonder where Nina is for the thousandth time. She should be here by now.

  En route to the bedroom, you grab your phone. A text from Alex, saying he’s running ten minutes late, which is the best thing you’ve heard since McDonald’s started doing all-day breakfast. Thank god. Now you have a little extra time.

  Nothing from Nina.

  You call her. No answer.

  OK, time to get dressed. Nina will be here before you know it.

  You grab your clothes, realise the jumper isn’t ironed but who cares? It’s a goddamn jumper. You undress and briefly see yourself naked, and let out an involuntary shudder. What has happened to your body? Why does it still look so strange? Why are your boobs so full and round but also saggy and vaguely purple? What are these tense blue lines stretching across them – can they please hurry up and leave? Why does your stomach still look like a balloon that’s had the air kicked out of it by a small, impatient and unreasonably strong child? When will your body come back? Yes, some things have returned to normal – you’re skinny again (basically), because you’re a human cow. You no longer have cankles. You can, in fact, see your toes again. These are huge victories. But you still want your old body back, thank you very much. You’re not asking for Gisele’s body, or J.Lo’s or anything like that. Just yours. It is not too much to ask.

  You remember what you’re meant to be doing and pull on the unironed jumper, searching for a pair of heels.

  Heels. You haven’t worn heels in a long time. This is going to hurt.

  You find the heels and place them by the front door, ready to go.

  You get your bag, and quickly pull out all the old wet wipes and tissues and rusk wrappers. Wow. The lining is super-cute. You haven’t seen it in a long time.

  You’re ready. You’re so ready.

  You’re going to go to a restaurant. With an adult! You’re going to order anything you want because it’s highly unlikely that anyone will pull your plate towards you and dump its contents on your lap, accidentally or not. You’re free! This is better than any celebrity hall pass. You’d trade in both Hemsworth brothers for this moment, right here, right now.

  OK, stop dreaming. You’ve really got to go now. Where is Nina? You’ve got to make that bus, and it leaves in three minutes. You calculate. If she gets here in the next minute, you can still make it fairly comfortably. Any later than that and you’ll have to run for it.

  She’s not here.

  Where the fuck is she?

  You text her.

  Where are you? About to

  be late, please call.

  Nothing.

  Then: ‘Message read 12.47.’

  Then, the seductive ellipsis that means she’s typing.

  Great! She’s typing, this is good. Maybe she’s just running late. There’s another bus. And remember, Alex is running late, too, so don’t sweat it.

  Except you are sweating it, and quite literally at that. You can feel patches of warm sweat begin to bloom under your arms. You wave your arms frantically, trying to air-dry them. You feel like an idiot. You’re quite sure you look like an idiot.

  Then you see that the ellipsis is gone. She’s not typing. Nina is not typing.

  If she’s not typing, what is she doing?

  Come on, come on, come on.

  Ping! A message.

  George is your date today?!?!

  I had it down as tomorrow. We’re

  on our way to Jed’s parents’

  holiday house in Avalon for

  the day. I’ll make it up to you.

  You sit down and try very hard not to cry.

  You do not succeed.

  *

  I had been at The Weekend for just over six weeks when Meredith approached me about my column again. It was exactly what I needed to hear. Even though it seemed like it took hours to get out the door every day, and even though it was frantic and stressful and Meredith quite enjoyed texting me at midnight to see if I had ‘any ideas’ (just, like, in general), I somehow felt like I belonged there. I knew what to do, I knew what my purpose was. And when Meredith pushed me for ideas about my column, I knew I must be doing something right.

  Meredith and I were working on a redesign together, an entire overhaul of the brand. It was challenging but exhilarating, the way I imagined abseiling or making a soufflé might be. I relished the familiar, seductive feeling of being someone whose opinions were sought. The pace was quicker than any other mag I’d worked on, but I didn’t mind. On Thursday nights I took the whole thing home, and after I put Pip to bed I painstakingly studied every word, every image, every comma, to make sure it was all perfect. There was something uniquely satisfying about seeing the mag come out on Saturday and knowing that I captained the team that made it. I felt useful again.

  ‘How about this column idea, George? Are you ready to write for The Big Paper?’

  We always referred to The News as The Big Paper. It was a big deal to write for The Big Paper. Over the years, I’d submitted a few story ideas and had a few chats with editors, but I’d never actually seen my work in print there. To have my own column wasn’t just a pinch-me moment, it was a knock-me-out moment.

  ‘Yes! Definitely.’

  The idea was to cross-promote the brand. My column would drum up interest in The Weekend and make sure readers opened it, the way our advertisers expected them to.

  Meredith clapped her hands together, as she was wont to do when she got excited. ‘Great! I knew you’d say that, George. You’re such a go-getter. That’s what I love about you. You never stop!’

  I smiled and laughed, a little nervously.

  ‘Well . . . I love my job.’

  Meredith patted me on the shoulder. ‘Have some ideas on my desk tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to read them.’

  As I settled into work, though, home became a battleground. Pip refused to go to bed. She wouldn’t let me nurse her. She spat her puréed vegies right back at me and tipped her bowl on the floor. The only time we seemed able to relax with each other was in the bath, where she would begrudgingly let me sponge her down as she played with a rubber ducky. It was the best fifteen minutes of my day.

  The mornings were a blur of sticky porridge and spilled water bottles and leaking nappies and other various disasters that threatened to derail us. It was triage, every morning. By the time we rolled into daycare, I was ready for a nap. Or hard liquor.

  ‘Hi, Georgie!’ yelled one of the daycare mums, waving madly at me. The daycare mums were a funny bunch. I’m not sure why their children were in daycare because they never seemed in a rush to be anywhere. With the exception of one or two harried-looking, pencil skirt-wearing women who speedily dumped nappies and bottles and gave their kids a quick kiss goodbye, most of the mums wore activewear and looked as though the biggest decision they’d have to make that day would be choosing between almond milk or soy.

  ‘Hi . . . love!’ I said, racking my brain. Claudia? K
risty? No, they were members of The Baby-Sitters Club. Right. Kirsten? Christine?

  I bundled Pip’s nappies into her locker and noticed she was the only kid who wore the cheap Aldi ones. Everyone else’s nappies bore the telltale signs of nappy wealth: Disney characters. Bad mum. Pip was also the only baby who was dropped off just after the centre opened and picked up just before they closed. Very bad mum. And she was the youngest baby by far. Most were around a year old – the second youngest was nine months.

  ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while. I’ve been dropping Archie off a little bit later because he just wants to sleep in so much now. Don’t you, Archie? Don’t you?’ Daycare Mum squeezed Archie’s cheeks and he let out a delighted little squeal. The kind of squeal I would probably make if I’d had a nice, long lie-in.

  ‘Oh yeah, right,’ I said, like I myself had a baby who just slept and slept and slept.

  ‘Are you coming to the working bee this weekend? I’m making brownies.’

  ‘Working bee?’

  Daycare Mum (Christina? Chrissy?) nodded. ‘Mmm. It was in the newsletter. And we’ve been talking about it on the Facebook page.’

  I had joined the daycare parents’ Facebook group and, an hour later, turned off the notifications. In just sixty minutes I’d been flooded with concerns about the new teacher, the snacks they were serving for morning tea and an invitation to a ‘MUMS ONLY!!!!!!!’ wine-tasting night.

  ‘What newsletter?’ I asked, confused.

  She stared at me. ‘The newsletter. They drop it in your locker. There’s one every week.’

  Pip tugged at my hair and I tried to wrangle the curl out of her fingers. Impossible. A chunk of hair came away and I winced. Daycare Mum gasped. ‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘Do you mean Pip’s locker? I’ve never seen a newsletter in there.’

  A smile curled on Daycare Mum’s face. ‘No, silly – your locker. Hasn’t anyone ever showed you? Come with me.’

  She sat Archie down on the mat and he crawled over to a pile of board books and began happily chewing on one. When I plopped Pip down, her face crumpled into a cry as she reached her chubby little arms up towards me. Ellie had advised me not to pick her up again, as it would only give her mixed signals. Instead, I was meant to firmly tell Pip that I loved her and that I would be back to pick her up at the end of the day. But I couldn’t do it. Every time she flung her hands up, red-faced and sobbing, I’d be down on the floor cuddling her and starting the process all over again.

  But this time Vanessa, Pip’s carer, swooped in and picked her up. It was like turning off an alarm. No more crying. It was brilliant and awful all at once. I didn’t want Pip to be upset, but I was jealous that I hadn’t been the one to comfort her. I attempted a smile as Vanessa lifted Pip’s little hand and waved it for her, singing, ‘Bye-bye Mummy!’ I lifted my own limp hand and waved goodbye.

  Daycare Mum walked me to the parents’ lockers. There were about fifty of them, in a room I had never seen before. It was Daycare Narnia.

  ‘So every parent has a locker?’

  Daycare Mum nodded. ‘Look, this is mine,’ she said, pointing. Dana Alexiou. Archie, Babies Room. Dana! Kristen/Christine was . . . not even close. ‘And here’s yours!’ she said, with a flourish of her hand.

  There it was. Georgina Henderson. Philippa, Babies Room. Ah.

  ‘Is there a key or something?’

  Dana shook her head. ‘You have a code.’

  God, first a secret locker, now a secret code?

  ‘OK, right. Gee, you learn something new every day, don’t you?’

  Dana nodded. ‘Subeta will have your code. You can ask her.’

  ‘OK, thanks, I will. But, uh . . . not right now, I have to get to work.’

  Dana smiled. ‘Gosh, I don’t know how you do it, Georgie. I see you rush in and out of here and I think, “That woman has got it together.” You’re on top of it all!’

  I suppressed a laugh and thought about how the only thing I would like to be on top of at that moment is a hotel bed – and maybe that guy from Suits. I was not on top of everything. Or anything.

  By the time the office was in sight, I was running, milk-full boobs bouncing like the least sexy Sports Illustrated model ever. I made it to the office just in time to start the daily stand-up meeting. The stand-up meetings were Meredith’s idea, of course. ‘Buzzfeed do it!’ she’d told me with great excitement, and that was that. If it was good enough for the site that produced ‘27 Signs You’re Becoming Your Cat’, it was good enough for us.

  ‘Right!’ Meredith barked. ‘What brilliant ideas do we have today?’

  At stand-up, everyone had to have a brilliant idea. Neil often had ‘brilliant ideas’ involving long investigative pieces on single ingredients that interested absolutely nobody but him. He often suggested being flown over to Brazil or Sweden or Peru to check out ‘the world’s most experimental chef’ on The Weekend’s dime. Today was no different.

  ‘There’s a new Pacojet on the market, and they’re offering to fly me over to have a look. Huge story,’ said Neil, barely glancing up from his newspaper.

  ‘Really?’ I asked, not bothering to disguise my scepticism. ‘In what way is this a huge story to anyone but you?’

  He glanced at me, a smirk beginning to form. ‘Do you know how influential the Pacojet has been in revolutionising modern dining? Everyone uses one.’

  I scoffed. ‘Could you do me a favour, please? When you come to these meetings, make sure your ideas are fully formed, OK? I don’t have time to listen to your sweeping statements and decide if they’re worth pursuing.’

  The smirk broadened into a smile. ‘No problem, boss,’ he said, and I realised all eyes were on me.

  I cleared my throat. ‘OK, well, good. Anyone else?’ I asked, trying to hurry the meeting along. Meredith liked to ask a thousand questions about every idea, even if it was clear from the get-go that it’d never make it into the mag. She bought a coffee especially for the meeting, as if we were all just hanging out and having brunch and we didn’t have to, you know, make a magazine at some point.

  The ideas kept coming – something about the Federal budget, why is autism on the rise, something about start-up culture.

  ‘George!’ Meredith never simply said your name, she announced it. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to remember some of the ideas I had written down at 4.32 that morning, while feeding Pip for the third time. The early hours were the only time Pip was content to be fed – no thrashing, no crying, no biting. Thank god, no biting.

  I drew a blank.

  ‘Um, actually, I thought maybe we could get Richard –’ humour writer ‘– to do a field guide to daycare mums. You know, the ones who only feed their kids superfoods, the ones who volunteer for everything, the ones who harass you to buy a Thermomix. It could be funny.’

  Meredith paused for a second before erupting into laughter. ‘Yes! Love it. We’ll get it illustrated.’

  Another thousand questions later and it was time to get a coffee and sit down. Sitting at my desk was like a little holiday sometimes. I studied the flat plan. The Weekend was a good read. It had substance, and the writing was solid. It was nice to be part of something that had nothing to do with babies and talcum powder and the merits of Annabel Karmel’s cookbooks. Harriet had messaged me with frequent updates from mother’s group – Charlie was bigger than ever, Evie had sprouted fine red hair, which quietly mortified Jane – but I didn’t miss it. At home I was completely out of my depth, struggling to keep my head above water. Here, I could handle things. Meredith may have been her own unique brand of crazy, but at least she didn’t cry for fifty-six minutes straight.

  When the daycare mums and mother’s group mums told me they weren’t going back to work, I couldn’t help but judge them. I was all for women having choices, and sure, feminism was about doing whatever you wanted with your life . . . but I just wasn’t sure Gloria Steinem anticipated how many women would devote their lives to sorting th
e laundry and ensuring sandwiches were crust-free.

  How had these women lost their ambition in just nine months? How had they forgotten that they had jobs they liked and were good at? I didn’t want to be like that. I needed more in my life. I needed to have a career. Bad mum.

  I fired off an email to the daycare centre about my secret code. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Then, on a whim, I opened my junk folder. Ah – 398 emails, approximately 346 of them from daycare. Yes, there was the email about the working bee. And Book Week. And the secret code. Right.

  After I’d gone through the junk emails and marked the safe ones (daycare and ASOS), I went back to emails I actually had to reply to.

  To: Georgie Henderson

  From: Meredith Parker

  George, how are you going with column ideas? I expected to see them on my desk by now????? What’s going on? I need to present to Richie upstairs by Thursday so GET A MOVE ON. I told him how great you are so make sure they’re really clever OK? MP xxx

  Fuck. The column ideas. I only had one and I sensed Meredith wouldn’t go for it. Ever since I’d started to read – almost to the point of exclusivity, really – all these time-management and working-mother how-tos, I desperately wanted to write about what it was really like to juggle a career and a baby. I wanted to write about how sometimes you looked in the mirror and wondered who the old lady was, staring back at you. I wanted to write about how there was no time to make bloody bliss balls or bone broth or organic chicken nuggets and how any mother who said she did was doing us all a great big disservice. Shut up! Let us buy our jars of Heinz! Leave us alone! I wanted to write about the joy of sitting on the toilet for three uninterrupted minutes, or the relief that washes over you when you hear your baby go to sleep after a midnight crying jag. I wanted to write about doing online grocery shopping at your desk while running a meeting because otherwise nobody would eat that week, and how you used your commute time to ring and book your pap smear and had forgotten to care if anyone overheard.