by Lauren Sams
‘Happy hour.’ He smiled at me – a real, open smile, not the smirk he usually wore.
‘Thank you.’ I never joined in happy hour on Friday afternoon. As Meredith led the rest of the office in cracking open bottles of bubbly and beer, I frantically tried to wrap things up for the week then took the opportunity to pick up Pip a little earlier. It was easier to sneak out of the office when Meredith was getting sloshed.
‘You never come out for it, so . . . I thought I’d bring it to you.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ I took a sip, wondering which exotic locale Neil wanted to travel to this time. He was clearly buttering me up for a reason. ‘I have to go in a second, that’s why I’m not out there. Daycare pick-up.’
Neil nodded. ‘Uh, look,’ he said, hands in pockets, swaying a little on his toes. ‘I wanted to say sorry. I think we . . . I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. And that’s my fault.’
Well. This was unexpected.
‘Right,’ I said, unsure how to proceed.
‘I didn’t mean to make a joke out of the pitch or offend you with the stuff about Anna –’
‘George!’ Meredith barged in, bottle of Mumm in one hand and two glasses in the other. ‘Oh. Neil. What are you doing in here?’
‘I was just offering George a glass of wine.’
Meredith’s eyes blazed with happiness. ‘Great! That’s what I was going to do. Come on, George, time to drink up! It’s been a long week.’
‘Actually, Meredith, George said she can’t,’ said Neil, taking the bottle of Mumm from her and expertly opening it without even a pop. ‘She’s off to meet with a . . . contributor.’
Meredith frowned. ‘On a Friday?’
I nodded quickly, getting into the rhythm. Neil was covering for me? ‘Yeah, we’re meeting for a drink.’
Meredith seemed impressed. ‘Don’t give that corporate card too much of a workout, will you?’
I laughed, uneasy with the lie. ‘Not a chance, Meredith.’
Half listening to Mum, I tapped out another message. OK. Will make sure Anna gets started on Free Chef. Will get cracking on columns. Already written one! GH.
Lie. Huge lie.
‘Have you ever had it?’ Mum asked.
‘What?’
‘Kwin-oh-ah. What is it? A type of meat?’
‘No, it’s a . . . a grain. Or a seed. I don’t really know. They put it in salad.’
‘Oh. Very interesting. Well, let’s go, shall we?’
‘Go where?’
‘To the cafe.’
‘What cafe?’
Mum stared at me. ‘Have you been listening, Georgina?’
Ping!
I picked up my phone and Mum snatched it out of my hands.
‘That’s enough,’ she said, and stood up.
‘Where are you taking my phone? I need to message my boss.’
‘Not on a Saturday you don’t.’ She glared at me in a way I hadn’t seen since the time I came home drunk from my ‘HSC study group’.
‘Mum, there is no “Saturday” anymore. We live in a 24/7 culture. Everyone is on, all the time. And if you’re not, you fall behind.’ I repeated the words Meredith had used in an advertising presentation a few days ago. ‘You can’t afford to not take calls or be unresponsive.’
She raised her eyebrows, lips pursed in disagreement. ‘I’m going to change Pip’s nappy. When I come back downstairs, we’re leaving for lunch. No phone. I mean it.’
I was about to scoff and roll my eyes and answer back when I remembered I was thirty-five and a mother myself, and that was probably not the right thing to do. I wondered how many other women my age needed reminding that they were actually adults.
‘Fine. Can I have my phone back, please, so I can finish this?’
Mum took a breath, like the heroine of some tragic play. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving the phone back. She took Pip upstairs and I unlocked my phone.
That’s my George! Such a
go-getter. So great to work
with someone so invested
in the brand. Cannot
wait to read. MP xxx
‘Georgie!’ Mum called from upstairs. ‘These nappies don’t fit Pip. Where are the ones in the next size up?’
The next size up? I hadn’t bought any in the next size up. Pip didn’t need it yet.
‘I think they fit, Mum. Just pull the tab over a little more.’
A pause. ‘No, Georgie, it’s too tight. It’ll give her a rash. Where are the ones in the next size up?’
‘Hold on.’
I went upstairs. Pip, bare-bottomed, kicked her legs and laughed as Mum blew raspberries on her belly. Mental note: blow more raspberries.
‘Here,’ I said, hoisting the nappy on Pip’s bottom and pulling the tab around to meet its sticky mate. It didn’t reach. I pulled more. Still no.
‘Don’t hurt her,’ Mum cautioned.
‘I’m not, I’m not. It’s OK.’ I gave the tab another tug and – rip – off it came.
‘It doesn’t fit, Georgina. Do you have any in the next size?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Um . . . because . . . hold on. Maybe I do,’ I lied. Again. It was so much easier to lie, to pretend I was on top of everything – the column, the nappies – than to admit that if I really wanted to get everything done I’d need another seven hours in the day. Every day.
I made a big display of rummaging around, trying to find these nappies that I knew did not exist, making little tsk-tsk noises, like, gosh, where can they be?
I came up for air.
‘Nope. Can’t find them.’
Mum gave a little tsk-tsk herself.
‘You have to get more organised, Georgina. Now poor little Pip doesn’t have a nappy to wear.’
‘Mum, Pip will be fine. It’s only a nappy. We can get some when we go down the street for lunch. Honestly. This is not a disaster.’ My tone became more withering with every syllable. How could she possibly understand? Mum’s idea of a working parent was one who made sandwiches at the school canteen.
Mum glared at me. ‘She might wet her pants by the time we get them. Or worse.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ I had no answer for that. If we took Pip down the street without a nappy, it was a surety that she’d shit her pants. Murphy’s Law had always kept a close eye on me. ‘Oh! I know! Swim nappies!’
Mum raised an eyebrow.
‘Here!’ I said, rummaging around for the swim nappies I’d bought last week before an aborted attempt to actually go swimming. Who knew you had to pack so many things to go swimming with a seven-month-old? By the time I’d rounded up her tiny goggles, cossie, rashie, hat, baby sunscreen, toys and the aforementioned nappy, not to mention my own stuff, Pip had fallen asleep, so I poured myself a gin and tonic instead. It was, after all, going to be 5 pm in three hours’ time.
I pulled the nappy over her bottom and – presto! – it fit. I looked over at Mum triumphantly.
‘OK,’ she said, conceding defeat. ‘Let’s go, then.’
We made our way down the road to the kwin-oh-ah cafe Mum was so desperate to try. Pip was crying by the time we reached our table. Lunch time.
‘What are you doing?’ Mum whispered frantically as I pulled out my boob and began to feed Pip.
‘I’m just organising a rally for Sudanese refugees, Mum,’ I deadpanned. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘You can’t feed Pip here. You should have told me before we left. You could have done it at home.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t just . . . you can’t just breastfeed your child in a public cafe, Georgina!’ she hissed.
‘Yes, I can, Mum. It’s 2017. Look –’ I said, gesturing to the other customers, all of whom were engrossed in their phones ‘– nobody cares. It’s just a boob.’
‘We’re going to get kicked out.’
I sighed. ‘No, we’re not, Mum. Can you please just calm down? Nobody cares about this but
you. Please be quiet.’
Mum had the nerve to look hurt. ‘Well,’ she said huffily, clearly wounded. She began studying the menu, no doubt looking for the kwin-oh-ah.
‘Can I get you ladies a coffee to start?’ the waitress asked. ‘Oh! Look at that little beauty,’ she said, reaching down and giving Pip’s cheek – a mere two centimetres from my nipple – a pat. ‘She’s gorgeous,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ I said, shooting Mum an ‘I told you so’ look. ‘I’ll have a strong decaf flat white.’
‘Sure. And for you?’
‘Uh . . . I’ll have a mug of cino, thank you.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A mug. Of cino.’
The waitress stared, her pen poised over her little notebook. ‘Uh-huh. And that is –’
‘She just wants a big cappuccino,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ the waitress said, flashing me a look that said she, too, had tried to explain to her mother how Facebook worked.
‘What did your boss want?’ Mum asked as soon as the waitress had gone.
‘Nothing,’ I shrugged, glancing down at Pip, who’d stopped sucking and was instead staring at the ceiling, leaving my nipple exposed. As soon as I had covered up, Pip began crying. I unclipped my bra again and she went straight back to it. This happened approximately five times a feed nowadays. Like most of us, Pip didn’t know what she had till it was gone.
‘She called quite a few times for nothing.’
‘Messaged, Mum. There’s a difference.’
Mum frowned.
I took a deep breath. Why was she being so mean? Couldn’t she see I was doing my best? Who cared about nappies and breastfeeding in public and taking a call from my boss on the weekend? Anyone could see I loved Pip, and that was the most important thing. Wasn’t it?
‘How’s Kevin?’ I asked, keen to move the conversation away from Exactly How Fucked Is Georgie’s Life on a Scale of One to Britney Circa 2007?
‘Good,’ said Mum. ‘Not happy about quitting sugar, obviously, but it’s for his own good. Did you know there are three tablespoons of sugar in a packet of chips? Chips!’
I made my best ‘You don’t say’ face and rubbed Pip’s cheek, trying to get her to actually feed, instead of just lying with her mouth around my nipple, staring at it. I could feel milk beginning to dribble down the front of my shirt.
Mum rabbited on about the annual flower show and a holiday her friend Noreen had taken to China (‘awful, darling, just awful – did you know about the pollution there?’) and the various grandchildren of various friends.
I felt myself gradually zone out and slip away from the conversation as she droned on and on (‘Lucia came second in the cello recital and she’s only been playing for a year!’ she said, as I wondered, ‘Who the hell is Lucia?’).
‘Georgina! Did you hear me?’
I snapped to attention. ‘Yes, it’s a great idea.’
She furrowed her brow. ‘What’s a great idea?’
‘Um . . . you know. What you were . . . talking about.’
Mum let out a huffy little sigh. ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you always so distracted? Honestly, Georgina . . . I just don’t know where your head’s at.’
I stared at her blankly. I didn’t know either.
She let out another little sigh, as if I was exhausting her. ‘I have to ask you, Georgina – are you sure this job is right for you? It seems awfully . . . complicated. You don’t seem to have much time to concentrate on – well, anything else.’
I tried not to let the pain register, but I felt my eyes bulge with disbelief. She meant I didn’t have time for Pip. And I knew what that implied: that I wasn’t a good mum. But what more could I be doing? How many more times could I wake up in the middle of the night, rocking Pip back to sleep as I stood by her cot, trying not to crumple onto the floor and sleep too? How many more times could I run to the station every afternoon just in the nick of time to get the last train before daycare closed? If I wasn’t being a good mother now, what more would it take?
Mum sensed nothing. She barrelled on, quite oblivious to the possibility that she had hurt my feelings. Or maybe that was the whole point.
‘I just don’t understand why you’d want to go back to work right now, darling. Having a child is a commitment,’ she said, as though I thought having a child was like having a Tamagotchi. ‘You don’t want to be one of those women . . .’ She trailed off, as if I knew exactly what she meant by ‘those women’.
The problem was, I did. Those women who had children and worked – the nerve of them. How dare they? My rational self knew Mum was wrong. I knew it was ridiculous to subscribe to such old-fashioned thinking – especially when I had always intended to go back to work. So why did her comment sting so much? Why did I believe, deep down, that I really was doing the wrong thing by going back to work? Doing so had added another layer of complication to our lives – actually, it had added about thirty extra layers of complication to our lives – so why did it feel like I was somehow taking the easy way out? Why did it make me feel like such a shitty mother?
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Was it? I’d known it would be hard. I’d known it would be thankless. I’d known it would be all-consuming. But I hadn’t known it would be so lonely, so complicated. I’d had no idea that every decision would have so many ramifications, such a strong possibility of completely fucking everything up.
I blinked back tears and stared at Pip’s sweet little face as Mum banged on about her friend Nancy’s daughter who went back to work when her child was two, and six weeks later, he was diagnosed with autism, as if the two were somehow definitively linked. I ate my kwin-oh-ah in silence and nodded at the appropriate pauses as Pip fell asleep at the boob.
Wasn’t motherhood meant to be blissful and serene and help you see the beauty in everyday moments? Wasn’t I meant to acquire an entirely new perspective on life as soon as Pip exited my body? Weren’t we meant to bond immediately and start binge-watching the same shows while eating our favourite Ben & Jerry’s flavour? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just enjoy this? Wasn’t I supposed to be #grateful for every small moment with Pip, every step towards independence, every gurgle and smile and suck of the boob? The women on the Facebook groups Ellie had me join were #grateful. They documented their children’s every move, meticulously curated it for social media and were rewarded with about 6000 likes every time they did. They took selfies with their babies and captioned them ‘my little prince/princess’ or ‘matchy-matchy’ or ‘baby love’ or ‘baby bliss’ or . . . you get the gist. I was exhausted by their zest for parenting, these women who propped their babies up against little paddles that read ‘Day 37’ when I could barely remember to take a photo a week.
‘And how’s Jason handling all of this?’
I blinked. How was Jase handling all of this? Mainly by being absent. Mainly by texting me pictures of onesies Saskia had found online. Mainly by asking when Pip could meet Saskia. Mainly by not doing anything that resembled actual help.
I shrugged. ‘What do you mean by “all of this”?’
She gave me a withering look. ‘Tone, Georgina. You should try to be more positive. You know, my friend Noreen says that just smiling more makes her feel happier. You should try it.’ I pursed my lips and gave her what I certainly hoped was the universal expression for ‘Please fuck off’.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, totally undeterred. ‘What I mean is, how is Jason handling being a father? I mean, it certainly took him by surprise, didn’t it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, Jason was hardly expecting to be a father so soon. How’s he dealing with it all?’
I thought back carefully over the morning, trying to work out if there was any chance I had somehow been thrust into a parallel universe where Jase’s life had been disrupted, but not mine.
‘Yeah . . . well, I wasn’t exactly expecting to be a mother, either.’
Mum gave a little shake of her head. ‘No,
but –’
‘But what?’
‘But . . . but this must be quite a lot for Jason to . . . to digest. That’s all. You don’t have to take everything so personally, Georgina. Sometimes a question is just a question.’
Cradling Pip in one arm, I let my head sink into my other hand. I could not handle this right now. I could not handle her right now. Sometimes a lunch should just be a lunch, I wanted to say. No talking. Just superfoods you cannot pronounce.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Jase is coping just fine. He has a girlfriend. He’s cycling to Wollongong or something.’
‘To meet the girlfriend?’
‘No. With the girlfriend.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed disappointed. ‘Such a shame he’s moved on so quickly. I always hoped –’ She let the sentence hang wide open, like a door that just wouldn’t close.
‘Mum,’ I said, becoming more pissed off by the second. ‘Enough. During the half-hour that we’ve been here, you’ve told me off for feeding my kid, made me order a salad, had a go at me for working and praised my ex for the actually quite shitty job he’s been doing taking care of our kid. So maybe for the next half-hour, you could just order me a piece of cake and stop talking about how much of a screw-up I am. Could you manage that?’
A flash of annoyance shot across Mum’s face, but then it softened. ‘Darling. I’m sorry.’
I was taken aback. It was rare for me to call Mum out on her special brand of passive-aggression, but it was even rarer for her to apologise for it.
She reached across the table and took my free hand. ‘I know this must be hard.’ She gave me a rueful smile. ‘I know exactly how hard it is.’
Part of me wanted to interrupt and say, ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know exactly how hard it is because the world in which you were a single mum was infinitely cheaper. You weren’t a single mum and a full-time employee. You were twenty-three, not thirty-five. You were married. You planned to be pregnant. I was recently dumped when I got pregnant, completely by surprise (the pregnancy and the dumping). So . . . you don’t know “exactly how hard it is”.’