by Lauren Sams
I’ve only seen Meredith once since my meltdown at Arianna’s house. She never called, never even sent one of her texts (MP xxx) to ask how I was. I had let myself feel briefly hurt by this, and then wondered why. Meredith hadn’t cared about my mastitis, or Pip’s UTI, or my broken arm. Why would she care if I had a panic attack?
Pip was at daycare and I had taken the train to the city for a meeting with Richie. I was walking through David Jones when I saw two little boys fighting like bear cubs in the crockery section. One of them, it was pretty clear, was about to either get glassed by a gravy boat or send his parents into virtual liquidation. Maybe both.
‘Hey! Hey, stop that,’ I said. They didn’t look up.
A cashier appeared, tut-tutting. ‘And where’s the mother?’ she asked, rolling her eyes.
I suddenly felt an allegiance to whoever this mother was. Maybe she was searching for a present. Maybe she was taking an important phone call. Maybe she was hiding out in the glassware section, keenly studying the Orrefors Kosta Boda just to get a moment’s peace from these two animals. I know that’s what I’d be doing.
‘I’m sure she’s here somewhere,’ I said, finding myself using the same authoritative tone I’d just used on the bear cubs. I felt a kinship with this mother. Everyone’s kids were total shits now and then.
The cashier, chewing gum loudly, rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering, ‘You break it, you bought it,’ under her breath.
‘Ollie! Henry! Stop that! I said, stop that!’ A voice rang out from behind a shelf.
Ollie and Henry did not stop that. They carried on wrestling as if they hadn’t heard the woman – their mother, I presumed – and seconds later, I heard a crash as hundreds of dollars worth of china came tumbling down.
‘Oliver Parker! Henry Parker! Get here this instant,’ the woman barked. Oh. I knew that bark.
The woman appeared, stomping and outraged, her eyes blazing with unbridled anger. ‘What are you doing? You are both old enough to know better. You are –’
She stopped all of a sudden, feeling my eyes on her.
‘Oh,’ she said, drawing her head back into her neck, making that double chin I always relished seeing on someone so skinny. ‘Hello, George.’
‘Meredith.’ I paused. ‘Hi.’
She smiled at me uncertainly, as if I’d walked in on something I wasn’t meant to see. Ollie and Henry, for their part, were frozen on the floor, the china cracked and broken around them. The bored cashier had returned, an I-told-you-so look plastered on her face as she set about sweeping up the wreckage and adding up the damage.
‘How are you?’ Meredith asked.
I narrowed my eyes. Were these Meredith’s kids? Surely not.
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘Good. Good.’ Her bravado swept away, Meredith seemed sad and scared. I tried to picture her now, with that omnipresent can of Red Bull, marching around in her expensive high heels, and could not. Now, she looked like any other harried mother trying to get shit done. She wore sandals and jeans and a loose – though still, I noted, expensive – broderie top with the faintest coffee stain on the chest. I held back a smile.
‘Are these . . .?’
‘My boys?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes.’
I let out a shocked laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Why is that funny?’
‘It’s not. I’m just . . . I’m just surprised.’
She shrugged, pursing her lips in the old Meredith way. ‘I don’t know why you would be.’
I stared at her, trying to understand. ‘Well . . . you never mentioned them. You seemed to always be working. You never seemed –’
‘Like a mother?’ She arched a brow.
‘Uh . . . yeah, I guess so.’
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, considering her answer. ‘Well, I didn’t want anyone to treat me any differently. I’m older than you, George. I remember a time when women were quietly relegated to the mummy track once they had babies. I didn’t ever want my home life to affect my career. I worked very hard to get to where I was, and I just didn’t see why having children should change that.’
‘But who . . . who was with your kids when you weren’t?’
She raised a single frustrated eyebrow. ‘George, would you ask a man that?’
I stopped to consider the question. Meredith was right. ‘No. Probably not.’
‘My husband is the boys’ primary carer. And we have a nanny.’
‘Right.’ I hadn’t even known Meredith had a husband. She’d never mentioned any of it. I thought back to her desk, filled with inspirational quotes and stacks of career self-help books. Zero family photos. Then I thought of how, gradually, I had turned my own framed photo of Pippa further and further inward, so nobody could see it but me.
‘You seem surprised,’ she said, her voice measured and assured as she checked the boys for cuts.
‘I am. I can’t believe you treated me like that when you knew exactly how hard it was for me. I guess I just assumed you didn’t know, and that’s why you kept pushing me.’
‘I thought you were capable,’ she said, brushing out Ollie’s hair with her hand – still perfectly manicured, I noticed.
I smiled. ‘I wasn’t.’
Standing up, the boys cleared for injuries, she studied me again. ‘I may have expected too much from you.’
‘Maybe.’
There was so much I wanted to ask Meredith. How did she do it? How did she fly to Melbourne at a moment’s notice, and stay out all night with clients, and make it to the gym at 6.30 am and not leave the office until 7.30 pm, all with these two boys at home? How did she cope with missing every sleepy morning cuddle, every bedtime story?
The boys were sitting down now, playing with their respective iPads while the cashier looked on, not even trying to hide her disdain. Meredith ignored her.
‘What are you doing now?’ I asked.
‘Consulting, mainly. I’m doing a lot of work on new websites and podcasts – telling people what to do. You know I love that,’ she said wryly. I allowed myself a small laugh at her expense.
‘Right. Sounds right up your alley.’
‘And you? I’ve seen your column once or twice. It’s, uh . . . well, I understand people enjoy it.’
I stifled an eyeroll. ‘They do. It’s being syndicated now, which is great. Makes money less of a worry. And I freelance here and there. Go on TV a bit, do some radio spots.’
Meredith nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve seen. You were right; it was a good idea for a column.’
I nodded. ‘I think it’s something that people relate to – the challenge of being so many things at once, to so many people. It’s hard to have a child and a whole team of people at work depending on you. Mainly, I guess, because you want to do both, and you want to succeed at both, but something has to give.’ A sense of relief washed over me. I had said it. To Meredith. I had told her – so, so long after the fact, but still – what I had always wanted to tell her. I want to be good at my job, but I want to be a good mother, too. Why can’t you let me be both? It always struck me as supremely unfair that kids have no choice but to let their parents go to work, but the adults in charge of the parents often didn’t let them go home to their kids.
‘Right.’ Meredith gave me a curt smile, which I chose to interpret as a level of understanding.
‘I mean . . . How did you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘How did you publish The Weekend and have these kids at home? I just . . . I don’t understand it.’
‘I loved my job.’
‘Sure, but . . . don’t you love being with your kids, too?’
‘Of course. But I’m better at my job. That’s the truth.’
I nodded. It took guts to admit that.
‘Some people are better suited to being full-time parents, and some are better at full-time work. And we need both. That’s the reality. So you just need to decide which one you’re better at, and do it. I came to that rea
lisation a long time ago. All this nonsense about “doing it all” . . . it’s such rubbish. Just pick the thing you’re good at. Play to your strengths.’
‘I guess,’ I said, mulling it over. What were my strengths? I still hated going to the park. I couldn’t brush Pip’s hair without her yelling, ‘Mummy! Stop!’ She still woke up multiple times a night; I’d literally thrown Tizzie’s book out the window (it landed in Eileen’s yard, for which I was soundly berated the next morning). But I loved watching her climb the small tree in our yard, and reading to her at night, and feeling her warm little body crash into mine when I picked her up at daycare. I still loved writing, but I didn’t feel the pull of work the way I once had. I didn’t need a fancy title or an office anymore. I was sure I would find another job I loved, but for now, I was OK where I was. And OK was a good way to be.
‘But . . . how do you know what your strengths are? How do you know what kind of mother you should be?’ I asked.
Meredith rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, George,’ she said, sighing. ‘You’ll figure it out.’
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is sometimes a solitary task, but it’s also a team effort, and I’m lucky enough to have one of the best teams in the business. To everyone at Black Inc. and Nero – but particularly Jeanne, Kirstie, Kelly, Kate, Caitlin and Imogen – thank you so, so much. To Vanessa Lanaway, I owe you many glasses of wine and maybe a new pair of glasses. Your editing made this book what it is. Thank you so much.
To all my mum friends who very patiently answered all my nosy questions about parenting and going back to work and whether Sophie the Giraffe was a universal reference: thank you. Diya, Cindy, Jess O, Jess P, Jess I, Jo, Shivaun, Lauren, Ali, Julia, Katie and Annie – thank you for your insights and words of wisdom. I owe you all wine, too.
To my amazing family, thank you for indulging me yet again. Rob and Maryann, you’re the best parents-in-law anyone could ask for. Thank you for all the babysitting and pizza dinners and bottles of NZ sparkling. Laura and Scott, thanks for being the best beta readers. Mum and Steve, thanks for everything. The list of things you do for me is too long.
And David, Annie, Buddy and Otto – thanks for being my people. I love you endlessly.
Lauren Sams is a writer whose work has appeared in ELLE, marie claire, Cosmopolitan, Good Food, delicious, Sunday Style and Daily Life. She lives in Sydney with her husband, daughter and two dogs. She first introduced readers to Georgie and her friends in She’s Having Her Baby (2015).