Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  My life on and off screen

  MELISSA DOYLE

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Melissa Doyle 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 527 4

  Internal design by Darian Causby

  Typesetting by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Dedicated to my husband John—without whom I could not do any of this—and to our children Nick and Talia—everything we do is for them.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Absent Notes

  Asking for Help

  Autographs

  Baby Zone

  Bana-meter

  BFFs

  Big Brother

  Birthday Parties

  Bellies and Boobs

  Body Combat

  Cartwheels

  Celebrity

  Christmas Day

  Chucky

  Community

  Copycats

  Cracking It

  Cricket

  Damn the Clock

  Diamonds Aren’t a Girl’s Only Best Friend

  Dishy Dads

  Divorce

  Eating

  Einstein

  Embarrassing

  Empty Nest

  Escaping

  Faking It

  Father’s Day

  Favourites

  Fire Truck

  Food

  Friends

  Gadgets

  Genes

  Girls Gone Mild

  Gold

  Grandparents

  Groundhog Day

  Hair Apparent

  Heroes and Role Models

  Home Sweet Home

  Housework

  Identity

  Immortality

  Independence

  Job Descriptions

  Juggling

  Kids’ Fashion

  Kochie

  Labels

  Little White Lies

  Lost

  Love

  Make-believe

  Making Friends

  Maternity Leave

  Memories

  Mess

  Mother Lions

  Movember

  Mummy Olympics

  Naughty Corners

  Network

  New Year’s Resolutions

  No

  Nudie Rudies

  Off to School

  One-on-one Time

  Organised Chaos

  Owls

  Parent Coaching

  Parents

  Playground Politics

  Pocket Money

  Quarantine

  Quiet Time

  Recycling

  Red Carpets

  Romance

  Rostering

  Royal Birth

  School Holidays

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Social Media

  Sons

  Sport

  Spotto!

  Tears

  Technology

  Teddy

  Thrift

  Tragedy

  Tweetheart

  Umpiring

  Unity

  Vale

  Victory

  Wasting Time

  Wills

  Woof

  X-rated

  Yasi

  Yummy Mummies

  Zzzzz

  Afterword

  Introduction

  Routine waits for no mum

  Dressed to the nines in a little one-shoulder black silk number, en route to one of the most important nights on my employees’ annual agenda, the Channel Seven Network Showcase, I ask the driver to go via our local cricket field so I can drop my son and his mate off at their regular Tuesday night training session. So there I am, lugging this massive damn cricket bag down the hill and onto the field, tiptoeing barefoot—leaving my gorgeous but impractical heels in the car because they would simply make the job too perilous and sink into the grass—and taking small delicate steps because my figure-hugging party frock was not made for great big strides down a hill. Boys safely deposited and another mum promising to bring them home, I resume the journey into the city in my sleek hire car, bound for the red carpet, a much needed glass of bubbles and my focus firmly switched to my other job: TV presenting.

  Of course I’m juggling too many balls in the air; of course I never get enough sleep given my alarm has woken me between 3 and 3.15 a.m., depending on the day of the week, for the best part of fourteen years. Of course I drop many of those balls, lose a few more and sometimes even forget I had some on the go . . . but isn’t that the life of most working mums? And would I really want to change anything?

  I am writing this introduction at my desk one Wednesday afternoon. I have twelve minutes left before I have to pick the kids up from band practice. My desk is a cluttered space in a room just off the kitchen. There is a Total Girl magazine next to me, sitting on a stack of unfinished homework and open on a page all about Selena Gomez. The pin board above me is a jumble of permission slips, a swimming carnival reminder, party invites and babysitters’ phone numbers. Two Year Four homemade clay lions smile at me, one a tad lopsided, the other has lost its tail. And I have the ever-present Post-it pad on hand, scribbled with today’s to-do list.

  Probably not the serene, organised environment for a talented and focused author. Lucky I’m not one of those. I’m just a regular busy mum with a full-time job, two happy little kids, a loving husband who walks in the door after dark, and a massive pile of washing that needs folding.

  My job just so happens to give me a public profile and the opportunity to meet some famous people. It also gives me the chance to do some good by slipping into a fancy frock on the occasional Saturday night to raise money for charity. And as a journalist, it gives me the chance to tell stories and get an up-close view of the best and worst of human nature.

  I have been outside the Vatican to witness the joy as a quarter of a million people receive the blessing of a new pope. I have stood in tears in the aftermath of this country’s most devastating bushfire as a man pleads live on air for the whereabouts of his missing wife and children. I have laughed with Tom Cruise and have wondered at the strength of flood victims who have lost everything.

  But when I come home, kick off my heels and wash off my make-up, I am no different to any other woman doing her best to raise a family, run a house and spend time with her friends.

  I leave notes for my husband, John, to remind the kids to take their swimming gear to school in the morning. I chase the cat around the house with a worming tablet. I let the ironing pile up and I cook satisfactory but slap-dash meals.

  Some weeks I’m really organised and everything runs like clockwork, but no sooner do I pat myself on the back than the following week goes off the r
ails. The fridge is suddenly bare, the kids are in a tizz because I’ve lost an important permission slip, and I’m frantically trying to reach my dad because my husband has to go interstate and I need him to come and stay the night.

  I wrote this book not because I am any sort of parenting expert (far from it) or a lifestyle guru who lives amid perfectly pressed gingham tablecloths, quinoa salads and handwritten invitations, but because I wanted to share with you what makes my family happy, sad, frustrated and amused, and I hazard a guess it’s probably for the same reasons in your house. I am one of those mums who firmly believes we need to support each other a little more. And I mean really support—not just say it and then judge someone behind her back.

  To support one another, we need to start with the truth. I don’t want some picture-perfect mum making me feel bad about myself because, you know what, I bet at the end of the day she’s not so perfect. I reckon she’s just like you and me—fallible, vulnerable, tired and probably doing her best to keep up appearances.

  We’re all in pretty much the same boat and, give or take a few factors, our lives run a rather similar course. Being a parent, a wife, a friend and an employee can be a minefield. Some days are smooth, others are lonely, tough, tiring and emotional. Every day is its own little balancing act. And all we can do is the best we can.

  And for all their fame, I’m sure Angelina Jolie and Crown Princess Mary of Denmark still experience what we do, maybe just with a little more support and a few extra nannies. I’m sure they too suffer guilt, exhaustion, doubts and meltdowns. There are days when I lose the plot, cancel again on my girlfriends, forget to do things and feel like only half a wife and mother.

  Parenting can be really hard. Throw a job into the mix, a busy partner, a sick child or a single-parent family and sometimes I’m sure we all question why we’re doing so much and whether we can actually cope. Then if you want to exercise and have a social life . . . well, it’s a shame I have to waste seven hours every night sleeping!

  The first thing I think we need to do is lose the notion of what it looks like to be a mum. The ones we see on TV sitcoms aren’t real. We need to let go a little, acknowledge who we really are, how much we can actually do and, most importantly, how much we really want or need to do. Recognise what your priorities are and everything will be simpler.

  Why put the extra pressure on yourself to live up to some Hallmark card image? That takes too much energy and leaves us with too much guilt.

  Having said all of that, I absolutely adore being a mum. I know I don’t have to bake cupcakes for them on a Sunday and turn their beds down each night . . . but I like to. I made the decision that’s the sort of mum I wanted to be. I am lucky that by working shift work I could be at the school gate each afternoon through Nicholas and Talia’s primary school years, take them to sport, help them with their homework and cook them dinner every night.

  And I make the most of it because, for the time being, they still want to spend time with me too. I figure before long they’ll be more interested in hanging out with their friends than their daggy old mum and dad.

  Maybe I should have outsourced more; maybe at times I have piled too much on to my plate . . . maybe I attempt to do it all in order to alleviate my working-mother guilt. Or maybe it’s simply because I enjoy it, take pride in my role and the gorgeous love I receive makes the tiredness go away.

  I look at my family and know they are all happy. I am too, so I give it a go for another day. Whatever your circumstances are—working or staying at home, single- or two-parent families, challenging kids, lack of sleep—hopefully you can say the same.

  And when we hit a bump in the road, let’s call on each other a little more. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness; it’s being honest and true. And I bet if you put up your hand and asked a girlfriend for help, not only would she be happy to oblige, she’d be grateful you opened the gate so she could reach out to you.

  In this book, I share some personal stories gathered over the last few years. Sorry if the kids’ ages jump around a bit—as you will tell, I wrote this over many years and many different stages in their lives and mine. I started it when I was co-hosting Sunrise and getting up before dawn. I finished it when I was working evenings and getting a little more sleep.

  Nick and Talia are now twelve and ten years old. Only time will tell if I’ve been a good parent, but I love them dearly and so far we’re having fun. They are healthy, happy, social and two of the loveliest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. They make me proud, frustrated, angry, happy, delighted, heartbroken and sometimes simply overwhelmed with joy and love.

  Like me, you probably got advice from everywhere—your parents, neighbours, friends, strangers, books and Google. Listen and take on board what works for you; smile sweetly and walk away from what doesn’t.

  Find like-minded confidants for when you need to sing out for some help. For me, it’s usually my girlfriends who have children the same age or just a few years ahead of mine.

  Relax knowing sometimes you’ll make mistakes or drop the ball, but don’t ever feel alone. Don’t think you’re the only one who has bad days and good days. We all juggle everything with our own unique flair and in the way that suits each one of us best.

  And isn’t that wonderful.

  Absent Notes

  I still rue the day I missed my daughter’s ballet concert. It was one of the biggest nights of Talia’s year, and I was away on a work trip.

  For the twelve months leading up to it I had ferried her to pretty much every single ballet lesson. I tied her hair up in the perfect ballet bun, lovingly cleaned her shoes and heaped praise on her second position.

  But I missed the culmination of all that hard work and practice. I wasn’t there to see her flit across the stage in her multi-coloured tutu and watch her bask in the limelight with the beaming pride of a six year old who is yet to understand humility.

  Telling her I wouldn’t be there was just as heartbreaking. We were driving to rehearsal when I broke the news that I would be missing her big day. Talia’s eyes filled with tears, so of course I started to cry too. Then she held up her little hand and said, ‘Stop. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s too sad.’

  Wow, rip my heart out and shred it like a piece of flimsy tulle.

  There have been special moments and events over the years of juggling work and family that I have missed. Each one has left me wracked with guilt, and positively sad that I wasn’t there.

  After years of cricket practice in the backyard and patiently sitting through evening training, it was at a rare game I missed that my son scored a hat-trick. Probably the biggest moment of his sporting life, and he had to tell me about it on the phone.

  Nick once told me he understood that because I worked I couldn’t get to anything at school like cross-country or reading groups. His words broke my heart—not because they were true, but because he seemed to forget all the things I did get to. Obviously my absence has a bigger impact than being present.

  It’s so hard not to beat yourself up over such things. I have certainly been to far more events than I have missed in their young lives, but even if it’s only one you can’t get to, it feels like one too many.

  I made it to Nick’s cricket presentation and took dozens of photos of him accepting his trophy. And we ordered the DVD of Talia’s ballet concert, dressed her in her costume and watched it one Saturday night, doing our best to relive the glory all over again.

  Oh, and the date of next year’s concert is already in my diary.

  Asking for Help

  So there I was in an interstate hotel room on a Saturday night, struggling to do up the buttons on my black ball gown. There was a whole row of intricate silk buttons that went from the nape of my neck to my lower back that needed looping, and, having never excelled at yoga, there was only so far my arms could stretch. I struggled from the bottom up, then from the top down, until finally, with hair and make-up in place and my emcee scripts in m
y purse, I rode the elevator with my dress half undone and sheepishly walked into a room full of complete strangers to ask someone to do me up.

  Sometimes admitting we need help is the hardest thing to do. Maybe we’re stubborn, maybe we try too hard, maybe we simply continue to believe we can do it all. Either way, the truth is sometimes we can’t, and we need to call out.

  But why do we find that so hard to do? Asking is not a sign of weakness; it’s not admitting failure. Stuff stoicism—I just have to be practical.

  Occasionally, on the verge of tears, I’ve rung John and asked if he can come home from work a little earlier. Other times I’ve begged Dad to pop around and take the kids to the park to give me just half an hour alone, or I’ve asked another mum to take the boys to that week’s footy training, making sure my name is on the roster for the week after when it suits me better.

  I’ve also learnt to say no. No to volunteering to help with the Year Three fundraiser, no to a midweek meal with my girlfriends that starts at my usual bedtime, and no to managing the soccer team.

  Sure, I feel guilty—the desire to please rears its ugly head—but when I say yes to everything and take on too much, it’s my own ugly head that rears up and I’ve learnt that’s when I need to pull back.

  I have no problem when someone asks me for help—in fact, I rather like it. I’m chuffed they call out and trust me enough that I won’t let them down. So I take that feeling and apply it when it’s my turn to reach out and ask for help.

  And I also know it won’t be like this forever. There’s no doubt as the kids get older and become a little less dependent on me I can be a little less dependent on others.

  But back to my glamorous ball: the end of the night was just as problematic as the start. I got back to my room well after midnight and realised I had the opposite problem with my dress. I thought about calling the front desk but knew a call to some poor young bellboy from a forty-something woman in the wee hours asking him to get her out of her dress may either frighten the daylights out of him or start the rumour mill. So I struggled and struggled until I finally got enough buttons undone to be able to jump up and down and shuffle the dress around so the buttons were at the front.