Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  She’ll lend you her babysitter, always cook extra when she’s baking and will bring your child to the car at the school gate when it’s raining if she gets there first.

  Apart from during your teenage years, never in your life will you need your girlfriends as much as you do now.

  Motherhood can bring out the best and the worst in women. There are those who turn it into a competition and those who rally together to make it all easier. The latter are worth their weight in gold.

  A true girlfriend won’t judge you, she’ll just listen with sympathy. You can call her in a flood of tears when it’s all getting too much and she’ll tell you it’s ok. She’ll give you advice when you want it and understanding when you don’t.

  She might be from your childhood, or you may have met her since you became a mum.

  Like me, you might be lucky enough to have a few.

  I have treasured friends from my own school days—girlfriends who sang along to Wham!, knew me long before I started working in TV, and with whom I always pick up exactly where we left off.

  I have a gorgeous girlfriend I met at Charles Sturt University in Bathurst, NSW. We grew up on different sides of Sydney and were thrown together on a country campus, where we quickly formed a bond that is just as strong and fun today. Besides, she’s got some pretty dodgy photos of my perm circa 1988 and jokes she’ll make them public if I don’t return her calls.

  One of my closest girlfriends I met in mothers’ group when I had my son, Nicholas. In a room full of new mothers with differing parenting styles and levels of intensity, we instantly bonded and have remained close ever since. We’ve since seen each other at our best and worst.

  With more of us moving interstate, or simply living on the other side of town, we no longer have the family support network we once did. Nowadays we need to create our own little village of people we love and trust, and grow to rely on.

  Importantly, there are the mums you meet at school, the parents of your children’s friends. Just because your kids bond doesn’t mean you will, but if you do it’s a bonus! And a mum who’s running a similar race to yours can be invaluable. You can help each other out with school or sport pick-ups, drop-offs and training afternoons. And if you’re lucky, your friendship will endure long after the kids have moved on with another crowd.

  We have an unofficial roster going. The mums who work Monday to Friday can always put up their hands to take the load on weekends—they cut the oranges for football or drop team mates home. Others can do the midweek duties and earn a Saturday morning sleep-in.

  I know one mum who works later in the week. Her son does gymnastics three afternoons a week and between her, a nurse, a school teacher, a stay-at-home mum and on occasion the coach, they manage to get all five of their boys to training every week.

  For most of my children’s primary education I was free in the afternoons, but never in the morning, so the girls knew when to count me in or out.

  You benefit, obviously, because it all flows smoothly. But the kids also benefit. They are always happy to have a playmate and they grow up seeing how a community works. What a lovely way to learn about teamwork.

  Never before have we needed such a team around us.

  And we all need someone we can talk to, warts and all, who will be there for us as much as we are there for them. Life gets busy and we don’t always see our friends as frequently as we used to or want to, but we can always manage to pick up exactly where we left off.

  We can parent alone. But it’s harder and not nearly as much fun.

  Big Brother

  Nick taught his little sister to ride a bike.

  After her parents, grandfather and older cousin all failed, it was her then ten-year-old big brother who had the ultimate patience and skill to succeed where everyone else had bombed.

  The thing I am most proud of in my whole life is the relationship my two children have with each other.

  Sure, they scrap like any other siblings. One minute they’re picking a fight, poking a bruise or hiding the other’s favourite things, and just when I’m at the end of my tether and can scream no more, they’re under the same blanket on the couch watching TV or happily playing one-a-side soccer.

  Nick’s the ultimate protector: he watches out for Talia, takes her side when I lose my cool and shares his lolly haul after a party. He’ll let her choose the movie and let her get her way more often than he probably should. Like a wise man, I think he does it to keep the peace.

  Nick looks out for his sister, and I hope he always will. When she started school he’d check on her at recess and lunch . . . obviously not telling his mates where he was going. Hey, a man’s got to have some credibility.

  Fast-forward ten years and I’m sure he’ll be a bit more vocal, especially when his twenty-year-old mates are suddenly interested in where his cute eighteen-year-old sister is.

  Talia, in turn, adores him. When we can’t reason with her, it’s her brother who can defuse the situation, get her to change her mind and back down in an argument. Mind you he’s also the one who can provoke her into an angry frenzy and send her screaming into her room.

  But she’ll probably be the one vetting his girlfriends.

  I imagine by then he’ll be quietly happy he always treated her so well.

  Birthday Parties

  I’ve made some pretty dodgy looking birthday cakes in my time. You know the ones . . . they look nothing like the photo in the book. The cricket pitch with its field of green desiccated coconut; the fairy princess with the legless Barbie stuffed into the middle; and the island girl, which gave Barbie a second run for her pain.

  Nick’s guitar cake was the most complicated. I was still in my PJ’s at 1 p.m. lining up the strings, less than an hour before a bunch of four-year-old boys were due to arrive.

  Birthdays are a gorgeous tradition in our house. The kids flick through The Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book and plan their cakes years in advance. It’s then up to me to cook and decorate to implement their chosen theme. We’ve had a room full of Little Mermaids, sack races, glitter ground into the deck, piñatas swinging from the rafters and a cracker of a cricket match.

  At the time of the Beijing Olympics in 2008, my then five-year-old daughter wanted a ‘China Girl’ party. We put lollies in noodle boxes, fished chocolate frogs out of jelly with chopsticks and blew the candles out on a panda cake.

  Turning five is a pretty big milestone! It’s like the junior version of reaching eighteen—a transition of sorts from toddler to schoolgirl, teddy bears to Barbie, and from chewing books to reading them.

  I will admit the clean-up after these events is usually a nightmare and the noise level does our heads in, but we’ve loved every single party, snapped hundreds of photos and packed endless lolly bags.

  They’re not the ritzy hire-out-a-venue parties that are the stuff of urban legend. Our parties are pretty simple and probably a bit cheesy, but I find them really satisfying and rather a lot of fun. I actually love making the cake and welcoming the kids into our home. And it means we still have room to lift the bar for their twenty-first.

  But, sadly, I wonder if I’m reaching the end of the line as far as homemade games and mum-and-dad-as-entertainer parties go.

  My kids have been to some pretty flash events. Sometimes the toys they take home in the lolly bags are better than the gifts they arrived with.

  Pin the tail on the donkey is so yesterday, but animals are ok so long as they’re real and part of an eco-friendly three-ring circus. And in these politically correct times, you can play pass the parcel only if each child gets a gift.

  I’ve heard about parents booking the musical group Hi-5, fairy floss machines and jukeboxes—all before their birthday baby can even walk. Which puts our three-legged races, water bombs, musical chairs and slumber parties to shame.

  And I think I’m being kicked out of my old-fashioned era by the kids themselves. By the end of our last party, we were fast running out of
games, songs and food.

  As they get older, I’m sure they will tell me how they want to celebrate their birthdays . . . so long as they still don’t mind me making the cake.

  Bellies and Boobs

  I’ve never been one to go topless at the beach; in fact, I will rather sheepishly admit I’m a bit old-fashioned. My girlfriends would probably go so far as to kindly call me a prude.

  I do have a cracker of a photo of myself aged about nine, bare-chested on a summer holiday with a great big smile and a very prominent ribcage.

  But those days are long gone, along with the bright yellow crochet bikini bottoms and the figure to get away with it.

  Funny then how pregnancy and childbirth forces you to get over your insecurities and view your body as a specimen in a science lab . . . to be examined, weighed, scrutinised and tested in ways that would horrify you at any other time.

  Strangers reach out and feel your growing belly. Every second person has an opinion on both how, and who, you are carrying. They comment on your size, ogle at your ballooning bust line and puffy ankles.

  My second pregnancy occurred while I was co-hosting Sunrise. Viewers would write in and tell me not to cross my legs and risk varicose veins. They also knitted me baby blankets and suggested names. Jill at the checkout of my local supermarket required regular updates, while others stopped me to show their own baby photos.

  I was too large to slink away and hide so I simply embraced it. It probably helped that I loved being pregnant. I had no morning sickness or complications . . . just massive weight gain and an appetite to fuel it.

  I’ll leave the birth bit out—needless to say, it’s a bit of a public free-for-all. Modesty is the last thing you think of when you’re lying on a bed in agony and trying to push a baby out.

  So flash forward. You’ve got over the humiliation of sharing every gory detail with doctors, nurses and girlfriends. You’ve tossed the cabbage leaves and the blow-up ring for your seat.

  Now it’s time to get your breasts out! And this time it’s nothing like those days in the yellow bikini.

  Feeding anywhere other than the privacy of my home required some strategic draping of a muslin wrap . . . but, even then, there’s not a lot left to the imagination.

  There are surprisingly few comfortable, clean places to feed a baby without the world watching—well, at least that was the case twelve years ago. You learn to frequent the same shopping centres that you know have a mothers’ room. You work out how long it takes to get there from just about anywhere in the city and how long your baby can hold out for.

  And days with that damn breast-pump were even worse! I once flew interstate to host a lunch for 500 ladies but, moments before it began, I was hidden away in a storage room, perched on the edge of a container, expressing milk and trying not to splash my silk blouse.

  Almost as humiliating as a few hours earlier when I passed my handbag through an airport security screening and there, clearly illuminated on the X-ray screen, were my lipstick, house keys and breast-pump. The male guard handed back my bag without eye contact but I saw a subtle smirk.

  One morning I was stuck in my hotel room in Queensland, due on air in fifteen minutes and frantically expressing, desperate to alleviate the pain of missing an early-morning feed. It was my first night away from my baby and I was in tears . . . hormonal, emotional and frustrated.

  The more I tried to hurry, the slower the milk flowed. Some things can’t be rushed.

  Unless, of course, it’s a toddler in need of a toilet.

  Just as I mapped out feeding venues, years later I formulated a similar map when toilet training. I very quickly learnt where every child-friendly bathroom was within a twenty-kilometre radius of home. When a three year old has to go, time is of the essence.

  Boys are a lot easier. A discreet tree still works when you are cute and under four. For Talia’s urgent calls I would carry a potty in the boot of the car. Gosh, I don’t miss those days!

  Once all that is done, you then face the next dilemma: how old is too old to take a boy into the ladies toilet?

  I have only just recently let Nick go to the men’s room alone. For years I would drag my poor son into the ladies. Aware that some women might be uncomfortable having a boy there, we would hover at the door until the coast was clear then dash in. We’ve even used the occasional disabled loo (sorry) because I could fit a pram in as well. What else do you do, leave the pram next to the trolley full of groceries outside?

  And what about changing out of his wet togs after swimming lessons? He would have struggled if I sent him into the men’s on his own to shower and change. But we did reach a point when he was old enough to feel uncomfortable changing in the ladies, let alone how the women felt about it.

  From the moment you start a family, breasts, bathrooms and bottoms become a big part of your life—and everyone else’s—whether you like it or not.

  Ironic, given we have a boy whose favourite party trick is his whoopee cushion.

  Body Combat

  I’m sure I’m not the only girl who’s flicked through a selection of photos from a party and deleted the most unflattering one where my bum looks big or my double chin ages me ten years. But it’s pretty demoralising not being able to erase an image because it’s printed in a magazine.

  Sure they might accompany it with a nicer, newer picture of me after I’ve lost a few kilos but, like many women, the ‘before’ photo is the one I focus on. That’s the one I fix to the fridge as my own inspiration, and torment.

  Or there’s waking up to find my name and age in the newspaper’s birthday column. Not that I ever lied about it, but it’s awfully real seeing it in print.

  I assume you’d be hard-pressed to find a woman who doesn’t have some sort of body insecurity, or a day when she’s feeling fat, pimply, hormonal, or all three. It’s just that sometimes you don’t really want to share all that with an audience.

  Imagine being a Hollywood celebrity. Any time you leave the house with a billowing shirt or after a big lunch, the headlines scream ‘Baby Bump!’. No woman ever feels confident on a ‘fat day’, but imagine if the tabloids ran pictures of you with giant circles around the offending area and told everyone you were pregnant. After you picked your crushed self-esteem up off the floor, you’d then have to ring your mother and deny, or explain.

  Or there are the magazines that publish ‘stars without make-up’ editions. I know many of us are secretly fascinated by them because they make us feel better about ourselves. The superstar might have a body to die for, but she gets pimples just like I do. Makes me feel better already. But I wonder how they feel? Does she skip the newsstand when she picks up her coffee? Does the receptionist do a quick cull of the old magazines when she visits the dentist?

  Why is it we need proof that these stars are normal, vulnerable and flawed in order to make ourselves feel better? Does tearing them down really build us up? What’s wrong with a bit of good old-fashioned jealousy, and leaving it at that? I will never look like Angelina Jolie or lead her life, so good luck to her. I can be happy for her—a little jealous, but still happy.

  I’ll admit I got a bit nervous as my fortieth birthday approached. For a woman in television that is traditionally when the bell tolls. Aren’t we meant to buy comfier shoes, reading glasses and bras without lace?

  But luckily women on TV are reflecting what is happening in the real world. Women in their forties are just hitting their stride. We finally have enough experience to know what we’re talking about, the confidence to say it, and the courage to deal with the consequences.

  Still, it doesn’t make the process any easier. I am a woman after all.

  So what does growing old gracefully really mean? Having the elegance not to admit that I actually really hate the wrinkles, saggy knees and evil little greys springing from what was once a lustrous head of hair?

  If to say grace involves a little prayer before my meal, then I pray that nature treats me kindly and doesn’t encourag
e my roast pork crackling to settle forever on my hips.

  If to grant a period of grace allows me a little more time to look as young as I feel, then please be generous with time.

  But I also take comfort that the alternative to growing old is far worse.

  It’s a shame we women are so tough on ourselves. But we are—or at least I am. I wish I had the toned body of an Olympic athlete, but I’m not prepared to devote the time required. I wish I had the smooth, youthful complexion of a Hollywood star, but I don’t really want to look fake. And sometimes I wish I had the confidence to say to hell with other people’s criticism, but I don’t and nor am I prepared to harden myself up enough so that it doesn’t hurt. So instead I choose not to read most of it. I’ve never googled myself. I figure if I have to ignore the bad, then I’m not allowed to read the good either.

  Sometimes I wish I’d appreciated what I had when I was younger. Hey, I was no supermodel, but I was certainly slimmer, fitter and smoother. I didn’t hit my stride until my thirties . . . it took me until then to really find my own style and mojo. So I guess I wouldn’t want to sacrifice those things in order to return to where I was in my twenties.

  There is absolutely nothing we can do about getting older. It’s inevitable. It happens to us all. So I no longer have perky breasts, but I have two robust children. Instead of smooth translucent skin I have stories to tell and experiences to remember and little lines to remind me that I laughed along the way.

  I also have a good twenty years of some serious fashion disasters. Outfits that I thought looked great at the time and now turn up in the nostalgia features in magazines, or the file footage in Channel Seven’s vault of less than flattering haircuts.

  There’s a giant photo of Kochie and me in matching white shirts, smiling for the camera and taken rather close up. For many years it hung in the main corridor of the network and I laughed every time I saw it because strategically hiding behind Kochie’s back was my broken right arm, plastered from fingers to armpit, and, just out of shot below, a very pregnant belly.