Woof
When Nick was born we were the proud owners of a beautiful black-and-white Border Collie called Tilley. She was definitely my dog—a shadow all through my pregnancy and a dependable companion when I was up feeding my newborn through the night. She’d sneak in through the doggy-door and sit patiently at my feet during those lonely dark hours.
She was as protective of our new baby as we were. John had brought home some of my clothes that smelt like our new baby before I came home from hospital. She was trained to sit at the nursery door, but go no further. We even used to stick our hands in her bowl half way through her meal to get her used to little fingers that may one day overstep the mark and steal her bones.
She was beautifully trained, patient and dependable. And then she died. I was devastated.
As any dog owner will tell you, it’s the first few years with a new pup that are the most challenging. So we waited another five years and another pregnancy later before were able to embark on that journey again.
In came Rex . . . a blond Border Collie with what can only be described as ADHD. He knocked the kids over, tore through the house, chased aeroplanes, their shadows and even his own. We ran him three times a day but still that wasn’t enough. Rex and I went to weekly intensive training classes, but he remained out of control.
Small children, two years and much anguish later it was clear our family wasn’t the right one for him. So we sent him to a farm. Not in the euphemistic sense, but a real working sheep station with hundreds of hectares and other dogs to chase.
Telling Nick was one of the hardest things John and I have ever done.
We went to visit Rex six months after, but to be honest it was too upsetting for us all to visit again.
I am such an animal lover and think it’s wonderful for children to have pets. They learn so much about responsibility and unconditional love but you also have to be realistic.
The next addition to our family was a kitten, a little tabby from the RSPCA. She was low-maintenance, placid and very cute.
Darcy now sits quietly and observes the fish, and the never-ending conversation about if we’re game to try for another dog.
X-rated
The trickiest questions can come at the most unexpected times.
Maybe it’s the safety of a crowd that can give kids the courage to ask that burning question, or the anonymity of somewhere other than home . . . or maybe it’s just a random moment.
We were sitting in the waiting room at the dentist when my son surprised me with, ‘So how did I actually get out of your tummy?’
My shocked response was, ‘Are you sure you want to have this discussion here and now?’
Whether I was stalling as my brain spun into a state of mild panic or I was simply trying to avoid the inevitable embarrassment for both of us, it didn’t matter. His answer was yes.
So in the most clinical and unlikely of environments, I proceeded to explain to him the mechanics of pushing something very big out of something very small. I didn’t blush, or use silly euphemisms for body parts, and I only answered his questions.
‘How did I come out?’ ‘Did it hurt?’ ‘How long did it take?’
My honesty was met with stunned silence and an abrupt end to the conversation. I think he’d heard enough. But at least it was a start.
How and when to talk to your kids about the birds and the bees can be a source of agony for parents. My mum left a copy of Where Did ICome From? on my bed. And what it told me was very different to the stories I’d heard in the playground that involved watermelon seeds and storks.
John and I decided on the wimpy approach: we’d answer honestly, but only when asked.
There is no doubt all kids are different. Some are curious a lot earlier than others and some want much more information.
The expert advice is to give straightforward, age-appropriate answers using the correct names for body parts. This avoids any confusion if children ever need to talk about their bodies. No setting off alarm bells when they tell the teacher that tickling their weenies makes them giggle.
And be grateful your kids are comfortable enough to talk about it with you. I was so embarrassed to buy my first bra, I took the train to a shopping centre about half a dozen stops further along the line than our usual and hid in the change room trying to decide which one fitted best.
Explaining puberty is our next challenge. For a few kids I know, this was even more shocking to them than learning where babies came from, maybe because it affected them more immediately and directly. It’s also a little more complicated to explain. Luckily our school holds a child and parent information evening. I’m not sure who they think needs it most, but, either way, I’m looking forward to someone practised in teaching explaining the science of growing up.
I also know when I don’t have the answer or know how to explain something, the internet will be my friend. There is so much information available to help. That, or a visit to a good old-fashioned library.
We’ve also noticed our children becoming aware of their differences and starting to ask questions, both about their own bodies and ours. They reached a point on their own where they wanted privacy in the bathroom, and it was up to us to respect that. We certainly don’t wander the house starkers, but nor we do we slam the door screaming when they wander in to the bathroom for a chat and one of us is in the shower.
When they do decide to have the conversation, I am there to answer their questions with honest informative answers. Hopefully the steam will camouflage my blushing.
Yasi
Sometimes the roles of mother and journalist are simply not that complementary.
In January 2011, I was sent to Cairns to report on Cyclone Yasi, the biggest storm to ever hit Australia. As I flew in, nearly everybody else was flying out.
On the day the storm was due to hit, I spent eight hours on air warning people about the dangers of what Queensland Premier Anna Bligh was calling a monster storm.
By the time my shift was finished the airport was closed, most roads out of town were blocked, police had cleared the streets using loudhailers and I was completely freaked out.
Ringing home is probably the worst thing you can do when you’re feeling a little vulnerable. You know when you’re just holding it together and someone asks you if you’re all right? That’s guaranteed to start the tears flowing.
I was staying in a big sturdy seven-storey hotel. I knew I would be safe, and once hotel staff delivered me a bucket, a torch and ran through the safety plan, I felt a little calmer (sort of).
I also knew John had dropped everything to pick up the slack at home. Once the mum in me was reassured everything would be ok, the journalist in me could kick into gear.
Our evacuation point was an internal windowless conference room. I would spend the night with two hundred strangers, our pillows and our nerves.
With time on my hands, I dashed to the local convenience store in the hours before the storm hit (along with pretty much every single other person in Cairns) and stocked up on emergency essentials such as bottled water and chocolate.
The chocolate lasted about an hour.
It’s a palpable fear when you have children, particularly when they are still at an age when they need you, and leave the family home to put yourself at risk.
No longer is your safety a personal consideration. Instead it becomes an obligation to the little people at home who depend on you, for another ten years at least.
Of course I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t survive the night. The category-five cyclone hit just before midnight. Winds of nearly 300 kilometres an hour roared around us, trees snapped, buildings were damaged. The noise was truly remarkable, but, as history has told us, Cairns dodged a bullet.
Nearby rural communities weren’t so lucky. They were all but flattened, their produce and livelihoods wiped out in one wild angry night.
We didn’t get a wink of sleep that night and I was on air again at 4 a.m. for another eight-ho
ur marathon. Although I was looking a little worse for wear, my presence at least reassured my family—and my friends who had all sent me messages asking if I was crazy.
The next morning we rose at 12.15 a.m. to drive to Tully, one of the towns hardest hit. Even in the darkness we were confronted with a mess: shop awnings and tin roofs crumpled and lying on the road like balls of paper. We set up our equipment using our car headlights, and breakfast was an apple given to us by hotel staff before we left Cairns. Mind you, I was reluctant to eat or drink too much with no toilet or commercial break in sight, practicalities not really considered.
At times like this I am grateful I am a mother and can feel the sort of empathy I don’t think I could before. But I also feel guilt. And it’s only made worse by ringing my own family every day and telling them I’m not sure when I’ll be home.
Particularly when just a few weeks before Yasi I’d been called back from holidays to report on the Brisbane floods. Leaving my family tore my heart, but I fully understood that was nothing compared to the people who had lost loved ones and the tens of thousands who had lost their homes.
My kids have also come to understand this is Mummy’s job. They know I have to go away sometimes to cover stories, and they know more often than not they are disasters. Bushfires, floods and mine collapses.
But while still at primary school, they are also coming to realise how frightening the world can sometimes be. Like most people, we found ourselves glued to the horrific pictures coming from Japan, only a few weeks after we had seen floods and a cyclone devastate Queensland, then an earthquake crumple Christchurch in New Zealand. Granted we are a very news-oriented house (by nature of my job) but it was only a few days after the Japan quake that my children asked if we would be ok.
I suddenly realised the relentless amount of information available, our constant viewing of television and reading of papers had left them both a little scared.
Their question was simple and practical: could we have an earthquake or a cyclone at our house, and, if we did, where would we go?
We know that kids deal in the here and now so John and I did our best to answer them honestly and directly.
We told them both scenarios were unlikely where we lived, but, if something happened, the four of us would shelter in our little downstairs bathroom together. That would be our family safe haven. It’s the closest thing we have to the windowless internal conference room at my hotel in Cairns, although much, much smaller.
Experts call it ‘vicarious trauma’, and the chief executive of Kids Helpline, Tracy Adams, says it’s important to explain what is happening, but tailor your answers to the child’s age, and then give them a chance to make a difference such as donating their pocket money or writing a letter.
So just as we had once practised our fire evacuation plan, and talked about which neighbours we would go to if there was a problem, we got out the map and saw just how far away Japan was and attempted to explain fault lines and earthquakes.
I also decided to watch a little less news in their company.
It’s a delicate balance not to give them a distorted view of reality, either way. I don’t want them thinking that we always face such major disasters and the world is a frightening place, but nor do I want them growing up without knowing that beyond our fence there are wars, famine and tsunamis.
I’m so grateful that I do have a role to play. We can all find a job to do in times such as a national disaster. Nurse broken bodies and hearts, rebuild homes, fix roads, clean up rubbish, or, in my case, disseminate information—tell you when to leave, where to go, what areas need assistance.
I hope one day my kids will be proud of their mum and then my two jobs will sit nicely together.
Yummy Mummies
Ah, the pressure to be a yummy mummy.
It’s not enough that we grow and deliver a healthy baby, we’re also expected to stride out of hospital in our pre-pregnancy jeans and high heels, the very image of maternal chic.
Seriously, who does that?
I couldn’t even walk in those shoes before I had kids, so there was no way I was going to risk a spill and wear them carrying a precious baby or wrangling a toddler.
Why do we put such pressure on ourselves to prove to the world that we can do it all—have a family and look a million bucks?
I love flipping through magazines and looking at pictures of Angelina Jolie or Heidi Klum and I might even grudgingly (or secretly) envy Victoria Beckham with her stylish sleek dresses and life of luxury . . . but they’re not the mums I look up to. To me, they’re not real. Maybe their life is a lot more like mine that I realise—late nights cleaning up vomit, finding lost teddies, breaking up fights and getting everyone to the table for dinner—but they do so with a wealth of support and round-the-clock staff.
Don’t get me wrong, I love looking at what they wear and will admit to taking the odd supermodel photo to my hairdresser for that post-birth I’ve-had-my-hair-in-a-ponytail-for-twelve-months haircut, but that’s as far as it goes.
And aren’t we sick of hearing about mammoth weight drops? Who achieves the best post-baby body the quickest? What horrid pressure! Every morning spent with their trainer is one less with their gorgeous newborn.
Then there are the gorgeous stars who smile at me from the cover of a magazine with the caption ‘How I plan to regain my famous figure’. Isn’t it more important how she plans to raise a child in Hollywood and keep him or her normal? Mind you, I’ll read the article anyway—with a large dose of jealousy—then remind myself she is probably only 25 and her career does depend on the size of her butt.
Of course, exercise, health and feeling good about yourself after giving birth is vital, but it’s not a race. Motherhood has become way too competitive anyway: whose baby sleeps all night, walks first, speaks first, counts to a hundred. As mums, let’s ease up on ourselves and each other. Sure, having a baby changes your body, but it also changes your life. Let’s talk about how content and happy a new mother looks, not how long it’s taking her to get a flat tummy.
Every mummy is yummy. For some it’s their job to be a size zero. They employ chefs, trainers and probably had damn good genes to start with.
Of course we all want to lose the baby weight and we need to keep ourselves strong and well for our baby’s sake as much as our own.
And exercising and feeling good about yourself is so important to the mental health and wellbeing of every new mum.
But we also need to be happy, healthy, proud and satisfied. At the end of the day your baby’s contentment is really all that matters.
Zzzzz
Parenthood, particularly in the first few years, brings with it an obsession with sleep.
It starts when you’re pregnant and you wake up for no apparent reason in the middle of the night. Just when you should be stocking up on slumber, your body gives you a nasty little taste of what is to come. Soon enough you’re being woken by a hungry cry and dragging yourself out of bed, exhausted and convinced life as you know it is over.
To the parents of a newborn, ‘sleeping through’ becomes as big of a milestone as walking.
And sleep-ins are gone. Remember the lazy Sunday mornings when you could lie in bed as long as you wanted and read the entire newspaper? They don’t come back until your kids are old enough to turn the telly on themselves and patient enough to wait for you to surface. We even moved the breakfast cereal to the bottom shelf in the pantry so they could fix themselves something to eat. Alas, it didn’t work. It’s not Corn Flakes they want, but our company. Not because they can’t do the above but because we can.
Gone too are the Saturday afternoon naps on the couch in front of the footy, and, for a few years, the solid uninterrupted eight hours at night. There’s always some little person who needs to go to the toilet, can’t find Teddy or has had a bad dream.
Sometimes it feels like we will never ever get enough sleep again.
So, as someone who spent fourteen years getting up each
day at 3 a.m., I’m an expert in getting what you can, when you can.
I have mastered the art of the nanna nap. I can nod off on the couch for ten minutes and wake up rejuvenated. I’ve even parked at the school gates fifteen minutes early and gently closed my eyes. If I have a child-free day I can go home, crawl under the covers in broad daylight and sleep for two hours. Mind you, I then spend the next hour wandering around dazed and guilty that I’ve wasted my afternoon.
I get excited when I travel interstate. It means a plane trip, which to me means a nap. I can nod off before we have even left the ground. Though I’ll then wake myself up with a little half snore or loll of the head, totally humiliated and apologising to the person next to me.
My secret fantasy is a weekend in a hotel room. No, not quite what you think. In my fantasy I’m alone with nothing but room service and black-out curtains.
The average Aussie mum gets well below seven hours of sleep a night when she has a child under six. And if that doesn’t make you yawn, mums lose between 400 and 750 hours of sleep during the first twelve months of parenthood.
But while I struggle to get enough, I am pretty rigid about how much sleep my children get. I was the boring mum who always took her kids home for their nap, on time, every time. And even now, bedtime is the same time each night, probably because I am just as keen myself to hit the hay. In fact, for many years they were tucking me in and turning out the light.
We know we need sleep for optimum health, but in our house we also need it for sanity. There is nothing quite like the agony of a late afternoon meltdown, as things spiral out of control due to fatigue and hunger.
And that’s just me.
Afterword
On the morning we shot the cover photo for this book I was sitting in the chair of an inner city studio, with my dear friend Sonya doing my hair and make-up and my publisher Claire supervising proceedings—three regular busy working mothers.
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