Haters gonna hate

Sometimes I worry about venting about my struggles in the parenting arena here. It doesn’t stop me from doing it but I do wonder whether occasionally it might make me seem like I’m a bit awful. I don’t have an editorial calendar and I don’t plan my posts too far in advance; it’s a bit more on the fly than that. I sit down and write whatever comes and more often than not the stuff that comes out is the tougher stuff. The bits I’ve been stewing over or trying to reconcile.  Sometimes this means there might be a few negative posts in a row and when that happens I always wonder whether I should bang up something quickly about the rosier side of raising terrorists.  I never do just for the sake of it but it’s something I think about.

A few weeks ago one of my favourite bloggers, Esther Walker, put into words something that made sense of it. She has recently had the horrific experience of being trolled; she received a string of venomous and vile emails from an anonymous hater. The person – gender unknown – made some heinous comments, the worst of which suggested she should kill her toddler if she hates her so much.

At this point many things are obvious; that heinous doesn’t begin to describe a person capable of sending such revolting things. That a person capable of sending such revolting things is in need of psychiatric intervention. That a person subjected to such revolting things would be rattled. That a person subjected to such revolting things about their innocent and beloved child would stop and question, really question, why on earth she sits down every week and gives her readers a glimpse into her life when that is what she gets in return. That it would be tempting to pull down every post she’s ever written and never pen another.

Fortunately for her, and all of her fans, Esther’s readers rallied upon reading of her hellish encounter. They commented in the hundreds and, by opening up about how Esther’s honest words so often rally them, I think, reassured her that despite the abhorrent sentiments of one anonymous hater, there is tremendous gratitude for what she does in her weekly missives. And, more than just gratitude, there is utility. Because it makes other people feel less alone, less in need of a straight jacket and less like they’re the only one who wants to yell “THIS IS TOO BLOODY HARD!!!,” when they’re trying to pin down a three year old to administer eye drops (FOUR TIMES A DAY FOR FIVE CONSECUTIVE DAYS!!!). 

I doubt any sane person could read one of Esther’s posts and not conclude that she absolutely adores her children. It is plain to see in her words. But, as she wrote, there is less value in writing simply about how much she loves her children. How vast and uncomplicated that love is and how delightful her gorgeous kids are. Because, as any parent can attest, that’s the easy part; the bit that happens without trying.

The bit that isn’t easy is coming to grips with the moments when you just want everyone to stop whinging. Or asking questions. Or barking orders. Or melting down. Or demanding more of you when, in fact, it feels like there is nothing left to give because it feels like you’ve been meeting demands for months on end. The bit that isn’t easy is coming to grips with the fact you can love a small child so hard but just as intently wish they were someone else’s responsibility part of the time. You know, like one weekend a month.

If you don’t have small children or have never been responsible for small children for a prolonged period of time, I think, there is a chance you might read that and think that anyone feeling those things is doing it especially tough. That any parent feeling or thinking those things is really struggling. Like ‘bring in people in white jackets’ kind of struggling. But, as far as I can tell, thinking and feeling those things is pretty routine in the lives of families with little people.

It’s the reason I, and no doubt all of her fans, rejoice in reading the words of a parent like Esther. A parent who is honest and generous and brave enough to tell me, in no uncertain terms, she feels those things. And I am grateful because apart from entertaining me with her funny and thoughtful posts and plying me with recipes that work, Esther’s blog makes my tougher moments in the parenting arena a tiny bit more bearable. It’s further proof that others mothers really are every mother’s biggest ally.

I’m glad she doesn’t sit down and write something rosy just for the sake of it and it’s the reason I won’t either. As the writers of The Wire so aptly put it ‘haters gonna hate’ so there’s no point pretending for them. And because you’re all too lovely to hate I know I can level with you.

Scorned by thy neighbour

Readers I am feeling scorned. Truly. Madly. Deeply. Mostly madly to be honest. Let me set the scene. We’ve been having a pretty tumultuous time here at NABM HQ lately. No single event is responsible but a few factors, when taken in combination, mean it’s been kind of rough. The girls have both been sick (and consequently grumpy and miserable) on and off for weeks, Mr G’s been working like a demon, I’ve been scrambling to make arrangements for going back to work and the backdrop to all of this is that Mr G and I haven’t really slept properly in over eight months. One reason we’re both sleep deprived is because we live in an apartment. It means there is no spare room where one of us can retreat; for a daytime nap, for some quiet time or a solid night’s rest. We live on top of each other and we have neighbours who live on top of us.

Which brings me to feeling scorned. By thy neighbour. Yesterday afternoon, I was yo-yoing between the girls as they each resisted sleep at different times for different reasons. Miss L is a baby so clearly needs to sleep during the day and whilst Miss I is 3, she still appears to need her nap too. I like the girls having a nap for a few reasons. Obviously I like it because it means I have a quiet home for at least half an hour which recharges me for the afternoon ahead. But it also recharges them. And because they’ve been sick lately they both needed sleep yesterday even more than I needed peace.

After a pretty spectacular lunchtime tantrum Miss I hopped into bed without hassle but, murphy’s law, Miss L took more convincing. Once I finally put Miss L in her cot without major protest and sat down to eat something, Miss I howled. I managed to convince her to lie back down. This worked for about ten minutes before she cried out again. I brought her into our room on the proviso that she could at least rest and I had just lay her beside me when I heard a knock at the door. “Obviously it’s Mr G coming home super early as a surprise!!” I thought. Obviously I was wrong. It was our neighbour from upstairs. This went down.

Neighbour: “Look I have just had to leave uni early because I can’t concentrate. You guys seem like nice people but you really need to sort out your baby because we’re not sleeping and we’re thinking we may have to move out.”

Me: “I’m so sorry, both the girls are sick at the moment.” My eyes pleaded with her….please don’t do this. 

Neighbour: “It’s just we’ve tried sleeping in our spare room at the back but we can still hear the baby. Is there anything you can do?”

Miss I: Muuuuummmmmmmyyyy Mummmmmyyyy

Me: “I’ll just be a minute Miss I. I’m so sorry. I mean we are not enjoying this at all. We have just had 8 nights in a row without Miss L waking at all but she’s sick so the last two nights we’ve been up with her again.”

My eyes pleaded again…please don’t make me say that I’m on the verge of losing it. I haven’t slept in months and however much you hate being woken by a crying baby multiply it by a thousand and you’ll begin to understand how we’re feeling.

At this point Miss I’s cry had become a bit hysterical and, wouldn’t you know it, Miss L chimed in.

Me: Pointing in direction of the unmistakable noise of two upset children “As I said the girls are both sick and miserable at the moment so there’s not a lot we can do. Trust me when I say we’re not enjoying this and we’re trying our best.”

She stood there looking at me slightly expectantly like I might be able to instantly solve her problem, which, as you can probably see, is in fact our problem.

“Oh gosh sorry I didn’t realise you didn’t enjoy hearing our baby in the middle of the night! We’ve just been getting her up because Mr G and I feel, really strongly, that 7am til 7pm is just not enough time with her. You know? We get her up to enjoy the magic of our baby because even listening to her cry in the middle of the night is music to our ears. From now on would you like us to just leave her to sleep all night?”

She made her point again: “It’s just we’re finding it really difficult and yeah, just wanted to say that and just see if there’s something you can do?”

I managed to hold it together until I closed the door at which point I burst into tears. I felt ashamed and embarrassed and guilty. I wanted to just magically relocate our apartment to a field in the middle of nowhere. But then I really really thought about the exchange and I started to feel angry. And so very scorned. 

Not because I want to be keeping anybody up at night. Or because I think our neighbours need to generously accommodate my children at all hours. I don’t. Quite the opposite. I feel scorned because Mr G and I are considerate neighbours. Yes we live with our two small children, who occasionally make less than ideal noises at less than ideal times, but as far as we’re aware we are well within our rights to do so. When we’ve had a particularly bad patch with Miss L we have delivered cards and rocky road upstairs and apologised. When we bit the bullet and tried controlled crying with Miss L we talked to them in advance and explained what was happening and even bought them earplugs. We have made it clear we are working towards a sleep solution and have apologised profusely for any disturbance. We have offered them our compassion and understanding.

I feel scorned that instead of offering us the same I got grandstanded and made to feel like absolute rubbish in my own home. I don’t think you need to be a parent to understand that no one wants to be up in the middle of the night with an upset child. Least of all their parents. Particularly not parents who have gone out of their way to make it better.

There is some consolation though. As a newly engaged couple they have expressed their excitement about starting their own family and when that happens I know she will think back to that conversation one night when she is up with an inconsolable infant and she will regret her lack of understanding. One of my Twitter friends said, quite evilly, it best: “May they be blessed with triplets with colic who feed hourly on different schedules.” I’m not sure anyone deserves that but I’m happy to say karma has already kicked in. By a stroke of luck neither of our girls are early risers so our neighbours, small blessing, have never had to deal with noisy children before 7 am, which is pretty good going in the land of little kids. Until today. This morning Miss I woke at 5.30am with an almighty cry and then played noisily with abandon for hours. I wanted to high five her. Loudly.

The maelstrom that is a mother's mind

I have written before that maternal guilt is something I try to avoid indulging myself in too much. Like envy, I find it achieves nothing other than making me feel a little bit off. Of course, despite my best intentions to avoid it, I do, from time to time, succumb and roll around in guilt-ridden thoughts. My new job has triggered an indiscretion and it’s bothered me for a few reasons.

For one thing I have always advocated – to myself as much as others – that motherhood and professional ambition need not be mutually exclusive. There isn’t too much else I believe in quite as fervently as that. I also know first-hand that combining work inside and outside of the home is a happy arrangement for me and my little family. Despite this I would be lying if I said I haven’t harboured some guilt about returning to work whilst Miss L is still a baby.  

When the possibility of this job first arose I was genuinely thrilled. My head spun and it excited me for a variety of reasons; it’s an opportunity to work from a platform I admire, pursuing an agenda I am genuinely passionate about in a role that, I think, will effectively utilise my experience and skills. It’s probably not a stretch to describe it is as something of a dream job. For at least a week I was mentally high on the prospect alone.

After a while though a sinking feeling descended and it didn’t take me long to realise guilt was the culprit. My guilty thoughts came in a variety of shapes and sizes but in a nutshell my unease was this; what sort of a mother would get so excited about a professional opportunity when she has a baby to nurture? The answer, I’ve now discovered, is a mother like me. And I’m pleased to say, I’ve now discovered, I’m ok with that.  At least I am most of the time, and when I’m not I’m going to fake it until I make it (true).

After giving my situation some thought I figured I had a choice; take the job and get comfortable with my decision or turn it down and do the same. I went with the former because I knew the latter would be harder. I’m not sharing with you the reasons I’m now (mostly) comfortable with it because I am seeking your approval. The only approval I need is my own and after doing a little soul searching I’ve decided to grant it. I’m going to tell you the reasons on the off chance that you have faced a similar predicament or think you might in the future.

I should add that despite this navel-gazing work is actually a financial necessity for me; not working was never an option but this means going back earlier than planned. My guilt seemed to stem more from the fact I wanted this job as much as I need it.

Ironically, or maybe it makes perfect sense, it was my two gorgeous girls, the very reason my maternal guilt exists, that made the choice simple. Like any parent I have many hopes and dreams for my children. Namely, that one of them will become an expert in Chinese massage therapy and schedule me in for hour-long weekly treatments throughout my life. I‘m kidding! I’d only want them to follow that path if it’s what they wanted. But what child wouldn’t want to make their mother eternally relaxed and happy?!? Seriously though of all the things I hope they may become, fulfilled, is probably at the top of my list. Well after being healthy, well-adjusted, loved and sheltered from all harm. But fulfilment is a priority because I honestly believe fulfilment is about as good as life gets.  

Fulfilment comes in many different boxes which is why I am eternally grateful to the original feminists. For the fact they gave women a better chance at finding fulfilment by fighting for us to have choices. For the fact they challenged the notion that a woman belongs at home. For the fact that instead of relegating a person to an office or the kitchen on the basis of gender they fought for the individual’s right to make up their own mind.

Despite my gratitude for these things, I am learning, that when it comes to actually walking the walk it’s a bit more complicated. At least it is for me. Because despite the fact I consider Mr G and I equals in every respect, deep down, I obviously hold some unconscious bias. I don’t doubt Mr G’s commitment to his daughters because he is pursuing a career. But I have doubted my own. I don’t question Mr G’s credibility or ability as a father because he has chosen a demanding job. But I have questioned my own. I don’t expect Mr G to apologise to anyone, let alone himself, for wanting the career he does. But I feel compelled to so myself. The truth is I obviously apply different standards to him than I do to myself.

On the one hand it would be easy to pretend that I don’t. Pretend that I am gung-ho enough not to have considered any of these things. That accepting this job was as simple as saying ‘When can I start?’ But, on the other hand, it wouldn’t be true. This is, I think, one of those shades of grey that our former PM Julia Gillard spoke of in her final press conference. Some things are more complicated than black and white and, in her words, ‘require sophisticated thought’. Whilst I can’t lay claim to my thoughts being particularly ‘sophisticated’ this is where the maelstrom that is my mind took me. 

I have often thought how lucky our girls are to have a father like they do. A dad that is doing a job he loves and building a career that will support his family, not just financially, but emotionally, because it fulfils him. And, the truth is, as much as it challenges my natural inclination to say this, they are lucky to have a mum like that too. And so I’ve started applying the same standards to myself that I have to Mr G. Standards, I should say, he has always applied to me. 

I do have ambitions and interests beyond parenting and that is not to the girls’ detriment. It is in their favour. Work supports and sustains me and it helps me support and sustain them. Writing, interviewing people, planning stories, thinking about issues and starting conversations might not achieve world peace but it stimulates me in a way nothing else does. And that certainly promotes peace inside this house.

But, as I said about fifty pages earlier, it was the girls themselves that finally focused my complex and contradictory and chaotic thoughts into sense. If I was to put either Miss I or Miss L into my shoes in 30 years time and they came to me with this choice? If they had the option to get paid to do something that makes them tick whilst also raising their family? I would be thrilled for them. End of story. And so I’ve decided to stay thrilled for myself. Even if, on the odd occasion, I have to fake it.

A quick poll to end a long post; am I alone in weaving this complex web or have you deliberated over these things like me?

Mothers (not) at war

Plenty is said about the so-called mummy wars that are supposedly battled out between child-toting women everywhere. If you believe what you read us mothers fight over everything. From feeding, to sleeping, to working, to not working, to dummies, to organic, to not organic, to bottles, to toys. If there is a choice we’ve got battle lines firmly drawn. But do you want to know something? We don’t. Us mothers might be at war but we’re in the trenches together. It’s our children, really, that we are at war with and in that battle other mums (and dads) are our fiercest allies.

Steering little people towards a civilised existence complete with manners, clothes, food, rest, water and stimulation is a long war of sorts. Each day, and if we’re unlucky, each night, we wake up, we assume the same position on the battlefield, usually at the frontline, and armed with consistency, patience and strength, we go into combat with our small antagonists. Breakfast? No! Sleep? Says who?! Sit quietly? No way! Terrorise Mum? Yay! Whilst we inevitably concede battles along the way we try to remember we are in fact winning the war. It’s a ‘please’ here, a ‘thank you’ there, falling asleep without protest, mastering a task like getting dressed. 

Slowly but surely, battle by battle, obstacle by obstacle, day by day, there are signs that we are succeeding in our crusade. Signs that the little lights in our lives are progressing towards independence. And as we go, our staunchest allies, our most reliable sounding boards, our sharpest tacticians, are the other parents on the field with us. This is as true for dads as it is for mums but, for whatever reason, it’s mothers who get lumped with the war tag. And today, in the supermarket, once again, I was reminded how far from true that is.

One of the things that has quite genuinely amazed me about motherhood is the solidarity between mothers. The camaraderie is amazing and it should be celebrated. The support I receive, and that I see others receive, from all sorts of mothers, in all sorts of ways, is breathtaking. Sometimes it’s from mothers who are in the trenches at the same time and sometimes it’s from mothers who were there long ago but remember it well. Sometimes it’s as simple as a knowing glance from another mum collecting her child from daycare, knowing that arsenic hour is about to start. Sometimes it’s being able to send or receive a text from a comrade saying “My toddler’s driving me crazy”. Sometimes it’s a text sent or received from a comrade saying “I get it”. Sometimes it’s a mother recounting a day or moment in time that was so hard they remember it thirty years later. Sometimes it’s a coffee with a mum who is honest enough to tell you that they’re bored and frustrated and that they haven’t slept in 8 months. Sometimes it’s a friend saying “Drop your kids here and go to the osteopath.” Sometimes it’s bumping into another mum in the supermarket, like I just did, and chatting for 10 minutes about our children, our work and our lives and walking away feeling better for having had the conversation.

Solidarity comes in all shapes and sizes but no matter how it’s packaged, underneath, at its core, is understanding. And when it comes to us humans, is there anything quite as lovely as being understood? I think not. We don’t necessarily have to walk in someone’s shoes to understand them; I have lots of friends and family without children and I’d never discount the support and understanding they lend me. It’s just that in any realm – whether it’s parenting, running marathons, managing staff, coping with illness - there is comfort in the unspoken understanding that exists when two people have walked the same path. In my three years in the mother-hood I have never craved that understanding more which is lucky because, thanks to all the mothers in this world, I’ve never felt it more either. And you don’t hear that enough. So the next time you hear or read someone bang on about us mothers being at war, remind them of this. WE ARE ON THE SAME TEAM!!!

Speaking of which it’s time for me to return to the trenches as I march our Misses towards everyone’s favourite battlefield. Bathtime! Dinner! Bed! May the strength (and wine) be with me.

A joke. That's not even funny.

One upside to keeping a blog is that when I find myself in the midst of something even mildly hellish I find some solace in the fact I will have something to write about. And so I am compelled to share with you my recent experience of finding childcare. Anyone wondering why so few women return to work after having children has obviously not spent any time on the phone to the government departments responsible for family services. In my experience even a quick conversation with any of those bodies is usually enough to zap the will to live, let alone work.

I’m due to start a new job next week which means, among other things, I will be relinquishing some of my parental duties. Not in spirit, of course, but in body, at least, a few other adults will be responsible for caring for the two lovely Misses in my life at certain times. This is sensational for lots of reasons not the least of which is because for a while there it looked like Miss I might be caring for Miss L. And that was never going to end well.

 

As background, despite Miss L’s name being down at the fantastic centre which Miss I attends since I was four months’ pregnant, there is virtually no chance of her securing a single day there before 2014. I had naively assumed Miss L would get a spot there so hadn’t put her name down at too many other places. By which I mean, none. But, with that option off the table, with a signed contract and a start date locked in I was forced to quickly familiarise myself with every childcare facility within a 10 kilometre radius of my home and my work.

I had versions of this conversation roughly 30 times.

Me: Hello I’m ringing to enquire about a position for my 8 month old baby and am willing to bake you cakes every day for the next month if you can give me even a glimmer of hope?

Them: Please fill out our waitlist application. The current waiting period for babies under 12 months is 2 years.

Me: How does that work because by then my baby would be 2 years and 8 months?

Them: Well that’s good because the average waiting period for children over 2 is a lot shorter. She’ll get a spot much sooner then.

Me: Well that’s good except I’m due to start work in a few weeks when she will be 9 months old.

Them: The current waiting period for babies under 12 months is 2 years.

Me: Right. I see. Did you hear me promise you cake????

Turns out not even cake helps. After having this conversation too many times it looked like a nanny might be the only option. Except I then did the maths and it quickly looked like that was not a particularly viable option. Nannies charge between $20 and $30 an hour, so even hiring a nanny for 8 hours a day, 4 days a week, would cost $800 a week after tax. At this point I contemplated becoming a nanny myself to get paid quite decent money to do what I already do day-in day-out FOR FREE. That was fleeting.

I then decided to investigate the circumstances in which the childcare rebate is applicable to nannies. According to the various government websites the childcare rebate is applicable to in-home carers in very limited circumstances. (An in-home carer is essentially a nanny but nannies sound expensive and luxurious so the government calls them ‘in-home carers’ and the rules are they can mind children but do no housework. Actually I might try that rule around here but I digress.) I rang to find out more.

Me: Hello, I’m just ringing to find out more about the childcare rebate for in-home care.

Them: The childcare rebate is applicable to in-home care in very limited circumstances.

Me: Yes, that’s what I keep reading. I’m quite interested in what those circumstances might be?

Them: Very limited.

Me: Right. Are you able to shed any light on what those ‘very limited circumstances’ might be?

Them: Well for a start you have to prove you cannot access other childcare. Have you rung any centres?

Me: Yes, I have. I’ve called about 30 and there are no positions and the average waiting period for a child under 12 months is very long. It's approximately two years which I still can’t get my head around but that's the way it is.

Them: Well where do you live? I’ll have a look with our search engine.

[I gave them our suburb which, for context, is in Sydney’s east.]

Them: Right there’s a centre in Hunter’s Hill. Is that near you?

Me: Ah no. That’s on the other side of the city.

Them: Well it’s less than 10 kilometres from you.

Me: Possibly as a crow flies it is but I’m not a crow and I can’t fly. In driving terms it may as well be 20 kilometres. Driving a child from my house to Hunter’s Hill would take over an hour and I’d then have to double back to get to work. I could then probably sit down and write one email before I’d then have to get back in the car. It’s not feasible.

Them: Ok what about Cremorne?

Me: Unfortunately again that’s not near where I live or work.

Them: What about Annandale?

Me: Unfortunately again that’s not near where I live or work.

  

[This charade continued for a solid ten minutes.]

Me: Does your database show centres with vacancies or just where centres are located?

Them: It just shows where they are. You’ll have to call the centres individually to check vacancy.

Me: See the problem is even if I did live in Hunter’s Hill or Cremorne or Epping or Annandale I’m certain there would be a queue of adorable babies, or at least their parents, beating those centres’ doors down just like I am doing at the centres near me. I have genuinely called all of the facilities near us and there just aren’t positions available.

Them: Well do you having any relatives or parents that could look after your children? Maybe you should look into that.

Me: Oh gosh why didn’t I think of that?? Of course!! I’ve got soooo many relatives and grandparents at a loose end, just asking for something to do for 30 hours a week. This phone call is just a ruse because, in my oodles of spare time, I just LOVE interacting with government departments. I am just pretending to actually really need childcare so I could call!!! Tricked you!! No unfortunately I don’t have that option.

Them: Right well. You might need in-home care then?

Me: Yes. That’s why I rang.

Them: In-home care is only available in Petersham. Is that near you?

Me: No it’s not. Gosh that seems extraordinarily lucky for the residents of Petersham; they get in home care while the rest of Sydney doesn’t?    

Them: In-home care is only available in very limited circumstances.

Me: So I hear.

I rang Petersham. Turns out in-home care is not only available to the residents of Petersham. It’s just the office that administers in-home care across New South Wales is located in Petersham. Heaven forbid these agencies would be across such minor details!

Before my will to work had wilted entirely, by a giant stroke of luck (the universe perhaps rewarding me for time lost on hold to Family Services???), I managed to secure Miss L two days in a family daycare centre that has just opened quite near us. I can’t imagine doing two separate drop-offs and pick-ups is going to be particularly easy or fun but, in combination with a nanny one and a half days per week, it will make it possible for me to work. Which is, even after all of this, what I want.

This palaver might have been more amusing if it hadn’t been quite so stressful. If it weren’t for the fact it kept me awake at night for nearly a month. Or the fact it occupied me for about 3 hours a day for nearly a month (which is basically every spare moment I have in a 24-hour block). Or the fact luck is the only reason I can work. Or the fact it is barely worth my while, in real dollar terms, to work. If it weren’t for any of those things, I might find the situation slightly more amusing. It might not be funny but the situation is a joke. If only I could orchestrate another chance meeting with Tony Abbott or Kevin Rudd to nut this out.