A Mother’s Discourse

By Zoe Thomas

I want to possess, fiercely, but I also know how to give, actively. Then who can manage this dialectic successfully? Who, if not the woman, the one who does not make for any

object but only for…giving?Roland Barthes

A Lover’s Discourse (1977)

Nausea is a disagreeable companion. It has been haunting me for nearly two weeks. My

lifestyle is clearly beginning to take its toll. I have reached the point of saturation; 'Girl

Drowns in Hedonistic Deluge.' I lie on my bed, head pounding with a hangover beat,

home from a three-dayer in Noosa. Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Your father.”

“Father who?”

“Very funny,” he says as he enters my room.

“Oh, that father. I remember the face…”

It’s a running joke. Dad works long hours for a design agency and I work in hospitality so

our paths rarely cross. Not that they ever did. Our relationship is a long stretch of

absences; I have moved in with him to try and close some of the gaps.

“How was your weekend?”

“Big. Too big.” As I say it, big makes its presence felt and I lunge like an

Olympian to the nearby ensuite and hurl.

“Jesus,” chuckles my father. “That is big. You know, you have been sick a lot

lately. You should think about seeing a doctor. You look bad. Could be liver failure.”

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“Thanks Dad.” More hurling.

“Can I get you anything?”

“A new liver.”

“Well you wouldn’t want mine.”

“I’ll settle for a water right now.”

He wanders off; I hear his steps, the cupboard door, the tap, the cup running over.

Comforting sounds, sounds of care to which I am unaccustomed. I close my eyes and

enjoy the moment. Then he is back. He hands me the glass and says he’s off. He is

heading out. I am past the point of bothering to ask where. My father is an extrophile; out

is where his heart is. Anywhere will do: café, restaurant, boardroom, bar, gallery. It is

not even unusual for him to sleep out. He can often be found snoozing in a lounge chair

at our favourite bar. The bouncers used to kick him out, but he has the kind of affable

personality that pacifies people; now they just laugh and leave him to it. We probably

spend more time together at that bar than anywhere else. They know us both by name. A

free drink at the bar is our version of the family meal. Togetherness enjoyed four or five

nights a week. Hence my poor state. I am quietly convinced that there is indeed

something wrong with me. It is time to consult a doctor. So I finish chucking, sip my

water and call the local clinic.

*

“Name?” She doesn’t even look up from her screen.

“Zoe Thomas.” She clicks digits and tells me to sit.

I wait, thumbing through Time, glossy pages full of woe: cancer, clots, tumors, stroke. I

am done for.

2

“Zoe Thomas?”

I stand.

“Yes.”

I follow.

It’s a stuffy office; pale blue walls and standard-issue grey furniture. A bulky

computer sits on a plain desk, hard-drive humming. She slaps down my file and opens it.

She reads it, clears her throat, flips a page and turns her chair. Her eyes are mute; a robot

doctor who is paid by the hour to consult the welfare masses.

“Now, what seems to be the problem?”

I stumble over ums and wells. Her glare says spit it out but she smiles in pretend.

“Ummm…nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells, headaches, tiredness.”

“I see.” She peers over her red rimmed glasses to get a better look at my

condition.

“And when was your last period?” As though this is a relevant question. More

ums. Lots more. I don’t remember.

“I don’t remember.”

At this she actually purses her lips and emits a puff of disdain.

“Try to think.” Is she implying that I can’t? “Three weeks? Four? More?”

It should be an easy question; I rub my forehead, willing the answer to pop out. It

doesn’t. She swivels her chair, flicks open a draw and whips out a specimen jar.

“Okay, well, we will just go ahead and do a pregnancy test to be sure.”

Sure? Sure of what? She stands and ushers me out of the room.

“Third door on the right. Come straight back when you are done.”

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I walk to the toilet but I can’t feel my feet. I open the door but I can’t feel my

hands. I sit on the toilet and my body is a stranger. I fumble with the jar, the lid, the

position. The first squirt shoots sideways. Shit. I swivel, splash and fill; specimen jars

were not designed with women in mind. Then I hold it up, my yellow measure of “sure.”

I am paralyzed by the gravity of what could be floating in this pot. I return to her office

and hand over my sample, then I sit and watch her dunk a test-stick in. I hold my breath.

All the air has been sucked out of the room. I can’t be pregnant.

“It’s ok,” she reassures me.

I breathe out.

“You’re just pregnant.”

I smile, because she is smiling and it seems like the right thing to do. She beams at me as

though this is the best possible news I could hope for. I beam back, then everything goes

dark and I start to cry.

“Oh dear.”

The crying gets worse, I throw my head into my hands like I am bracing for impact. The

doctor tries to comfort me. I feel her cold hand on my back. I sob in loud rapid gasps. I

have lost control. She tries to calm me but her attempts are drowned out by my

megaphone misery. Then she starts to lose control as well. She threatens “sedation” and

“security” and then bangs her fist hard on the desk. I look up and without warning I vomit

on her shoes and the crying stops. There is an eternity of awkwardness, slowly she takes

off her shoes, shuffles out the appropriate advice and sends me away with a prescription

and a phone number. Apparently I live in an age of “options.” I don’t have to “keep” this

baby.

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*

I never wanted to be a mother. I never felt the biological urge. No tick of the clock, no

desperate need to fill my womb and my life with the bounty of children. So I book in for

a termination. Motherhood is a foreign place and I have no desire to go there. I cloister

myself at home for the wait, drowning in vomit, for three days, sobbing and sleeping.

Strange sounds begin to fill my head: crying, gurgling, a wordless babble. My unborn

child calls to me from a deep place. I can hear the echo of her voice. I call back. She is

slipping away from me. Don’t leave. Come back. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I start to

run, through corridors of emptiness, screams behind closed doors, none of them will

open, but I can hear her crying out to me. I’m coming. Panic and fear rage like black

holes. Then I’m outside in the night. I fall over and start to dig. She is buried. I must find

her. The dirt is red. I am covered in blood. It is her blood. Suddenly my mother is there –

looming and disapproving. She bursts into flames and my flesh burns.

I scream, I launch upright, arms outstretched, tears choke my throat, then I am

awake and I fall back onto the bed. The summer heat hits me and I stumble to the ensuite.

I collapse retching onto the white tiles. When I am done I lie down in the cool room, the

smell of shampoo, soap and cosmetics fill my head. My nose has a new aptitude for

smells; it separates and rearranges them one by one, then blends them back together like

perfume. I smile: these changes are enthralling. The thought of terminating begins to rise

like a rash on my body. I scratch it. It gets worse. Then I am hit in the chest by a need for

orange juice so I head for the kitchen. The geckoes serenade me, their transparent bodies

scuttle like tiny foetuses on the walls. They are beautiful; their high-pitched call is a

perfect tune. I feel so alive; I could dance if my body didn’t feel so slow. I scratch and

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squeeze in the kitchen. It is a comforting place, a galley of three supportive sides, with

bright blue tiles and a shiny gas cooker. My dad has bought a fridge on credit. I touch its

smooth surface and imagine him there, holding me. The cool white mass feels good as I

press my lumpy self against it. It is smooth and solid. It takes my weight. But it’s a poor

substitute. He is out, as always. My pregnancy unsettles him, like now I might really

know how he has failed me. And I will. In time.

I am walking on a velvet carpet. Everywhere I go I feel new sensations. My

surroundings are highlighted; my brain sees things differently. I could write my name

with the tips of my fingers. I wander to the lounge and open the sliding door. A breeze

rushes in. The bougainvillea is flowering in purple clusters on the balcony; the color

convinces me of a fragrance and fills my nostrils with blackcurrant. My senses are

bottoms up. My brain is too small for all the information my body is drinking in. As I sit

and breathe I am struck by how alone I am. The whole world has been swept out on a low

tide. I am expecting the only other person in the world who might ease this loneliness.

My baby’s father is due. He is coming to see me for the first time since I found out about

the pregnancy. I am not expecting a happy reunion. It has been three weeks since he left,

since we hurled curses and objects at one another. I was relieved that I would never have

to see him again: relationship aborted, no ceremony, just goodbye. This will be an

awkward hello.

Noise from the street floats in; people moving through the ease of untroubled

lives. I am packing old lives away and moving. Moving inwards to a place that I have

never been. My ears prick at the sound of children. There is a school nearby, there are

shouts of little voices raised in play. I have wandered past the fence many times. That

6

short fence is a great divide between their world and mine. One day I might jump that

metal hurdle. I shudder with self-doubt. I lay my head on the red cushion and let my tears

fill the room. A knock at the door startles me; I wipe my face and take a nervous breath. I

cross to the door and let the wolf in.

“Hi.”

“Hello Zoe.” He enters stiffly, his bulk and scent pushes me backwards.

“How are you?” he asks, eyes glaring.

“Sick.” I reply. His nose twitches.

“How’s your dad?” he inquires, teeth stuck in a nervous grin.

“Out, like he always is.”

I start to sway; the heat, the nausea, him, all eating at me. He grabs my arm to stop my

fall and I pull back. There is a pause, and then impulse smacks me in the back of the

head.

“I’m keeping the baby.” I wield the axe, the pieces fall.

He looks confused, awkward, he starts to pace, stumbling over words. He “doesn’t know

what to say.” He has lost his place in the story. He digs his hand into his pocket and

throws me $200: blood money. He looks at my hands as though the notes will speak the

words that he cannot. His eyes are pain and fury. He picks up his bag and rushes for the

door. Then he stops and turns back to me.

“I can’t help you Zoe, I don’t want another child. Good luck with everything.”

He turns and leaves. I watch him go. There are no words anywhere; my throat, my head

and my heart are all empty. The hinged door slams shut. I throw the money to the floor. It

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is scattered currency that was meant to pay for the abortion of a child that I have just

decided to keep.

*

Monday finally rolls around and I pick up the phone.

“I’m keeping the baby.”

A kindly voice congratulates me and I quickly hang up. The words ricochet around my

head and begin to make their way out into the world. “Keeping the baby.”

I tell my father.

“Jesus Christ…that’s big. We will talk about this later.” And he break-necks off

to an important meeting.

I tell my mother.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it will ruin your life.” And we don’t talk for seven months.

My sister.

“Are you serious?”

My best friend.

“Oh my God.”

My grandmother.

“Oh Zoe, no!”

My workmates.

“Fucking hell.”

“No way.”

“Are you kidding?”

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And on, and on, and on come words of shock, disbelief and disapproval to drown-out my

happiness. I close my ears and open my heart. Morning sickness is a good buffer; it is

hard to absorb anything when you are throwing up at thirty- minute intervals. The

decision is a finishing line; a failed race, a time to start over. I cross the line and return to

work at night shift at an inner city bar. All around me people celebrate other things with

drinks and cigarettes. They laugh over tapas, oblivious to the mountain I am moving

inside. I clear away martini glasses between regular sick-trips to the toilet. It is not easy

but I have never been so determined. After years of hedonistic oblivion, life is suddenly

lucid. The long blur of day and night are finally clean and clear. I do a lifestyle back-flip

and perform duty and responsibility with self-righteous aplomb. No alcohol, cigarettes,

coffee, raw fish, deli meats, salmon or soft cheese; it is a ridiculous to sublime

negotiation. A belly-flip from everything a woman shouldn’t do, to everything a pregnant

one should. Folate, exercise, organics, yoga, meditation, Bach for the belly: I somehow

become another person. I am terrified that the substances I have indulged in prior to my

pregnancy have done damage, so I launch myself into maternal guilt and begin the

everlasting job of perfecting it. It is a strange thing – pregnancy. Some women ache for

the feel of a swollen belly and a growing maternal pride. I am not one of them.

Pregnancy is not pleasant; despite my efforts to undo all the years of bad living

and reincarnate the Virgin Mary. On the outside I am humble pleasantries; china-doll

eyelashes and tiptoe smiles. On the inside I feel like I might be dying. Then my belly

begins to swell, a determined bloat, and my body is no longer my own. I struggle to

associate this physical reality with a real life inside. I can’t connect the pieces; it is a

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cognitive dislocation. So I begin to weave it together in my mind, to assemble ideas of

this baby girl they tell me I am having. It is the only place I can really see her – in my

imagination. I envisage perfect days of gurgling happiness in soft tissue-commercial

idyll. She will sleep, feed, grow and learn in harmony with the tune of my expectations.

My girlhood dreams of familial togetherness will finally be satisfied. Of course it will

only be me and her, but what do I care for nuclear arrangements, they are largely

unfamiliar to me anyway. And of course as soon as it is time, Father Charming will ride

on in and complete our little circle. Blessed be the hormones; they kept me safe from the

harshness of reality as surely as I kept this growing person safe in my womb.

*

B-day approaches and I board a plane for Melbourne. I am heading back home, to the

bosom of my family, where I have not been for nearly four years. I say a proper goodbye

to one life and soar skyward towards another. It is an emotional arrival, my mother is

there. I think the sight of me heavily pregnant hits her hard. “You look so well,” is all she

can manage through her tears. “Thanks,” is all I can mange through mine. I spend the last

month of incubation at my grandparents’ house. My Nan is an expert at the maternal

shuffle; home-cooked meals, fresh sheets, folded towels and routine smiles, pats and

squeezes. The mortuary silence of their aging lives is a welcome calm before the brewing

storm in my extra-large teacup. I feel like Sleeping Beauty in the forest; it is cartoon

happiness.

*

Birth is violent. An acute miracle. A near-death stun of the corporeal. But I don’t know

this as my due-date careens towards me and I prepare for the impact. My mother is

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attempting to repair some of the damage of our estrangement by coaching me. In years

gone by she was a childbirth educator, so her old enthusiasm kicks in and she is suddenly

very interested in the pregnancy. And even more interested in the impending birth. I am

swayed by her attentions. Perhaps that’s why I agree – along with the sugar-coat of

ignorance – to a natural birth. This is a task that my body is designed to perform, that

millions have accomplished countless times before me. I can do it, she insists. Her faith

in me is unprecedented. So I fall for the Arcadian rubric and embrace the notion of

performing this momentous task the way nature intended. I walk determinedly through

the doors of the birthing centre with the Earth Mother by my side. Very soon after, she

leaves the building. My mother and my sister stay with me. They are my birthing

partners. There is no man by my side but I am not troubled by this; women seem a better

choice to me for this incredible process. I don’t need crumbling Mars; I need rock-solid

Venus. That is where my mum comes in. I can be stronger myself by the virtue of her

presence. She is ironclad. With her near, I hope to be too. “Mother give me strength,” I

say, or think, I can’t recall, but she wields the kind of formidable power that I imagine

God does for those who believe. My sister is there for her compassion. Nobody else

could care more than she does while I give birth. They are the perfect compliment. But

the thing about labor is, that once the tidal-wave contractions set in, you are completely

isolated from every human being in the room. This kind of pain is a place you go alone.

A superhuman act that can never be shared. An unbearable isolation that concludes in the

most profound togetherness.

*

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It is a wait no longer measured in months or trimesters. Days now, or hours, I hope, as

my distended belly groans with the weight of an unborn child. My body speaks to me in a

foreign tongue; creaking and whispering in an ancient language. I am roused from sleep,

as I have been countless times, to take note. No talking now, just listening, to a primal

current as nature trembles around me, with me, through me. I rise and walk as I have

been told to do, unsure whether this is a preamble or the moment I have been waiting for.

Around the block four times as the sun rises and birds sing in ignorant song.

Today?

Perhaps.

Contractions are slow: the first-timer blues. A melody of nerves and hopes. A tune

that calls my name. Then the pace quickens and I begin to lose my place. Rapid beats,

loud notes, I take my leave for the hospital. They welcome me to the birthing centre – a

place with a calmer song – prepped to soothe for a solo that will end in screams. They

know this. I do not. I am ill prepared, as all first mothers are, to hear the sound of my

own voice raised in agony. The labour is thankfully slow but I feel my drug-free resolve

fall like autumn leaves in a gust as real pain begins to circle. It comes from within and

wraps around me tight. It grows by the hour to a crescendo that is only the beginning.

How can it get worse? I gasp in five minute reprieves. Only six centimeters dilated. Four

more to go. No, as another contraction takes me.

No…no…no.

Eight hours follow. Of no’s and pleas that fall on nature’s deaf ears. Death hovers,

whistling like the wind. My hands try to grab it by the throat. Scratching at the unseen

like an animal. Growling as the torture comes in waves, howling at a pain so complete.

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It’s not even agony now, because those words hold human meaning. This is worse. It

drags me under. Fills my lungs. Am I drowning? My mind is lost in this nameless place. I

would laugh if my throat had any room left for air. Then they lift me from the birthing

pool.

“It’s taking too long.”

And wheel me to a room I might have seen before. I drip and sob as the midwife tries to

talk me through it.

“Here’s your bed, Zoe.”

“NO.”

“Let’s try the ball?”

“NO.”

“Come and squat on the mat then, it will help.”

There is no salvation in these choices, I snatch her helping hand.

“Just get it out, please just get it out.”

She wires me up and monitors begin to beep. “Foetal distress” is released like gas into

the room; a hiss of panic, and finally after four hours in second stage she makes the

“transfer” call. I am hurried onto a trolley and pushed and rushed to the labor ward on a

different floor. My body is a pile of meat, I have no care for it now. I am scrambled

trauma and exhaustion.

A new room, a new bed, a new doctor. She has blond curls like a Botticelli angel.

“Help me.”

She does.

“Suction,” she calls, “the baby is stuck.” And medical intervention weighs in.

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“Thank you,” I nod, as she dons rubber gloves with a smile I will never forget.

I feel nothing. I know nothing. Then suction crowns the baby and my body remembers the

tune. The urge to push explodes. It is ecstasy. My whole life reduced to this moment, to

this baby finally ready to meet the world. Thirty-six hours of frustration force their way

through a small hole in my body and every splinter of pain disintegrates. I feel the small

object as I am purged; marvelous, smooth, perfect. The pleasure of that feeling brings me

back into my body. My mind is restored and my baby is born. My sister cuts the cord, my

mother weeps and gushes, then somebody raises the wet body to my chest and I look into

the blue-miracle eyes of my newborn son.

*

I part ways with the self I had known on that blustery day. I strap the new limp me in

next to my wriggling boy and head for the hills. I am moving in with my mother, to her

little ashram of isolation in Warburton. My feelings are mixed; most of the bag is not of

my choosing. I have not lived with my mother since she kicked me out at seventeen; it is

a double-loaded homecoming. But I am broke, alone and homeless. To her credit she

offered. To mine I accepted. Fortunately her pretty yellow weatherboard has a renovated

attic; a long, triangular room with a window at either end. I have a bed, a basinet and a

change table. It only accommodates a standing adult in the dead centre of the room, but

as my life will now be reduced to a bending, stooping and sitting affair it hardly matters.

A baby has a way of reducing your spatial output. Your new workout is mostly on the

inside. It is a lovely house, surrounded by mountains and thick unpopulated bushland. It

is beset by a rural quietness, only the birds disturb the peace. That is until 3am when my

baby starts screaming. That pitch-perfect blast shatters silence like nothing I have ever

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heard. And nothing my mother has heard for a very long time either; as I am told over tea

and toast the following morning before she mutters resentful goodbyes and goes to work.

I spend my days in exile while she works, and my nights trying desperately to hush my

crying baby. I last six weeks in Warburton, under the mantle of my own cluelessness and

the wrath of mother superior. “Why aren’t the dishes done”…“Is that wet washing still in

the machine?”…“Are they your lunch dishes in the lounge?”…“Are they disposable

nappies on the baby?”…“He might be infertile if you heat his balls in plastic!” My

mother and I are oil and water. It becomes clear to us both that elsewhere is the best place

for me to be.

*

Much has been said about the liminal space that a woman occupies when the fanfare is

over and she is left alone holding the baby. It is “nurture shock” on a scale of ten. A daily

rotation of breastfeeds, nappy changes, napping, waking, changing, bathing, settling,

adoring, loathing. Slow-motion chaos in sleepless hypercolors. Everything takes on a

manic tone when sleep deprivation sets in. Why is he crying, why did he spew, should his

shit be that color, was that one breast or two? Christ what’s that rash, why is that red, is

he alive in his cradle, or is he quiet and dead? When should I wake him, how will I know,

can I mash that for solids, will that help him grow? The maternal-health nurse said worry,

the doctor said don’t, the pediatrician said medicate, Aunt Beryl said both. Stay on, get

off, rise up, crash down, come in, check-out, check-up, let down. A collage of confusion,

a layer-cake of joy, a grand symphony of suggestions, all this for one boy.

*

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It is a spring day. Birds chirp in the pine trees that surround my new two bedroom flat in

Essendon. They have been my constant companions since I moved in four months ago:

my feathered family. I throw them crumbs and in return they stick around and take the

edge off my loneliness. Sometimes when I open the doors and windows they wander

right in. My son loves to watch their darting bodies, he points and smiles as they bob and

flit. Today happiness has been granted in twofold reprieve; the birds are singing and my

son is sleeping. He is six-months-old; he has not slept for more than three hours at a time

since he was born. Sleep deprivation is my tunnel home, the light at the end seems very

far off. I have mastered the swaddle like an origami artist, introduced solids and a

formula feed, moved him from my bed to a cot in his own room and endured the anguish

of controlled crying – and still sleep eludes us. But for now he is down for the count. I

tip-toe through the flat – dishes, washing, tidying, all to be done – but I dare not make a

noise lest I break the seal.

I wander into the small lounge room that is full of misfit furniture and baby toys;

a new life pieced together in the final stages of pregnancy. Most of the stuff has been

brought in from elsewhere; I am retrofitted for motherhood. There is a bouncinette, a tub

of toys, a jolly-jumper, an old green armchair. I scan the scene for pieces of me: nothing.

I slump into my faded St Vinnies couch. It’s a two-and-a-half seater, not well suited for

the stretch-and-nap, but I’m just too tired to care. I close my eyes.

Liquid sand between my toes, the lap of blue, the sway of trees. Alone I wander

with no place to be. I sit down and the warmth of the sand surrounds me. I roll in it,

closing my eyes, I feel it on my skin. Then I lie still. Calm settles. Dozing on the sand,

my body is heavy, my limbs lose their strength, I succumb, it feels so good. I smile as my

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body relaxes. Peace. Quiet. Rest. Then there is a noise: an engine. I try to open my eyes. I

can’t. I struggle, I must see. I sit up and try to focus on the horizon. It is a red boat,

leaping across the water. Getting closer, louder, it barrels towards me. There is a baby

behind the wheel, steering erratically, face whipped by a grin and the wind. Closer and

closer it gets, faster, louder. My baby in a speed boat heading straight for me. He is going

to run me down. I stand to run. My legs are slow. He is getting closer. I move but he is

upon me, my arms flail for protection. “No,” I shout…and I am awake again, and the

noise is still with me.

My head is heavy with the need for sleep. I am disoriented, but that noise, what is

that bloody noise? I stumble to the kitchen. There is backfire as loud as a gunshot.

Something sharp pierces my foot. Fuck, a toy. Pain sears through the haze as I reach the

kitchen bench. I look out the window into the yard next door. It is a lawnmower, there is

a man driving it. I see red. My baby is sleeping. I was sleeping. How dare he interrupt us.

What if he wakes the baby? My God. What if he wakes the baby? I can’t think, I run for

the door. He must be silenced. That noise must be stopped. I am propelled forwards to the

landing, the stairs, the driveway. I am running now through a front gate, around the

sideway, into the back yard. I fly towards him; he sees me coming and stops. I gesticulate

madly.

“You’re going to wake the baby! The baby is sleeping!” I point to the window

just above the spot he is occupying so loudly.

“That’s my son’s window!” I am screaming to be heard. The mower is louder. He

is wearing earmuffs. He looks at me like I am crazy.

“The window. The noise. The baby, please!”

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Finally he silences the wretched machine. Tears of exhaustion rush through my chest and

squirt from my eyes. I cry and laugh.

“I’m like a sprinkler,” I cackle. “Sorry,” the laughter fades to grey, “but you just

can’t wake my baby.”

“Look Miss, I’m just the gardener. They hired me to mow the lawns. I have to do

my job.”

“Come back later,” I plead. “Or tomorrow, yes, tomorrow.” My argument loses

ground as I realize what I am doing. The plot’s been lost. His logic outweighs my

hysteria.

“I’m sorry,” he says, then he replaces his earmuffs and starts the engine.

I run from the yard, weeping for the loss of sleep, and with it, my sanity. As I

walk through the front door I can hear my son crying. I go to him and scoop him up in

my arms. Together we cry tears of newness. Sometimes a good cry is almost as good as a

nap. I carry him in shaking arms to the lounge and we huddle on the couch. Lost at sea.

Slowly the crying stops. He sits up and raises his arm to point out the window.

“Bird,” he says, clear and audible. It is his very first word.

I turn my head and there on the windowsill sits a pigeon. Suddenly tiredness loses its

weight and pigeon is the most beautiful color in the world.

*

I book into sleep school, because I’m so tired, so very tired, I’m dragging, my feet, my

eyes, dragging, slow, like a net through wet concrete, so my mum delivers me to an

office, with a security glass entrance, and the sun fills the atrium and hurts my eyes, I

hand over my paperwork, forms filled out, official failure, help required, smiles across

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the white reception desk, and a vase of irises, yes, I’m here, “Welcome”, a green uniform,

takes my information, hands heavy from a woman’s work, she guides me through

unknown corridors, on a sea of grey carpet, passing other ships, but it’s day not night, to

my private room, and I sit on a bed with a floral covering of spewed apricots, Monet

reproductions on the walls, clinical creativity, impotent furnishings, then somebody

comes and takes my baby, my arms feel light, “Orientation”, I just want to sleep,

deprived like a prisoner, they use sleep deprivation as torture, “wake up, wake up,” until

you break apart, and your secrets spill out, or just your mind, I wash my face in the

ensuite, have I lost my mind? I touch my face, my eyes aren’t mine, empty, lifeless, I

sleepwalk to the common room, other people milling over steaming cups, “Help

yourself” shining eyes, radiant with sleep, I grab a cup, a Garfield snoozing, I should be

so lucky, and fill it with something from a tin, and something from a jar, and get a biscuit,

they lived on tea and biscuits in the industrial revolution, and I half-doze sip as I try to

listen through the “Rules” and the “Procedures” only I can’t hear the blonde words

anymore, because my ears aren’t letting sound in, and then we are sent away to our

rooms, my baby comes back, he had a nap, fucking good for him, take him back, “Try

and get some rest dear” what’s that, ok, I lie down, I feel the sink coming on, but he is

close to me, still relaxed, fear of his waking grips me, I can’t slide out, it hurts to be

called back, then someone knocks, and it’s up for a shower, then dinner, hospital food on

pink plastic trays, limp broccoli, pale meat, sad mash, trite conversations with anguished

couples, marriages strained like baby food, no, “No husband, I’m alone,” shame sends me

to the sink for water, and it’s time, put him in his cot, take one, controlled crying, wait

one minute, then in, three minutes, in, five minutes, in, ten, fifteen, twenty, and between

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each break I stand in the hallway with the other zombies, all watching the clock for our

designated bursts of comfort, then back out, in and out, on and on, screams then quiet, a

freak show rotation, the worst yet to come, and finally they say just go to bed now, let

him cry, we will take care of him if need be and I sleep for the longest time in six

months…

*

Roland Barthes once wrote that every writer’s motto should be: mad I cannot be, sane I

do not deign to be, neurotic I am. I cannot think of a better way to describe my

relationship to parenting. Neurosis is my husband, my wife, my best friend, my worst

enemy. S/he treads with me day and night as I negotiate the expedition; it’s a lunatic

jungle. I may never be sane again. Madness is sometimes just a step away. I feel its hot

breath against my skin, hear the crunch of undergrowth beneath its feet, feel the sting of a

branch that hits me as it passes by and runs ahead to sit and wait. There are moments

when I can understand the motivation to relinquish motherhood and make a dash for

freedom. The jungle’s always greener…or some such adage. But the years pass, one child

becomes two, and I negotiate it all with love and guts. Time passes in fits and bursts,

sometimes a weekend feels like an eternity, other times I celebrate another birthday and

the last one seemed like yesterday. Change is the only constant, the landscape keeps

shifting. Sometimes it’s hard to remember who the hell I am.

*

I am game on a wildlife reserve. My children are trained hunters and they want my head

on a mount. They work systematically, often in cahoots, to corner me and exploit my

weaknesses. It’s a rotating game of fight and flight. I lose pieces of myself in the grapple,

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flesh and blood scattered across the border-land, but I also tap into a survival instinct I

didn’t know I had. I am at my strongest. I am at my weakest. It is primacy and cunning. It

is gaining ground then losing. It is the best damn adventure I have ever known.

“Mum, can I have ice cream?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dinner soon.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Just a small bowl?”

“I want some too.”

“Please.”

“Please.”

“We’ll eat all our dinner.”

“No.”

“Promise.”

“We’ll be good.”

“Promise.”

“We’ll go to bed when you ask.”

“Promise.”

“Pleeeeeeaaaaaase.”

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“Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaase.”

“Come on mum.”

“We love you mum.”

“We love you mum.”

“You’re the best mum.”

“You are mum, the best.”

“Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream, ice cream.”

It may appear to be an easy ambush to overcome. Just stand your ground and they’ll give

up and go away. But day-in, day-out, over and over and over; there are only so many

battles one woman can fight. I try to choose the important ones and let the others through

to the keeper.

“Small bowls.”

“Yaaaaaaaaaay.”

Some days I do dig my heels in, just to prove I can. “No is the final answer!” I raise my

voice, my face goes hot.

“But muuuuuum.”

“Listen here you two, I said no, I bloody well meant no. There is a good reason

for no. You can not have rice crackers and biscuits in bed and watch a movie at 9:00 on a

school night. I don’t care how entitled you think you are. I don’t care if you think you are

still hungry when it’s time for lights-out. You had dinner, the kitchen is closed. Closed I

say. You should have eaten more earlier. Be thankful for the things you do get, some kids

live on sloppy porridge, one bowl of slop a day. They’ve never even tasted a Simpson’s

cookie or had a movie in bed with peeled orange and strawberry milk. NEVER. EVER.

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Now go and brush your teeth before I get the pliers and pull them out so I don’t have to

go through this every damn night of my freaking life!”

It’s a cheap shot, but the starving kids card seems to shut them up; not because

they really get it, just because I often repeat it. Two can play the game of wear-you-

down-till-you-crack.

“Don’t worry about mummy,” I hear my youngest declare to her older brother as

they retreat from my snarling outburst, “she’s just an old woman.”

“I’m not dead yet.”

*

If tears were a commodity, mothers would own the world. If I had a dollar for every one I

had shed, I’d be living in a Park Avenue penthouse with a nanny, a chef, a housekeeper

and a personal trainer. Tears of joy, pain, regret, fear, hope and exhaustion; they saturate

the world of mothering. Sometimes just a couple before somebody needs a vegemite

sandwich or a clean towel from the cupboard. Sometimes a watershed that won’t let up

despite the call for a late night glass of water. There was a time I would hide my tears

behind a pillow or a closed door, ashamed of my weakness, scared to frighten the

children with my vulnerability. Not anymore. On the contrary; when they build I let them

flow. They are the perfect accompaniment to the experience, a necessary outlet for the

emotional climaxes of mothering. Mother, what big tears you have. All the better to

drown you with, my dear.

I walk into the room crying.

“What’s wrong mum?” My son inquires.

“Mummy is sad darling, it’s good to cry when you are sad, I will be ok.”

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He looks at me with kind blue eyes; eyes that reflect a love that is a permanent resident in

his heart.

“I love you mum.” Sacred words. “I saved your life.”

He is right. He knows it because it is something that I have told him. It is a piece of gold

string that will always bind us. Without him I probably wouldn’t be here. I would have

continued on my path of self-destruction. I was so unhappy; he turned my sadness

upside-down. He added weight to joy, light to dark and purpose to my shitty meander. He

picked up the pieces of my broken and helped put me bac k together again. It is

something that he partly comprehends; his important place. He wears it like a valor stripe.

One day when he becomes a man, we will share a moment when he truly understands the

depth of it. He is the best choice I ever made. I am standing because I had to find legs to

love him. Before him I was a pile of cells that managed to survive but then discovered

that life wasn’t just about survival. I stretched myself and became something new for my

children. What a process it is to become a mother. The smell of their skin, the perfection

of their bodies, the sound of their laughter, their handmade presents, their sleeping breath,

their need for comfort, their cooperative imaginations, their love for me; an endless

archive that I store in my heart, forever growing. I never realized how big it was in there.

*

And then there are school mornings. If you are a parent these two simple words will bring

out a sweat like high-noon at boot-camp. It is a rigorous task trying to persuade two

highly competitive wills to meet the clockwork schedule required for a 9am start. It takes

endurance to achieve breakfasts, packed (healthy) lunches, clean uniforms (including

compulsory hat in summer months), socks in pairs, brushed hair, cleaned teeth, last

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minute toilet trips, conflict minimization, front seat battle, seat-belt fastening and school-

front delivery by 8:55. I would take job interviews, public speaking, tax returns and

exams over school mornings any day of the week. There are few tasks that I have

undertaken that have been more stressful, and it is a chore that must be performed five

days a week for forty-two weeks of the year. Of course it doesn’t help that I am not

partial to early mornings. That to rise before 8am seems to me an indignity that I ought

not suffer. And I confess to thumbing my nose at said duty many times the night before

with an important late-night film; or a good book that begs just one more chapter; or a

glass of chardonnay or four, whereby the nose thumbing gets progressively more bold

and makes the next morning’s slap really sting. I long for the days when these mornings

fan out into the glory of school holidays, and even more for the ones when the children

are old enough to manage themselves; which will likely be a fair way off, and could see

me in another ten years of detention.

I drag my head cold out of bed. The winter air assaults my sinuses. The heater is

not on.

“Hunter,” I admonish him as he greets me. “I don’t understand why this routine is

so hard for you to grasp.” Probably no first prize for guessing, parenthood is fraught with

hypocrisy.

“You get up, you put the heater on.”

“Oh, sorry mum, I forgot.”

He forgets nearly every day, for several months now, of a bitterly cold winter. He is a

forgetful boy. I waste a few moments wondering if all boys are this forgetful, then I

remember that it’s a school morning and I am on the clock. I hate school mornings. Is

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there a parent who doesn’t? Order has never been my strong suit, and two children, under

ten, on my own, five school-days a week, is a military ask.

“Ruby, it’s time to get up.” Muffled grumbles from beneath the blankets.

I open the curtains and head to the laundry for uniforms. I dump the clean washing on the

mountainous heap that continues to build. The clean pile sits on one end of the couch, a

permanent monument to my housekeeping capacities – or rather lack thereof. I sort

through undies, socks, skivvies, track pants, track pants, track pants? Shit. It’s sports day

and my daughter has no clean track pants. Fail. I dash to the bathroom, dirty pile growing

in its designated spot. Fishing…Aha! Triumph, not even that dirty, nothing a quick

sponge won’t fix.

In the lounge again and my daughter comes bounding in. She runs to me, gives

me a hug and starts undressing for her uniform. I am stunned. This is a rare occurrence,

like hen’s teeth. Who’s that clucking at my door?

“Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” I gasp.

She laughs and keeps being helpful.

“Oh my god, it’s the good twin. Where’s the evil one gone?” She is notoriously

bad at mornings. The irony is not lost.

“I am cooperating.” She smiles.

“Why?” I am genuinely curious.

“So I can watch telly while I eat my Nutri Grain.”

I look over at my son who has just about polished off said Nutri Grain, chosen from a

selection of cereal fun boxes that I bought yesterday in the hope that breakfast at least

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would go smoothly. There was only one Nutri Grain box, and now it is empty. Before I

can distract her my son blurts out.

“I ate the Nutri Grain.” And all hell breaks loose.

My daughter spies the empty box and rushes disbelieving to the cupboard, where she

finds that the box that she “bagsed” has been snaffled, whereby she flies into a tearful

rage at her brother and tries to claw his eyes out.

“Stop,” I yell. “Don’t hit your brother. I said he could choose whichever one he

liked because he was ready first. Move away, there are others to choose from. Look (I

grab the Crunchy Nut, because I’m pretty sure Sultana Bran won’t cut it at this point),

this one is really good. It’s got honey, and nuts, and it’s crunchy, and good.” She gives

me the evil eye.

“But I co-operated,” she growls, through gritted teeth, and then a fresh wave of

sobs ensue.

My head pounds, my body hurts. I hate school mornings. I ignore her dramatics and help

her dress, then pour milk onto the Crunchy Nut and guide her to the table.

“I will buy more Nutri Grain tomorrow. Today it’s Crunchy Nut.”

She calms a little and sits for her breakfast. In the kitchen the clock ticks. I prepare

lunches with time-trial efficiency. It’s a fine art of grab, spread, cut, fold, stuff, and pack;

one skill that I have managed to master. I throw lunches into school bags and run for the

bathroom. Hair brush and tie in hand, it’s back to the lounge.

“I can’t find my shoes,” says Ruby.

“Look harder.” I brush hair into a pony tail and secure amidst yowls.

“They are in the car, Mum.”

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“Hunter darling, grab the keys and get your sister’s shoes for mummy.”

“Where’s your blue satchel Ruby?”

“I don’t know.”

The blue satchel is a silent killer. Every day it comes home bulging with demands;

homework, reading, math, notices to be read and filed, or filled out and returned. If you

forget that sucker you can expect repercussions. If you don’t fill out the reading book – a

new comment each day about the quality time you have spent with your child – you will

be reprimanded: ‘We loved Sally’s garden, Ruby wants to plant her own.’ ‘Today we

talked about the ‘ch’ sound.’ ‘Some tough words in this one, but Ruby tried hard with her

sounding out.’ Fail to proffer such gems, or heaven forbid you forget to write anything,

and you can expect not one but three strikes against your name. ‘Ruby must read every

day!...!...!’ Like tiny little spears piercing my parental confidence. Forget about

deciphering Kristeva and trying to write a thesis; the line of communication between the

primary school and the parent is a problem that I may never untangle.

“They aren’t in the car, Mum.”

“Ruby, you must find your shoes.”

“I’ll wear these ones.”

“You have sport today. You can not wear silver ballet slippers for sport.”

I start hauling couches, praying for a sports-shoe-miracle. The time-bomb ticks. The

pressure is on.

“Hunter, help me look. Ruby, check the bathroom.” I find a shoe that matches the

one I found yesterday at the back of my cupboard. Not sneakers but good leather school

shoes at least.

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“Quick Ruby, get that on.” I rush to her bedroom to grab the other one.

“OWWWWWWWWW. It’s too big! It hurts.”

“What do you mean? How can too big hurt? Do you mean too small?”

“Yes, too small.” She hurls the shoe across the room.

“Perhaps if you throw hard enough, you might open up the black hole that the

other ones have disappeared into.”

My anger is building, we are about to hit the final countdown. We really need shoes right

now.

“Just put those on.” I point to a pair of pink boots, which are not ideal for sport,

but I am on a slippery slide to not giving a damn, so they will have to do.

“Quick! Hunter, where’s your school jumper?”

“At school.”

He is wearing a t-shirt, it is four degrees outside.

“Do you think I am a bad mother?” He takes a moment to try and work out my

angle.

“No.” His voice rises at the end, like posing the answer as a question will help

him.

“Do you want other people to think I am a bad mother?”

“No.”

“Because when you have three jumpers and they are all at school and I send you

in a t-shirt in the middle of winter, that’s how it looks. Like I am a bad mother.”

It occurs to me for a moment that this angle may actually be a case in point. But it is 8:52

and I am out of time to contemplate my failings.

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“It doesn’t matter, let’s go, get one on as soon as you get there.”

We leave, I drive, my head is full of rocks, the bell goes as we arrive, they jump out,

“Run” I yell, and they are gone and it is over. Well, until tomorrow that is. I hate school

mornings.

*

Parenting isn’t hard. Constipation after a thirty-six-hour labour and a second degree tear

is hard. The wall against your cheek when you lose the fight with your feet in the rush to

silence a 3am howl is hard. Scrubbing red food dye off the white ceiling of a rental

kitchen for another house inspection is hard. Parenting isn’t hard, it is the most

compelling and endless negotiation of things that are complex, frustrating, amazing,

infuriating, embarrassing, delightful, exhausting, bewildering and downright absurd. This

is my discourse.

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