Let me start by clarifying. I’m not talking about the AMOUNT we love each child, I’m talking about THE WAY we love each child.

Love is not a measurable entity, we know that. It’s not tangible. It’s a feeling. We can compare it in a rough ‘I love my kids more than my dog’ sort of way, but ultimately it’s something that’s just there – in big foggy volumes – bonding us to those we hold dearest. Without question I love both of my young sons with equal passion and ferocity. They each have a wax seal burned into my heart that will smoulder there forever. I feel it all of the time. It burns deeper at the slightest worry.

My parenthood journey is only really beginning. I have so much to learn, feel and experience yet, which is both exciting and terrifying to me. Something I am noticing though, and I wonder if this is normal, is that my sense of love for each of them is somewhat different.

Our first son is two-year-old Bobby, a fire-cracker from birth who has always known his own mind. We yearned for him and he took his time to arrive. He is either belly-shakingly happy or downright grumpy, with very little in between. He is loud, dramatic and physical. He is just how I pictured our child to be: blonde and chubby, with Ash’s eyebrows and my fat cheeks. My love for him is fierce.

Then we have Sid, our almost-6-month-old baby, who has been quieter from the start. Even when he was in my tummy he was subtle, didn’t cause too much fuss. He came without much planning, and I feel like I’ve loved him since before I even knew he was there. He lets us know when he’s not happy but is easily placated. Compared to Bobby, he has been more ‘babyish’ in every sense. My love for him is easy.

Now I know they are incredibly young. I know they will change hugely over the coming years, particularly little baby Sid who we discover more about every day. But that’s how I would describe my love for them at this moment, fierce for Bobby and easy for Sid.

Is that okay do you think? Do other people feel like they can describe the love they have for each child with one descriptive word?

There are so many factors at play. Order of birth, temperament, personality, looks, gender, abilities, interests, parental experience.

Being first born, I wonder if my fierce love for Bobby is to do with the fact that we are learning with him. He is our trial baby. The one we make our mistakes on. It’s the blind leading the blind so any bump in the road makes us worry. Is this normal? Do we need to get a referral? What the heck is this bum shuffling caper he’s doing? Should we have tried harder with tummy time? Will this impact on him later down the track? That sort of thing. It’s our first experience of having our heart go walking around outside of our body. It’s equal parts terrifying and incredible.

Or it might be that his personality is strong. When he arrives people know about it, in fact he actually tells them “Bobby’s here” like he’s Muhammad Ali walking in for his next fight, and sometimes he behaves like that too. He could smother a kid with his head-lock-like hugs. So perhaps what I’m describing when I talk about my love for him is actually just his personality, because he is fierce.

In contrast, Sid’s temperament is generally relaxed. He takes in new surroundings and is quick to smile. He is physically different to any baby I expected us to make, but then I don’t suppose anyone really expects to give birth to their Dad’s head do they? He is quiet but I can tell he is determined. Loving him has been easy from the start. Unlike with our first born, I don’t have that cloud of anxiety hanging over me. I know his crap sleeping habits will eventually get better. I know he will go through a thousand little baby phases on his way to toddlerhood and a thousand more as he becomes a child. I’m relaxed about that. So my love for him is easy.

I love how different they are. I watch them together with wonder and still cannot believe we created them. I can’t wait to see how my love for them will evolve, and it will be interesting to see if my description of them still marries up in 5 years time, 10 years time and into the teen years. I wonder if their little personalities are already set. I wonder how I would feel if one of them were a girl? I wonder how things would change if God forbid one of them were seriously ill? Or if they experienced some sort of disability or hardship?

I am realising as I read this back over that I don’t really have a point, except to blurt out something that has been on my mind. And I guess I’m just interested to know if other people have had similar thoughts. Do the personalities of your children impact on the way you feel your love? Do you experience love differently with daughters and sons? Is there something that has happened that has impacted the way you feel about each of your children?

It’s a very personal thing so I don’t expect people to share too much. But it is an interesting thing to think about isn’t it?

Eliza xx

 

Let me preface this by saying I ADORE MY BABIES. I just like to laugh at the lighter (and darker) side.

 

Okay ladies here’s the deal:

You must collect at least 20 out of the 25 facts to be granted entry into the

‘OH MY FREAKING GOD I AM A MUM’ Hall of Fame.

Prestigious stuff ladies, prestigious stuff.

1. You feel overwhelming RELIEF at your baby’s arrival. Of course there’s love too. But the relief! The gruesome and bloody murder is over. He is here, in all of his perfection.

2. You don’t even want to know what is going on down there but yes please you’ll take whatever drugs they’ll give you.

3. You adopt a new walking style best described as ‘maimed duck waddling’.

4. You quickly realise that you did not buy enough maternity pads. Emergency phone call to mother/sister/best friend.

5. Each trip to the toilet is Bear Grylls like. It’s about survival. And a lot of ice-packs. You sit so far forward you could kiss the toilet door.

6. You can say with complete certainty that you will NEVER participate in marital relations again.

7. You survive the ‘Night Two Feeding Frenzy’ and a thundering realisation sets in that you have been entrusted with this real live baby FOREVER. You are now one of those adultier adults. You ARE the back up. This terrifies you.

8. Day Three leaves you feeling excited and in control. Baby is sleepy and you are smitten. You really have created perfection.

9. On Day Four you remember that actually you HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE DOING and on top of that YOU ARE REALLY TIRED and on top of that THE ‘ORMONES! Tears. Lots of tears.

10. You drive home from hospital at 30kph. Old ladies, tractors and ride-on lawn mowers are backed up behind you.

11. When you’re lying down you are amazed at how well your stomach is deflating. Then you stand up.

12. You wash your hair in the shower but then can’t remember if you actually did wash it because you were thinking about which breast to start with next time. You wash your hair again.

13. Your diet consists primarily of chocolate, donated lasagne and stool softeners.

14. Your partner makes a clanging noise while removing a fork from the cutlery drawer. You turn on him like a rabid fox terrier ‘AREYOUTRYINGTOKILLME…THEBABYISSLEEPING…EATWITHYOURFINGERSFORGODSSAKE!!!!’

15. You cannot quench your thirst. You drink lots of water and coffee. But not too much coffee because you’re nervous it will keep the baby awake.

16. Gas comes snorting out of your bottom before your stretched sphincter can stop it. Any time, any place. This is best viewed as the aftershock of labour.

17. Your partner does a 3am drive to Maccas in an attempt to put your earthling to sleep. Clothing attire is either jocks or jocks and t-shirt depending on the time of year.

18. At around 6pm most nights you get a tiny nagging feeling of homesickness…homesick for what? Your old life maybe? Who knows!

19. Your couch, windscreen, partner’s shirt, baby’s eye – all cop the spray of your Niagara like breasts. For your own safety, stay behind the yellow line please people.

20. You break all of your own ‘parenting rules’ within the first week. You co-sleep with your baby, dummy shoved in their mouth, after feeding them to sleep. You realise you had no idea. You know you still don’t.

21. You put a super cute beanie on your baby’s head then trot off for a walk all chuffed and ‘I’ve got this’ like. You check later and realise half your baby’s face is covered by said beanie. But it’s okay because baby is still breathing. Remember that you actually ‘don’t got this’.

22. You can count your total hours of sleep on one hand. You make a decision to stop counting hours of sleep.

23. You find yourself rocking the baby even when you’re not holding it, particularly in the shower. You rock the shopping trolley too.

24. Your mum visits you. You start crying.

25. You now understand what Elizabeth Stone meant when she said ‘Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.’

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Eliza xx

 

I grew up in a fairly liberal household. I mean that in the true definition of the word, not the political party. We were encouraged to think for ourselves and share our ideas with the rest of the family. No topic was off limits.

Our most robust discussions often took place at the dinner table or while doing the dishes with Dad, a chore that was rotated each night between the three siblings. ‘The best conversations happen while you’re doing the dishes,’ was Dad’s catch cry, as for the 476^th time we questioned why we couldn’t use the dishwasher.

 

At the time I thought he was basically a modern day dictator moonlighting as my father. But now I think he was right. A lot got said during those ten-minute dish washing sessions.

Do you think there will ever be another war Dad? Why did that footballer get sacked? How come those willow trees in the paddocks are always cut to the same length? (Ha!) What do you think happens when we die? I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. Is yawning really contagious do you think? I’m so nervous about the maths test coming up. Did you ever smoke? Why do you think some people are gay? I love that new show, can we hurry up so I can watch it. Did you hear about Jane’s dad? I’m having trouble with my friends. If your last name was Hitler, would you get it legally changed? I would.

You get the gist. A lot of ground was covered over the years.

There’s something to be said for not having to look at someone when you’re sharing your inner most thoughts or testing your opinion. I guess that’s why they encourage parents to take their teenagers for a drive if there’s something important they want to discuss. It takes the pressure off.

Those little conversations, though mostly long forgotten now, undoubtedly helped to shape the person I am today.

Anyway, get to the point Eliza. Set the scene.

It’s a present day Saturday night. The little babes are tucked up in bed and I’ve settled myself onto the couch for a few hours of kid-free relaxation. Footy is on the television, providing some background noise while I scroll through social media and eat my takeaway. Fairly mind-numbing stuff.

But then something piques my interest, it’s the Indigenous Round. I refocus my tired eyes and tune in. And as I listen to the boys sharing their experiences and feelings about what this round means to them, I am taken back to a life lesson that was granted to me many years ago. Yep you guessed it, while I was doing the dishes with Dad.

I would’ve been maybe ten years old. I was standing at the sink with Dad, probably still in my bright yellow Little Athletics t-shirt, when I parroted to him something I had heard from another kid’s parent, ‘It’s not fair. The Aboriginal kids don’t have to pay for anything. The government just pays for it all.’

Yes, he should’ve flicked me behind the ear (his standard punishment for poor behaviour and it bloody hurt let me tell you). He should’ve shouted ‘How dare you be so judgemental!’ or ‘You’re only 10, what the hell do you pay for anyway!’ But he didn’t. He said six little words that have been imprinted in my brain ever since.

‘Would you trade places with them?’

Would. You. Trade. Places. With. Them.

‘Well, Eliza-Jane, would you?’

‘No.’ I said. Though my ten-year-old self couldn’t articulate why.

It sounds dramatic to say that the conversation that followed was life-changing. But for me it was. We went on to talk about Australian history, discrimination, equality versus equity and the adversity that still faces the Aboriginal people in Australia today. I could elaborate more on this, but that is not the point of my story.

I realised, probably for the first time, that outside of my little bubble there were people doing it tough. And I realised, as a white, middle-class, nuclear-family child, I knew nothing about discrimination and what it must feel like.

What Dad was teaching me was not about pity. It wasn’t a ‘they’re so unlucky, you should feel sorry for them’ conversation. It was about compassion, diversity, kindness and gratitude.

And I have applied those six little words so many times ever since.

 

As more and more refugees take extreme measures to reach our shores, it’s easy to think ‘Go away. We’ve got enough trouble here without saving you lot.’

But would you do anything to save your family?

Would you trade places with them?

That’s about compassion.

 

When the issue of gay marriage becomes a political football, it’s easy to think ‘Why do same-sex couples even need to get married?’

But can you get married?

Would you trade places with them?

That’s about equality and diversity.

 

When you see a mum or dad trying to parent their unique child, who perhaps doesn’t fit in the box that most kids fit into, it’s easy to judge.

But have you loved that child and worried for them every day of their lives?

Would you trade places with them?

That’s about kindness.

 

When you see that junior football coach making decisions, it’s easy to think ‘What’s he bloody doing?’

But have you had a go?

Would you trade places with them?

That’s about perspective and gratitude.

 

As a teacher, I can’t tell you how many times I have used that phrase when talking to students about their interactions with others. The best thing is – I don’t need to tell them anything, they answer the question themselves. And more often than not, it leads to a really genuine discussion that helps to move everyone forward.

Dad probably has no recollection of that conversation we had twenty odd years ago. And I hope it hasn’t sounded all preachy, because God knows I’m not always a pillar of kindness myself, it’s just that those six words have had such an impact on me that I figure it’s worth sharing.

My kids are too young for soul-changing life discussions but I really, really hope that as they grow I can nurture the same values in them that were embedded in me. And if they can be anything in this world, I hope they will be kind.

Our words, though perhaps not as strong as our actions, are weapons that can be used for good or evil. And at the end of the day, what legacy do we leave behind if not the lessons we teach our kids.

Goodness knows the world could do with all the love and kindness we can muster.

I’m not sure I can give up the dishwasher though.

Eliza xx

A month or so ago, while reading one of the weekend papers and basking in the glory of autumn’s sunshine, I came upon an article about model Rachael Finch. The article described Finch as ‘the very embodiment of a thoroughly modern mother’ and went on to say how the model and her husband, Michael Miziner (who she met in romantic fashion on Dancing with the Stars), tag team the care of their two-and-a-half year old daughter, Violet. On weekdays Michael stays home with Violet until 3pm, when Rachael gets home and he heads off to work as a dance teacher. Nothing too outrageous here, any family that includes shift workers will know this ‘ships in the night’ routine.

What jumped out at me though, was the next part of the article. The part where it outlined their weekend care-arrangement for young Violet, “Every weekend (Violet) goes to Mish’s mum’s house, and we get our weekend to ourselves. I think that’s incredibly healthy for the relationship. And on Sunday, when we pick her up, we have 100 per cent energy back.”

What? You get time off from being a parent? You get the whole weekend to yourselves?! I didn’t think such an arrangement could exist!

I’m ashamed to say, my initial reaction was one of disbelief and contempt. What kind of mother leaves their daughter every weekend so that they can nurture their relationship and socialise with their husband? Surely that’s not good for their little girl.

But then I let it all sink in. And I thought about it. What would life be like for Violet?

Well, when she’s home all day with her dad she would be loved. When her mum gets home, after no doubt missing her all day, she would be loved. When her grandmother looks after her on the weekends and spoils her like only grandmothers can, she would be loved. The love! That little girl would know nothing but I-would-rather-die-than-have-anything-happen-to-you love. Sounds pretty great to me.

It might not be an arrangement that suits my family, and I still don’t think it’s something I could do, but what makes me one to judge? She probably wouldn’t eat seven mint slices in one sitting, so you know, horses for courses.

So that got me thinking even more. What made me react to this story about a beautiful mother and her daughter in such a judgemental way?

Now this is just my crazy brain turning it all over, and I certainly don’t think I’m speaking for the masses here, but I wonder if it stems back to the old kindergarten days of ‘It’s not fair, she got a head start.’ She got a head start in The Amazing Race of Motherhood! We’re all back here at the starting blocks, putting The Wiggles on so we can shower in peace, micro-managing kids so that we can get an eyebrow wax, freezing yoghurt pouches so our toddlers take longer to eat them and we get five minutes more time to shop (wait, is that just me?).

While she, over there, she gets the whole weekend to herself! Someone call the race officials, the girl is cheating!

No wonder she can look so bloody gorgeous. No wonder she makes it all look so easy.

We find it really hard not to compare ourselves to other competitors *cough* I mean, mothers. We size them up. See how we fit in. ‘Ok so I’m slightly better than the gambling mother who hit the slots while her kids sat in the car, but not quite as good as that mum over there whose child would like their quinoa crusted veggie burger when you get a chance please mummy.’

The trouble is, we’re competing in a race you can’t win. You can’t win a race where there is no measureable outcome, and the outcome of motherhood is love.

What could be less quantifiable? We all love our kids. We love them more than any word could ever describe. It’s not something you can count or score or time. You can’t bottle it or trade it. We only know it’s there because we feel it. And man do we feel it.

So if something another mum does challenges our way of parenting – makes us question if we’re doing it right – well, it brings out the competitor in all of us. It raises the hair on our necks like a cat ready to claw.

And I think maybe that’s why we get so defensive of our own mothering style, and in turn become quite critical of the way others choose to parent.

It’s like there’s a little parrot sitting on our shoulder, let’s call him The Guilt. We all know The Guilt intimately. The Guilt is like a small child who hears a thousand wonderful words a day, but chooses to repeat that one swear word that tumbled uncontrollably out of our mouth. Everyday we make choices and sacrifices for our kids. We do this passionately and whole-heartedly and from a place of complete and utter love. But even with our best intentions, The Guilt can make us feel like we’re not doing enough. We’re not winning this motherhood race.

When I choose to top up my hungry baby with formula because he has drank me dry, I do this out of love. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you could’ve tried harder.’

When I let my baby grizzle so that he puts himself to sleep, I do this out of love and a conviction that it is right for my children and me. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you’re baby needs you, you’re breaking his trust.’

When I co-sleep with my child, I do this out of love and a desperate need for sleep. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you’re making a rod for your own back, you’re baby will never sleep through the night.’

When I send my child to day care one day a week, I do this out of love and a burning desire to sit down for 10 minutes while the baby sleeps. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘how can you send your child away when you’re at home?’

The Guilt sat on my shoulder when I read about Rachael Finch and it said ‘She is winning at motherhood AND looking after her relationship, are you?’

Well you know what The Guilt? You can shove your annoying little voice up your bum! You will not make me turn on a fellow mum, who no doubt has her own parrot sitting right there squawking untruths in her perfectly symmetrical ears. You will not make me question every decision I make for my family. And you will not stop me from freezing yoghurt pouches so my toddler sits still for a few moments longer. Because everything I do comes from a place of love (or a need to stay sane).

Motherhood is the ultimate equaliser. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, beautiful, homely, outgoing, introverted, famous or a hermit. And it doesn’t matter what parenting label you attach or don’t attach yourself to. Because at the end of the day we all follow the same style: Loving our kids. Just love their little hearts out and the rest will follow.

And you know, I’ve never really been very competitive anyway. I’m more of a ‘in it for the drinks’ kind of girl. So, you beautiful, passionate, multitaskers – wipe that parrot off your shoulder! Cheers to being bloody mediocre, but with the best of intentions.

Now, which grandmother wants my kids for the weekend…

When you become pregnant with your first baby you look at the world with fresh eyes. Like the idyllic black and white scenes of Pleasantville, the world is a perfect place. Bad things can happen – on the news, in the community, at work – but they can’t touch you. You are a walking, talking miracle maker. Creator of life!

You spend a lot of time preparing yourself for your new role as a parent. You fossick through old baby photos admiring how cute you were, trying to create an image of your unborn child. You prod family members for information about your own birth story, milestones and funny moments. You buy every baby gimmick on the market because you are just so bloody excited. You picture yourself – the image of calm and bliss, you have been waiting for this moment for a long time. You are complete.

And that is exactly how you should be. You SHOULD be excited. You ARE embarking on an amazing adventure. Your life IS changing in the most incredible way forever.

But: that doesn’t make it easy. Motherhood is a tough gig for most.

Of course it’s important to keep perspective. No one is dying. No one is chronically ill. You are not walking the plank into shark-infested waters.

But it’s still tough. It’s just tough in a ‘I-wouldn’t-change-it-for-the-world-I-just-need-a-little-more-sleep-and-maybe-someone-to-hold-this-bundle-while-I-shower’ kind of way. It’s okay to think it’s tough. It’s okay to feel like you have no idea what you’re doing (because who does). It’s okay to be freaking out at the over-whelming constant-ness of it all. It’s okay to mourn the interaction and spontaneity of your pre-kids life. And it’s okay to cry because you’re so tired you feel a little bit sick and your friend just bought you a yo yo and that was so nice of them.

Because I have found, by opening up and talking to lots of other mums, that this is how just about everyone feels! And if you don’t, if you really are the image of calm and bliss, well that’s awesome too.

I started this blog for two reasons:

1 – I like writing. And I like stretching the old brain in a way that playing Lego with a two-year-old just can’t do, as much as I adore him.

2 – I was totally unprepared for motherhood. Or I should say, I was totally unprepared for being totally unprepared. And I wish that back then, when I had my first newborn, there had been more people on social media sharing the reality of those early parenthood days.

Pre-kids, I was a satisfied, confident professional. I spent my days working in a career that I had studied four tertiary years for – primary school teaching. I loved my job. I loved the kids and my work mates, and I really loved using my brain to meet the challenges that come with educating a class of individuals.

Then I had my much longed-for baby. And all of a sudden I had no idea what the freck I was doing! I had been tricked! Why had people been so excited for me to have a baby? I wasn’t having much fun, I was just really, really tired!

And there only seemed to be two options:

a) You’re coping beautifully, motherhood is bliss!

b) You’ve got post-natal depression.

I didn’t feel like I fit in either category. I LOVED my beautiful baby. I looked forward to seeing him every morning, even if I’d been up to him multiple times overnight. I loved his smell, his expressions, his breath. I wouldn’t have traded him for anything.

But that love was clouded with sleep-deprivation, anxiety and just an overwhelming responsibility to keep this helpless little baby alive.

Social media is awash with melt-in-your-mouth cute baby photos. And as much as I love seeing happy pictures of parental bliss (I am partial to posting a few myself), I think they can sometimes make other mums (me) feel like they’re doing something wrong.

Why isn’t my baby always smiling like the others are? Why won’t my baby sit cheerfully at the café like that? Why do I sometimes feel like crying when everyone else seems so together? Why does my baby turn into the Chucky doll at night when everyone else’s babies are sleeping through?

Each time I saw another baby lying smugly next to their ‘I just slept through the night’ milestone card, it was like a stab straight through the heart. I mean I was happy for their parents, in a completely not at all way.

So if you’re in the newborn haze and feel like you’re sinking – grab yourself a floatie (your partner, mum, aunty, best friend, all of the above) and hang on. This is not the time to be a martyr, this is the time for survival! Let people help you. If your mother-in-law offers to hold the baby for an hour – embrace her! If someone wants to cook you a meal – tell them you love lasagne, thanks! If someone brings you a latte with one sugar – trade them your child (JOKING). We all hate asking for help, it’s outrageously difficult, but people love you and they want to do something.

And the fog does lift. Soon enough you’ll find yourself in the same place as the rest of us – still with no idea what you’re doing, but a lot more okay with it.

The image I had of parenthood, that idyllic black and white Pleasantville scene, that doesn’t exist. Real life is much more colourful – you’ve just gotta take the blue days with the yellows. And there are so many yellow days coming.

Eliza xx

Here’s my beautiful Bobby when he was about 4 months old. I thought he would never sleep through the night and I thought I wouldn’t cope. But he did end up sleeping through (a lot sooner than I expected), and I did cope. I flourished actually, and I love him with more fierceness everyday.

Oh, and I thought of a third reason for the blog. I like laughing. And honestly, there’s not much funnier than little kids.