Let Me Be Your Daddy Blog

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My husband was actively involved in my pregnancy (up to a point of course, and then the eating of donuts/carrying of child/aches and pains were all mine), and was also involved in the planning of said pregnancy. And now that we have August, we co-parent as much as possible. Sound too good to be true? The fact that to many people, it does, is the issue here. There are heaps of great Dads that are taking an equal share of raising a child, but do we hear about it (apart from when it’s reported in wonderment)? Nope.

Throughout my pregnancy and now as a Mother (always with a capital for marketing purposes), I have at my fingertips an overwhelming amount of information, mostly in the form of Mummy blogs, ranging from the inspirational to the contrived. Some I felt resonated with me, but others were eons away from my way of thinking. But that’s cool – I have a heap to choose from. From the very beginning of this crazy child-rearing adventure, I was learning and absorbing. But I soon realised that my partner hadn’t been worded up on this stuff, nor had he even been invited to the party.

See, he’s a Dad. And therefore, he’s struggled to find a blog for this role. He wanted to be able to connect and share this new experience with other like-minded Dads, preferably in the same country. But it appears that the Daddy Blog is a rare beast. When he did find a ‘group’, the promise of beer, sport or food was apparently necessary to grab and keep a male’s attention, and often overshadowed the main purpose of the group. He was dismayed, and I can’t help feeling that this is hugely patronizing to those men wanting to connect with other fathers, and this certainly didn’t fly at our house.

Why do we do this? I don’t want to downplay the value of the parenting blog or forum, in whatever format it works for you – but it appears as though women have staked a claim in this area, with an almost righteous attitude about it. There are clubs, awards, societies, and everything in between for mothering blogs – in the Kidspot Voices of 2014, the parenting blogs in the Top 100 are all by women, with various forms of the word “mum” in the titles.

The reality is, women are continuing the vicious circle of parenting roles by keeping men out of the loop, and I’ve found that the assumption is continually made that if something needs to be researched or checked in regards to our son, all eyes on me. Why do I need to be the one to Google, call or ask – that’s a BIG responsibility dude. Ask my husband. Get his signature on August’s immunisation form. Have him sign the boy up to a daycare waiting list. His handwriting is much nicer than mine.

I’m not for a moment suggesting that just because a women is writing a blog about parenting, there isn’t a place for that. We have bits that men don’t, and these bring with them a whole range of fun stuff to LOL about (or FML about). But there should exist a more shared experience, where the joys, trials, and hilariously confusing aspects of having a child can be discussed by everyone involved. And this, in turn, will go towards both parents taking on a more equal responsibility.We know of a couple of great fathering blogs, like this one, and we love people like Brian – but we hope ours will also become somewhere for everyone to go and laugh at ourselves and our kids equally.

Spread the love peeps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sons of Eccentricity

FREDDIE & AUGUE

So….

How did you spend your last six weeks? It’s been a bit of an extended absence from the Daughters because, well, we added a couple of Sons to the mix. You heard me. Sons. And nobody was more shocked about it than we were.

Not totally shocked. I mean, we both knew we were having babies. But boys? Really? TWO of them? Neither Caroline nor I knew what we were having, but already having one daughter (and Hazel totally owns her ‘eccentric’ genes) I just kinda expected to have another. And I just kinda expected Caroline to have one, too. And everyone just kinda expected it. In fact, when I worked out the baby odds in my head, it went like this:

Most Likely: A redhead girl
Moderately Likely: A girl with hair that isn’t red
Less Likely: A redhead boy
Practically Impossible: A boy with hair that isn’t red

But then on the morning of the nineteenth of March I got a text from Caroline’s husband that stopped me in my tracks and brought a sentimental tear to my eye: I am holding our son. And so Augie the boy baby was the first surprise.

And then almost four weeks later on the fifteenth of April, along came the second: Freddie the boy baby. I knew something was up when the doctor exclaimed during delivery “Ooh, you’re a lot bigger than your sister was.” (She wasn’t joking – 55cm and 3.97kg). I never specified largeness in my baby odds, but as a particularly small human myself I didn’t feel I needed to. He is a big boy and I am a small girl – the concept floored me, and floors me still. In all fairness, his hair is auburn so he falls somewhere in between Less Likely and Practically Impossible on the likelihood scale and combining that with his unmistakably pointy chin and bowed lips, I can be assured that Frederick Francis Constable is indeed flesh of my flesh. And I adore him.

FREDDIE

So the adventures of Augie and Freddie begin. Won’t you follow along with us? We promise not to keep you waiting so long again.

A Prayer for New Parents

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May you give birth in the manner of your choosing;
And if not, may you avoid forever the acid tongues of those who did.

May your breasts be plentiful and hardy;
And if not, may you avoid forever the acid tongues of those whose are.

May you understand and accept, without reservation, that there is simply no such stage of human development called ‘sleeping through the night’;
And if not, may you avoid forever the acid tongues of those who are delusional on this matter (and bless them, for they are probably sleep deprived).

May you realise that the pram does not maketh the parent;
And in doing so, save approximately $1500.

May you find beauty in the post-partum body, without berating, parading or popular-trading the pinnacle of ‘motherhood’ as a toned, muscle-wrapped body;
And may you never venture to the Instagram accounts of Miranda Kerr or Rebecca Judd.

May you never resort to baby sign language;
For it is mumbo jumbo, I tell you. Mumbo. Jumbo.

May you sleep in whichever configuration works for you, your child, your life, your family;
And may you awaken most mornings at least mildly refreshed, without somebody’s feet in your ribs or wet nappy on your face.

May you realise that you are the most influential person in your child’s life and that it is your everyday actions (not TV, books or popular culture) that will ultimately shape their character;
And may they pick up at least one hilariously bad habit or embarrassing mannerism of yours to serve as a daily reminder.

May you find comedy in toilet training;
For there is tragedy enough in this world without finding it in poo.

May the parenting forums filled with judgmental, ill-informed and badly written ‘conversations’ eventually implode;
And may you have the strength to never go online until such time.

May you forgive yourself quickly for not enjoying ‘every’ little moment;
For it is a scientific fact that kids can be jerks sometimes and enjoying that would be weird.

May you go to bed each night knowing that your love and best efforts are enough, that YOU are enough, and that your child loves you just as you are;
And may you actually get some sleep.

Bodies and Babies – The Feedback Session

On a scale of one to ten in the “whelmed” department, it’s pretty safe to say that Amy and I have exceeded the numbers and have spilled into the “over” section.

Overwhelmed indeed.

What we’ve loved is the sharing of other people’s stories, and it has made it clear to us that these tough topics need to be discussed openly in a place without judgment, agenda or an intent to spark debate. I mean, we LOVE a good debate (don’t get me started on pyjamas vs au natural), but that’s not the intent here.

We thought that today it’d be nice to roundup some of the encouraging comments and feedback we’ve received from our last couple of posts that really seemed to resonate with readers. We’ve had strangers and close friends share their stories with us, with so much to be gained from this exchange of experiences.

There’ll be plenty more where that came from folks!

An Ode and a Farewell to This Baby Body

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“Hell yes to all that!!  I actually made the very bold statement to Dave the other day that, for the first time in my adult life, I actually feel sexy. And it all began when motherhood came knocking. Didn’t see that coming. Yay to a beautiful body, flaws and all, but most of all: yay to a newly refreshed mind, heart and soul.” Brooke

“After motherhood we accept our bodies for what they are. Amazing.” Hannah

Let the Tough Times Roll

Let the Tough Times Roll

“This was beautiful Beautiful. Reading this has had a huge impact on me and helped me with something I’ve been dealing with in an unexpected way. No over sharing here but a case in point of how allowing people into you vulnerability can reflect their own and help them deal with it. Thank you!”  Richard

“Thank you for sharing your experience, I think the more women talk about these kinds of things, the better we can all deal with them. In my opinion, there’s no such thing as oversharing. I didn’t think I could like Hazel anymore than I already do, considering I’ve never met her, but am glad to be proved wrong! She’s wonderful, and so are you xxx” Leila

 

 

 

Let the tough times roll

Let the Tough Times Roll

Illustration by Lizzy Stewart for The New York Times.

There have been a few articles floating around on the interwebs recently about the potential effect of over-sheltering our children. Often named ‘Helicopter Parenting’ (great visual), it defines a style of parenting that, perhaps unconsciously, shields children from more than just extreme physical or emotional harm, but everyday discomfort or uncertainty. It’s being blamed for the inexplicable rise of depression in young people (aged 18-24) who report absolutely no past traumas or signs of inherent depression, and who describe their childhoods as ‘idyllic’. The rough conclusion is that by not allowing kids to experience problems of any kind, they grow up a little stunted in their ability to cope with and process the far-from-idyllic world of adulthood.

I gotta say, it makes sense to me. We’ve become progressively nicer to our kids throughout the generations; once upon a time children were beaten openly for being naughty, seen and not heard, and treated with icy disinterest. Those kids didn’t feel too loved, so they grew up, had kids of their own, downgraded beating to smacking, indulged their kids in a few displays of affection, and were generally nice to them. Catherine Deveny does a cracking presentation about the ‘Benevolent Neglect’ of 70s parenting (read a few choice snippets here) which defines this style of parenting beautifully. Enter the Helicopters of the next generation who went one step further, banning all kinds of physical admonishment and treating their children like demi-Gods. It seems the spawn of these last parental specimens seem to have a few problems in the real world. Namely that nobody else thinks they’re as fabulous as their parents made out they were and they did nothing of merit to earn their fabulousness.

Now, this is a big and contentious conversation and though my sarcasm may give me away a little, I’m not in a position to judge how anyone raises their kid (though I do draw the line at beating). So instead of getting preachy, let me tell you a little story of my own. Though the sample size may not be huge or definitive, I think stories have such powerful potential for influence, far more than any study or statistic could ever dream. My story is a little sad, but fear not – all is well now.

When my daughter Hazel was 18 months old, I miscarried a baby just shy of my 12 week scan. Miscarriage is a sad but normal part of being a human, and I’m a rational gal; I knew I hadn’t done anything to cause it and understood that a huge number of pregnancies just don’t ‘take’ on basic genetic grounds. All in all, I was sad about a future that no longer existed for my family, but OK with the concept as a whole. My body, on the other hand, didn’t really know what to do with itself. I could feel the imbalance of hormones and chemicals in my blood as palpably and painfully as a flu vaccine pumping through my veins on repeat. And trying to take care of an 18 month old, a business on the verge of success, and a broken mind/body wreaked havoc on my life.

I just thought I was sad about losing a baby. Seemed logical. But it soon became clear that it was more than that. One minute I would be doing dishes, the next I would find myself folding like an accordion on the kitchen floor, sobbing without warning. Walking zombie-like through my days, frightened to answer my phone lest someone said something that set me off. On one accordion-sobbing occasion, Hazel toddled in to find me in my predicament. Her immediate reaction was fright, and my immediate reaction was fight: get up, wipe away the tears, talk normally, convince her nothing had happened. She can’t possibly understand, and it’s a far too grown-up issue to go into with a kid so young. The first few times I managed, but after a while, my body just wouldn’t get up off the floor and the tears just wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t form a basic sentence to protect her from the horror of the scene and she looked on, often in tears herself and obviously frightened.

Help was sought, enter my unstoppable husband and family who scraped me up off the floor (figuratively) and the long healing process began. I say long because it was – 12 months at least. But a funny thing happened. During this period, Hazel not only began to soften to my sadness, but became hyper-aware of it. She would curiously follow me into a room as I tried to hide, instinctively knowing I wasn’t doing too well. Often predicting it before it even happened, she would sit up urgently and ask me (as she had heard so many ask me) “What’s wrong, mummy?” If she saw me crying, she would climb right up into my space, rub my back and softly say (as she had heard to many say) “it’s OK.” Even her little face took on an almost comical, wrinkled-brow look. You have no idea the healing power of seeing a human so tiny exhibit behaviour so empathetic. It restores one’s faith in humanity.

All is truly well now. Another baby will join the family in the coming weeks. Hazel is a happy little Vegemite. Indeed, so am I. But now Hazel’s instinctive response to seeing someone cry, child or adult, is to kneel with them, rub their back, assume a face of reverence and say softly that it’s OK. At 3 years old she knows that sometimes, that’s all you can do for someone when they cry. There are people of 30 who still haven’t learned that. People who live their entire lives never learning that.

My instinct was to protect my child from the fright of seeing her mother vulnerable, but in the end it was allowing her into that vulnerability that created the strength and awareness that I doubt will ever leave her. We view children as precious and defenceless, but also selfish and unable to see outside themselves and their needs. In some ways that’s true, but strength, compassion and empathy are learned behaviours. How soon they are learned depends only on how soon the lessons start.

You can engineer good experiences for your children. You can orchestrate an idyllic childhood. The same can’t be said for bad experiences. All you can do is grab them with both hands when they arise and drag your kids along for the bumpy ride. If there is one thing I can say for certain, it is that you will experience pain, death, loss and misfortune at some stage during the 18 years that your child is in your care. For me, it’s comforting to know that I can make those experiences count for something, and that they will galvanise my kids for the uncertain wonder of life ahead.

And hopefully make them all the more able to understand and appreciate it.

FFS Friday: Hilarious Hazel

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As with all new blogs, we needed to come up with a bit of a structure on how we want to express ourselves and engage with you as readers. We decided that one of the GREAT things about parenting is how much humour and perspective can be found in watching your kids be… well, kids.

Sometimes they do really beautiful stuff. We dress them in beautiful clothes and they look beautiful and it’s a beautiful day and we’re feeling all beautiful so we take a bunch of beautiful photos and put them on Facebook/Instagram/Whatever and that becomes what people assume our life looks like ALL THE TIME. But one of the things that I personally love about being a parent are the FFS moments. Granted, I probably only love them in retrospect, but I tend to reach retrospect fairly quickly; certainly quickly enough to grab my iPhone and capture the ridiculousness that faces me.

A far cry from the overly-styled vision of parenting that bloggers and magazines like to make of childhood, these are the times when the shizzle gets realz or your kids just do really weird stuff. Like tipping their soup into a baking dish and putting Elmo in for a bath. It’s reached a point where I post less photos of Hazel looking beautiful and more photos of Hazel being ridiculous that most people assume that’s actually what my life looks like ALL THE TIME. I tell ya, it’s much closer to the truth than the beautiful bit.

In the coming weeks, we’ll dedicate an Instagram hashtag to the same thing and we’d love you to join in with your own FFS moments. For now, we’re just working it out but stay tuned.

A little note: these posts will usually feature FFS moments from both of us, but as Caroline is currently 10,000 months pregnant with her firstborn (and I am 9,500 months pregnant with my second), she obviously can’t include her own kid in this little activity YET. But Hazel is no stranger to being used as schtick fodder and I’m sure she can do it for a little while longer.

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Motherhood vs Parenthood

MOTHERHOOD PARENTHOOD

I didn’t go to a local Mothers’ Group.

It took me a while to really put my finger on why, but when pressed I used to say things like “oh, I’m too busy” or “we moved house and I never really got involved at the new Maternal Health Clinic” or “so many of my friends had babies at the same time – I have my own Mothers’ Group and they’re my actual friends!”

But that wasn’t it. Not really. I knew it wasn’t, but I found it hard to process let alone express my real feelings on the matter. But when Hazel was nearly two, the epiphany hit and I knew why I’d held back.

See, my dad was a stay-at-home dad when I was a baby. My mum took over as stay-at-home mum when my sister was born but during my infant years in the rockin’ early 80s, my dad attended a local Mothers’ Group with me. He speaks of it fondly, mainly because he became the Hero of the Mothers the day he introduced wine to the sessions and I think the ladies enjoyed the added company of a funny man in the mix. My dad is a performer (by trade and by nature) and has confidence and charisma. He kinda liked being the odd one out because, let’s face it, that’s his life.

Fast-forward 30 years when I was working from home with Hazel and enter my friend Marty*. Marty was doing some carpentry work at my place and was a stay-at-home dad to a daughter of a similar age to Hazel. His wife earned good coin so they had made the decision to swap out the traditional roles when their daughter was 6 months old – she went back to work, he stayed at home.

I am not in any way trying to demonise his wife (I know her, and she’s adorable) but part of their ‘deal’ was that she wanted Marty to participate in all the typical activities that stay-at-home-mums do, including Mothers’ Group. When I asked how he enjoyed it (quite genuinely, having no experience of my own) Marty – who couldn’t be less like my father if he tried – smiled that it was… OK. He made an appearance each week, but didn’t say much at the sessions. He only really went to take his daughter to get some regular social interaction with other kids. The women were nice to him, but he got nothing out of it himself.

And that’s when it hit me. I hate when the word Mother is used in place of Parent. And particularly, when the word Motherhood is used to define Parenthood. It puts a lot of insidious pressure on mums to do all of the ‘thinking’ in the parenthood game, while simultaneously alienating fathers to do no such thing. You could argue that fathers aren’t interested in meeting up once a week to talk about their baby’s bowel movements, but if that somehow defines fatherhood then strike me down and call me a father because neither am I. You could equally argue that women are more inclined towards nurturing and organising, that it is our ‘maternal instinct’ but I believe this is a myth that we continue to propagate, often in well-meaning memes on Facebook. For example:

Motherhood is all about patience and kindness. Putting someone else’s needs ahead of your own.

No, that’s what Parenthood is about. Fathers must also be patient and kind and put the needs of their kids ahead of their own.

Motherhood has the greatest potential influence on a human life.

Once again, no. Fathers and mothers together, even in absence, are the most powerful influence we have over our children. Referring to these things as motherhood not only alienates the father, but adopts an unnecessary single-parent mentality. Heck, being an actual single-parent is challenging enough, why place that kind of pressure on yourself when you’re fortunate enough to be in a co-parenting relationship?

You might think I’m being overly semantic, but allow me to delve further.

ADULTHOOD

ADULTHOOD, we can safely say, is a state of your life when the passage from child to adult occurs. The pillars of adulthood revolve around taking responsibility for oneself and being independent. WOMANHOOD or MANHOOD are two concepts less used, but are, in many ways, the sum of Adulthood. They explore pillars that are exclusive to becoming a woman or a man, generally physical, hormonal and emotional changes, and mark the beginning of this new stage of life.

But in this day and age, you would never claim that learning to cook a few basic meals, or being kind to others was a pillar of womanhood. You would never claim that learning to deal with office politics and balancing your budget was a pillar of manhood. They are pillars of adulthood, undertaken by both men and women when they come of age. Throughout time, the definition of womanhood and manhood has morphed into the juggernaut of adulthood so while sixty years ago you may have gotten away with claiming that ‘sewing your wild oats’ was all part of the passage of manhood while ‘accepting that you’re not allowed to be a total slut’ is all part of womanhood, today you’d be laughed out of the pub. Or beaten up by a chick.

CHILDHOOD

CHILDHOOD, we can safely say, is the state of your life when you are considered a child. There is a blurry bit in your teens where you transition physically, mentally, emotionally and socially while still being legally considered a child, but all in all we can agree that anyone up to the age of 13 is a child. The terms BOYHOOD and GIRLHOOD are unlikely to ever be heard outside an Enid Blyton novel, but would you say that running around, riding bikes and climbing trees is all part of boyhood? No, because it’s all part of childhood and labelling it such makes undue (and untrue!) exclusion in activities that all kids can take part in and enjoy. I don’t remember athletics being split into boys and girls when I was a kid. And I remember winning a lot of sprints.

And so we come to the final frontier of the passage of human life when we hit PARENTHOOD but we still can’t grasp that all that love and nurturing and patience is something that fathers are not only capable of but truly excellent at. My father’s tears at my wedding are a testament to it. My husband gently stroking my daughter’s arm until she falls asleep is, too.

So I beg you: whatever your own unique family roles, quit calling parenthood motherhood. Let’s demand that our local ‘Mothers’ Group’ become ‘Parents’ Group’ where both mum and dad are welcome to share stories and experiences, tips and support at a time of the week that both mums and dads can attend (i.e., not 11am on a Tuesday). It’s already happening in some municipalities – rock on, City of Melbourne! – and it doesn’t take away from the idea that you can meet a bunch of great people who end up becoming your lifelong friends. Let’s share the joys and the responsibility of raising our kids. After all, we’re better together.

Sore nipples and a weak pelvic floor? TOTES MOTHERHOOD.

* Name has been changed but ‘Marty’ will probably know exactly who he is and he’s a champ.

Judgement Days – The Phenomenon of the Mother-Haka

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Sasha Fierce! Giving as good as she gets when greeted by a traditional Haka before a concert in NZ.

Long before we had medical confirmation that there was indeed the spawn of our loins kicking around in my belly, Adam and I had discussed the pros, cons and general thoughts about having children. We knew we wanted them, we also knew we wanted to do some living, travelling, dancing on a whim, so the pretty standard plan was set that saw us agreeing to enjoy some time together as a couple before bringing another small life into our home (we already had Molly the dog/dag – and she’s way more human than a canine should be). In essence, we knew life would change.

It’s not like we announced ‘the plan’, we just assumed it was pretty stock-standard to everyone. But we did start to get a subtle vibe of the “just you wait”s from the (previously unknown to us and clearly self-proclaimed) flag bearers of the “PEOPLE WITH CHILDREN” (PWC)camp.

There were videos on Facebook of comedians who turn to their children for schtick, painting charicatures of those folks who didn’t have children walking around this earth like a bunch of lobotomized zombies without any idea of the life of the PARENT. I’ve never heard a whole audience wail with bitter laughter before, but my word, that is some scary shit. I felt that laugh deep in my waters. Like it was directed straight at me and anyone else who didn’t have children and therefore of course must assume that a life with children in the future woud be all hair-brushing and cuddles with angels. “THEY HAVE NO IDEA” they all chorused. Isn’t it FUNNY how they view life? Just. You. Wait.

Wow. Talk about intimidating.

Now, I will point out this was not all of the people we knew with children, or indeed even a majority, but you really only need a few to get your brain rolling. One starts to question ones thoughts on anything to do with kids, and how they will change/alter/ruin your life. Why were we getting so much negativity fired at us? Why do people find humour in taking the piss out of people who aren’t parents? And this is where we get to the crux of the issue – WHY do other parents (and I’ll make a pretty confident generalisation here – it’s Mothers mainly) feel the desire to scare the shit out of first time parents?

We here at DoE have called it the Mother-Haka.

The Haka (pronounced) is a traditional ancestral war cry, dance or challenge from the Māori people of New Zealand. It’s seen popularly at the start of Rugby matches, as performed by the New Zealand team towards their opponent. There is a lot of yelling, scary face pulling, tongue polking and stamping of the feet that is intended to intimidate the opposition. They let off steam, feel pretty confident about themselves, and get to be all shouty. Thus, the Mother-Haka term was coined.

These are the people who at any opportunity will tell you their terrible birth stories, how they tore, labored forever (literally forever it seems), got every negative side effect of pregnancy, had a child with colic, had a child that NEVER slept, had a crier, a nipple-biter, a fussy eater, a hitter – basically, they had something of all of these things AND YOU WILL TOO AND SO THERE. Shouty shouty, polking tongue out etc etc.

“Oh, I cannot WAIT until your child teethes and you haven’t slept in days “. Ouch. Why? Why would you wish that upon me? So I can FEEL your bitter pain? Yes. Basically, this is exactly why they do it. They’re not happy, and they may not feel heard or supported, and they were probably on the receiving end of the Mother-Haka prior to becoming a parent which has left quite the ugly taste in their mouth. Basically, it’s not you – it’s them. And you don’t have to stay for the whole dance.

I’m not suggesting that everyone planning to have children should be walking around in some dream-like state, operating under the assumption that it wont be the world’s hardest job at times. I certainly didn’t, and I absolutely resent being patronised by the PWC who assumed I had no notion of what I was “getting myself into”. I really really do, and that’s why I’m 31, and chose a partner who is up for the sharing of parental responsibilities, so I don’t lose my absolute shizzle and start painting my face and waving my arms at pregnant ladies. And do you know what, if there ARE people who have convinced themselves that parenting will be an absolute breeze and that it wont change their acitve social lives in the slightest – well, that’s for them to find out. It really doesn’t affect anyone else.It REALLY. DOESN’T.

There is a level of support that we all need to embrace that should celebrate the choice to either have or not have children, and equip anyone stepping into parenthood with a good mix of the real challenges but the complimentary wonder. The moment you see someone starting to move into a Mother-Haka stance – give them a hug and tell them they’re doing a good job. They probably need it.

Love Is All You Need

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This is an excerpt from Amy’s written musings on the first year of parenthood. Hazel Louise is now 3 years old and will very soon be joined by a brother or sister.

Exactly one year ago, I took this photo.* I was huge. And I’m not kidding, I was H-U-G-E. Plus, I don’t know if you remember what Melbourne was like this time last year, but I do; it was freakin’ hot. Huge and hot are two things I never want to be simultaneously ever again.

I was almost a week overdue so John and I set out that afternoon and drove around the bumpy back streets of Fitzroy in the hope that our little unborn bub, running ever-so-fashionably late, would wake up and get a wriggle on. This piece of graffiti near the corner of Gertrude and George Streets has since become a bit of a local icon but I noticed it that day for the first time. I told John to stop the car and feeling like a fat dork in front of a crowd of coffee-swilling, beard-sporting Northside hipsters, I waddled out, took this photo and got right back into the car.

Hours later, at the dinner table, my waters broke.

Looking back through your iPhone photos is like watching a retrospective of your life. This photo marks, for me, the end of one life and the start of another. The photos before this one are varied anecdotal snapshots of daily life – work, play, friends, family, travel, pets, hats, shoes… The photo that follows it is this:

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You hear many things about childbirth, new motherhood and parenting. You are told, ad nauseum, all the things you need. You need an SUV-sized pram that looks as though it’s capable of space travel. You need to eat a diet of unpalatable organic muck while breastfeeding. You need to worry about {insert a scaremongering topic here} but somehow, simultaneously, you need to stop worrying about everything. Becoming a parent sometimes feels like the collective population of planet earth is telling you what you need to do and how you need to feel. But it’s these immortal words of John Lennon that bring it all back home for me:

All you need is love. Love is all you need.

Happy first birthday, Hazel Louise.

* Editors note: to say I took this photo exactly one year ago is actually untrue. I took it one year ago on Tuesday. And let me say that after almost two days in labour, John and the entire maternity ward of the Royal Women’s Hospital were pretty bloody sick of the Beatles.