The Glorious Silence

By Bronwyn Lewis - 29/05/2015

The time that only demons like.

I started the day with a gorgeous sleep in – wait, no sleep in, scrap that, I woke with the all-encompassing dread that Olive, my mental one-year-old would be waking any second and I would have to be at her service all over again. I thought that this day would be no exception to the usual – the clock would read 4-something-am and as I allowed that revolting time sink in, I would start to hear her demands for my attention get louder and louder.

I slowly and reluctantly opened my eyes and came to the foreign realisation that it wasn’t 4-something-am - it was 5:45-fucking-am and Olive was not making a sound. There was silence in my house and I was awake and Old Mate wasn’t. What the fuck was happening? I slammed my eyes shut again, buried my head into my pillow and hoped to return to the wonderful depths of sleep, but alas, the sheer excitement and disbelief that I was awake before her, combined with the prospect that that bloody whinge would fill my ears any moment kept me wide awake. I may as well have just sucked on a fired up, filthy crack pipe, because my eyes were darting around my scrunched up eye lids and my heart was racing faster than every Hill Song member’s as they watched Guy Sebastian on Eurovision. It was in that perplexed and ecstatic moment that I wouldn’t have been surprised if my face exploded in the most aggressive nose bleed that ever existed.

Admitting defeat that sleep was gone forever, I reluctantly picked up my phone from my bedside table and scrolled through emails that I can’t for the life of me care about regarding some patronising baby club I accidentally signed up to in a moment of sleep deprivation and desperation. I then found myself navigating my way through the mindlessness of Facebook – through the lives of high school acquaintances that I didn’t give a fuck about ten years ago, but ironically find myself clicking on photos to see what they named their new fox terrier or what shit Canberra café they just went to. Eggs Florentine? Is that making a comeback?

How do I even pretend to care about this? What has become of me? In the comfort of my own bed, I found myself embarrassed in front of myself – a feeling that is becoming more and more frequent these days.

I pulled myself out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom, stepping over the exploded box of bulk tampons Olive has recently become obsessed with. A smile appears on my face as I remember that when bathing her last night she sat triumphantly in the water with three tampons wedged in her fat fingers and one unwrapped and bulging one in her mouth. I sat on the toilet and I pissed as quietly as I could hoping to prolong the moments of solitude I had amazingly scored. As I pondered whether it was gross not to flush a consuming thought dawned upon me - the silence could actually mean that she was dead. Finally, I heard the tiny snores seep through the bathroom wall and I started to breathe again, but stood there completely frozen.

As I stood over the toilet bowl of my own piss, I wondered what my life would be like without her. What would I stay silent for then? It was an isolating, deafening thought that made me realise that the silence that I found myself in was a silence like no other. It may not be a silence where I am solving the world, or even thinking about anything productive – it’s the place where I can hear myself, even over the niggling noises of Facebook shit and baby product emails. This was the silence I loved, but find myself always searching for it to end.

This silence reminded me that I am alive, but even better, it reminded me that someone else is. 

Eating From The Floor Never Tasted So Good.

"Who hates daycare with the fire of a thousand suns?"

I just ate an entire family bag of Maltesers and I am awash in nausea, guilt and accomplishment. Whilst the imminent diabetic ulcers that will appear on my ankles will be a new experience to me, this confusing combination of emotions is not.

About eight weeks ago I sent my wild haired one-year-old daughter to day care and it is fair to say I was not prepared for what I can only compare to the irrational post-sugar rush that makes one wish Mr and Mrs Maltesers died in a house fire because they are the creators of delicious, evil bastards.

Whilst pregnant, I had my unborn child on a number of day care waiting lists. Most of you will probably know from one of my previous soap-box moments that these day care waiting lists are about as long as Mel Gibson’s hit list and the slack-jawed people who organise the placements are about as useful as tits on a bull. Needless to say, I spent months fantasising about getting my bat-shit crazy baby into a day care and returning to my working self where I could luxuriously eat food from a plate and not from the floor. Well, eventually the call came. She got into a day care that was halfway between home and work and it didn’t even stink of piss and shit. Win!

When taking her in, her tiny mind was blown! There were so many colours, sparkles and squishy things from the floor to the ceiling that it looked like Dame Edna, you know, if she were a room. I sat there watching her smash some other, smaller, dumber baby in the face and it dawned upon me that I couldn’t explain to her what the hell was going on and that I was going to leave her there all day three times a week. It also dawned upon me that I probably should teach her not to be so psychotically violent, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Leaving her there that day was the worst. Nope, scratch that, the seven weeks after the first day were the worst. Whilst other babies sat on their ridiculously small chairs and swung their tiny feet as they sucked obliviously on their toast, they stared at the free entertainment that we will refer to as ‘The Bron and Olive Massive Meltdown Show’.  Olive would cling to me and scream like a banshee, I would have to pry her mini hands off me and give her to an underpaid, assumedly half-deaf day care lady who would unconvincingly assure me she would be fine and I should go.

Closing the door behind me I would self-punishingly look one more time at her bright red, devastated face with her chubby, little arms stretched out in my direction. How can a mother walk away from that and feel okay? With an uncontrollably and unashamedly quivering chin I would walk down the hall and stand at the painfully slow elevator all the while listening to her supernaturally loud scream and wonder whether food actually tastes better from a plate. It would take all of my might not to storm back in and do a rendition of the scene from The Bodyguard. The little rat is my Whitney.

People at work would assure me it would “get easier” and “soon she will love it”. For weeks I reluctantly ate food from plates and counted down the minutes until I could run from the building to go and pick her up. It took an exceptionally long time for it to “get easier” and it wasn’t only the morning drop-offs that made my life hell, it was the fact that she was terrified every time I left the room and her ability to put herself to sleep was completely shot as she was convinced I had dropped dead, or even worse, willingly abandoned her and she would be alone forever. This is the bleak narrative I bestowed upon her thoughts, which resulted in a bout of pretty unsavoury depression that I was certainly unprepared for.

Seven weeks it took for her to not cry when I dropped her off. Seven weeks it took me to even contemplate writing about this because it made me feel sick. Seven weeks it took me to forgive myself for the decision I made to return to work. Seven weeks it took me to realise that the twenty-odd cents I make a week (roughly) after day care is insignificant, but reclaiming a part of my own life is not.  

When I think about her feeling confused or lonely, I definitely revisit the all too consuming and seemingly more frequently visited sense of guilt and nausea. However, after seven weeks of fucked up and shitty self-punishment, I have realised my daughter now knows that I will always come back for her and that makes her brave. That, my friends, is a fucking accomplishment if I have ever seen one.

Malteser anyone? Just joking, they’re all gone.

Lord of The Un-Ringed

Lord of The Un-Ringed

By Bronwyn Lewis

02/01/2015

Because Jesus.

I may not know everything, but I do know a tit load of things. I know I hate sticky, humid weather that makes my moustache feel more luscious than Baby John Burgo Burgess’ entire face and head combined. I know I love seeing people fall over and hit their melons really hard and pretend it didn’t happen whilst walking off clumsily in the wrong direction, like Karl Stefanovic at any event after 8am. I know I hate when people eat so loudly that I question whether they are deaf, raised by wolves - or both. I know I love when people are uncomfortable by weird things I say or do that they laugh awkwardly and frantically search for an understanding look in the crowd of ‘she doesn’t mean it, please don’t leave’. I know I hate when people overestimate how long I should stay awake at a dinner party and force me to fall asleep and drool all over a stranger’s shoulder. I love how I think I know exactly what I love and hate when I these two categories are confused and I forget what I hate and misconstrue what the fuck I really believe in. Here’s an example…

Recently I went on a holiday with my handsome boyfriend and our angry baby daughter. We went to Noosa, in Queensland: ‘The Smart State’ – according to their number plates. Whist it was lovely and scenic, it is arguably the most Anglo-upper-middle-class place in the whole wide world. The ladies that frequent Noosa look like they have fallen out of a Lorna Jane catalogue and I on the other hand was born in Wagga Wagga, NSW. It goes without saying that at times I felt like that enormous Kardashian sister trying desperately to gracefully and unsuccessfully fit in.

After conversations on the mammoth amount of young adults in Queensland getting married, a person from a different era to me mentioned that they “felt sorry” for my lovely, bastard daughter. I immediately asked why and they responded with, “Because she will be embarrassed at school when her friends ask if her mum and dad are married.” This conversation carried on to them stating that they do not consider us a “proper family” until we are married and justifying their point of view with it merely being “their opinion”. Unfortunately this opinion is not as rare as one would think.

I was outraged. Frankly, I still am. Surprisingly, my fury wasn’t catalysed by this person’s point of view, but more so at my unbridled reaction to it. I hate that I care what people of this opinion think. I hate that my decision to not be married before bringing a baby into this world is fragile enough to be penetrated by the dusty, out-dated perception that sin exists and decency is measured by the Bible. Whilst I understand people have read this mother-flippin’ book, I haven’t and I refuse to live my life by it.

What I would love is for my daughter to grow up and see that I am a woman of self-worth, with or without a husband. I want her to see me as someone rejecting society’s expectations of me as a woman, a mother, a girlfriend and most importantly, a person and carrying on as if they didn’t matter. This is what I care about the most.

I haven’t ruled out marriage completely, because it seems to be exceptionally important to my wonderful boyfriend, and I secretly/not so secretly would love to see how many marital traditions I can piss on one foul swoop. I also want a party that tells this said man that I love the fucking shit out of him, but if this party doesn’t happen, I will just be bloody stoked that I am happy as fuck and not searching to appease people who hold different values to me.

Honesty, I don’t care if it never happens. What I DO know is that I love my small, proper family more than Charlie Sheen loves cocaine and that whatever happens, I will show my daughter that it doesn’t actually matter what the fuck anyone thinks – all that matters that her heart is as full as that fat Kardashian’s pants.

Flying with a baby is as good as sewing up your private parts.

By Bronwyn Lewis

31/10/2014

This is a lying bitch and that baby is not real.

One time I got my big toe jammed underneath the front door, squishing it between cold, hard tiles and angry, splintery wood. It is one of the most painful things that has ever happened to me. The kind of pain that makes you feel hot and cold at the same time and where you can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so you do both in some unhinged, psychopathic kind of way - kind of like Beyonce’s sister acted that one time. In my recent experience of flying from Canberra to Melbourne with my 8-month-old daughter, I have learnt that that door experience was heavenly compared to flying with a baby. I would happily waltz down stairs and swing that mother flipping door onto my bruised and battered big toe every single bloody morning if it meant I didn’t have to fly with a baby ever again.

When Olive was only a couple of months old, she filled me with false ideas about what it meant to fly with a tiny human. I’d nervously get on the plane whilst watching people hold their breath, hoping, wishing and praying for dear life that I would take my bundle of potential mayhem as far away from them as possible. I would find my seat and immediately apologise to the people who sat near me, who would either blatantly ignore me through sheer rage, or would pretend through gritted teeth that it wasn’t a big deal and they were pleased a cute little baby was near them. The fake nice people I will remember forever because I love them. As soon as she started to stir, I would chuck her on my boob and she would drift off to a lovely deep sleep and only wake when we were disembarking. The other passengers would praise her for being such an excellent flyer, which would translate as a direct compliment to me for not having a screaming form of harsh contraception for everyone. I thought I was truly amazing and pitied the poor people who hadn’t figured out how to shut their little turds up. Obviously their babies were broken.

Alas, this honeymoon stage with flying had an expiration date and my baby went from being the ideal travelling accessory to being the baby that made people want to smash their tiny windows and get sucked out into the atmosphere. Hell, on the last flight I definitely considered it. As a crawling 8-month-old, she hates sitting still and is too dumb to be distracted by any form of stationary entertainment.  Bananas in Pyjamas can go fuck themselves for all she cares.  

She fought with all her might against literally being strapped to me with the infant seatbelt, which was not only embarrassing, but quite painful because she has nails sharper than Wolverine and a temper worse than Pat Cash. So once she was strapped in, I wiped my bleeding face and hoped that she would calm down or majestically fall asleep so I could pretend people didn’t hate me for attempting to fly with a tiny monster.

She didn’t sleep. Instead, she climbed all over me like a small monkey and yelled in my face like rabid baby goat. People would glance over at me with either complete disdain or patronising sympathy. Both made me want to reach down my throat and rip my reproductive organs out and throw them down the skinny aisle towards the clown-faced air hostesses. I discovered she would be quiet if I let her shove all of her fingers in my mouth and scratch the skin off underneath my tongue. It hurt like buggery, but if it kept her somewhat still and silent, I would let her pull all of my teeth out. She got sick of that pretty quickly, so my next trick was letting her stand on the pull-down table and suck on the chair in front of us whilst bashing it like a tiny, angry Mr T. The woman in front was the kind of passenger that ignored us, so it was ideal because it let me skull the mini complimentary bottle of cheap red wine out of a plastic cup in one large gulp.

Sucking on the chair was surprisingly successful for about five minutes until she realised that people were starting to look comfortable, so she started her riot again. I decided to give my neighbour a break because Olive’s idea of socialising with her was pinching the plump fatty bits of her bingo arms enough to make her wince. I went to the toilet that had a change table and just stood her in the sink so she could bash her reflection. I don’t know what it is with babies and mirrors, but they go absolutely ape shit when they see themselves. I think Olive was the only one thrilled with her being on the plane. As she punched and slapped the mirror with unbridled glee, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not only did I spill my red wine down my front, but I looked like something Pete Doherty coughed up after a week-long bender. I looked fine before I got on the plane, but the stress seemed to have made my hair greasy, my eyes sink into the back of my head and a confusing amount of adult acne had emerged on my face. I realised the experience was destroying me from the inside out.

After ten minutes in the bathroom, I reluctantly returned to my scathing audience. Olive continued to climb on me and yell at everything like Mel Gibson would an innocent Jewish lesbian. When we finally landed, I imagined I could relate to someone who had been taken hostage for years and they were finally landing back on home soil. I could see the light at the end of the sewage filled tunnel.

Seatbelt signs went off and when I stood up, people looked at me differently. Their rage was gone and it had been replaced with worried, lipless smiles that quickly replaced my relief with the feeling of utter inadequacy. Yes, okay, I get it. She was a complete moll and she ruined the taste of your complimentary cheese and cracker thing that had a ridiculously unbalanced ratio of cheese to cracker. But it’s not her fault, is it? It’s mine for taking her on a plane thinking that she was going to be satisfied with staring at the back of the chair without sucking on it. It’s mine for thinking that that lovely little baby would stay tiny and useless forever and even the sound of the plane cabin would put her to sleep. So I got off that flight, with my fidgety baby in one arm and my reproductive organs in the other and hastily made my way away from all my new enemies.

I learnt a lot from that flight. I learnt that I have created a mental monster that not only hates flying but is single-handedly ruining entire plane loads of sex lives for maybe ever. Olive is responsible for stopping the speedy growth of our nation’s population, one plane ride at a time. You’re welcome, Australia. Now, if someone could remind me to never fly again, that would be ace.

The Day Care Waitlist Debacle

The Day Care Waitlist Debacle.

By Bronwyn Lewis

02/10/2014

Maria: the bitch/the gatekeeper/the day care receptionist.

The hideous rumours about day cares are true. Not only are they more expensive than a round trip to Bali each week, but they’re harder to get into than Harvard Law and turn the strongest, most stubborn people into begging and blubbering messes.  What’s more is they seem to be on such high demand that they are bursting at the seams worse than my recycling bin is with wine bottles. The places are a colourful type of evil full of smug bastards that insist on dotting their ‘I’s with love-hearts. Gross.

It may surprise you all, but I am not a helicopter mum, which means I’m not particularly fussy about where Olive goes. Someone, please, just take her, keep her alive and then give her back when I ask for her. I haven’t researched the types of paints they use that she will inevitably drink. I haven’t demanded tours to assess whether the children have enough primary colours blasting each corner of the room, or whether their cots have Laura Ashley linen. Contrastingly, I have been forced to go on tours where I have been chuffed that they actually feed the kids and completely revolted by how much snot is all over all their grubby faces. Olive won’t look like that. She’s banned from snot – it was in the fine print when I agreed to be her mum.

Since learning I was pregnant with Olive, I have had her name down and countless day cares, but I have my heart set on one in particular. It’s directly next door to my house, so I’m planning on catapulting her over the fence each morning before I dart off to work. Time is money, people. I have been told that in order to secure a spot at a day care, you need to be on the dreaded waitlist before your baby is even born then literally harass them until they cannot stand saying no to you any longer. It’s Darwinism at it’s finest.

When I was pregnant a lady at work told me that the only way she got her daughter in anywhere was by turning up numerous times a day and crying hysterically to the apathetic staff. Christ! No thanks, desperado. How fucking embarrassing. Her terrifying anecdote was delivered with such pride that she ‘beat the system’ that I wondered if she was mad before she endured the shit fight of the Day Care Waitlist Debacle, or whether her sanity had fallen victim to it. I decided the latter and hightailed my enormous, swollen and sweaty body to the day care I decided Olive would conquer. 

Today, eleven months after scribbling down my unborn baby’s details onto the waitlist form, I have had this mad woman’s horrifically humiliating story ringing in my head. Would I have to bawl my eyes out? Nope, I just can’t see myself doing it. I’d much rather just plonk her over the fence each morning and hope they don’t notice they have a tiny Polish imposter. In this time, I have taken to casually popping in to see how their waitlist is going. They hate it and it makes me so nervous because if they start to hate me, they can scratch me off the list faster than Lindsay Lohan’s tragic downfall. I feel like the fat girl at school trying so hard to impress the pretty, cool bitches. Please like me, slags!

Countless times I have stood in the foyer with my oblivious baby hanging off my hip stammering and pleading to the cold, vacant stare of Maria, the hardhearted receptionist who spends her entire day pretending to pen important notes, but is most likely sketching pictures of dicks.  

Maria, I know you. I have reluctantly entered your realm of sourness and deliberate disregard of my existence far too many times for me to back out now. We have come too far together and I just need you to give me the nod and I will never talk to you again. Come on, Maria, finish the delicate shading of those pubes at home and give me a fucking answer.

At mothers group, we discuss who got in where and what unbelievable lengths they had to go to to make it happen. I’m convinced at least one mother has sold one of her child’s kidneys to get a spot. They do only need one after all, right? We are all secretly terrified that we will be the only dickhead who didn’t get into one and have to start begging strangers in the depths of suburbia to let our baby sit on their lounge room floor whilst they watch Ellen and cut their toe nails. Please don’t let that be our only option!

Needless to say, I’m still waiting to find out whether Olive has a spot next door. They seem to have hired Nimbin Town Council to help ‘finalise their list’ because this shit is taking forever and if they aren’t stoned off their heads over there then I’ll eat my hat. I guess if they don’t take Olive then I will be bringing her into work every day for show and tell. Luckily she is about as quiet and reasonable as Janice Dickinson after a kilo of MDMA. Work is going to love it.

So we desperate mothers wait with baited, wine tinged breath for that bitch Maria to pick up those dusty waitlist forms and give us a call and say that we can go and have adult conversations again. The system is disgustingly flawed and seems to be designed to eradicate the tiny slither of dignity we parents have left. I seem to feel more confident walking down the street with Olive’s vomit in my hair and one shoe on than I am about Maria’s capabilities of letting me have a part of my pre-baby life back.

Come on you pack of sour Maria’s out there – finalise the fucking lists and while you're at it empty my recycling bin you are solely responsible for me filling. Cheers.

The Beginning of My Renovation Journey: Warts and All

The Beginning of My Renovating Journey: Warts and All.

By Bronwyn Lewis

23/09/2014

All you need is love, right?

I’m about as handy as Tree Man, the poor sod who has been so violently invaded by warts that he literally looks like a tree. And no, not a pretty kind people tie themselves to, the kind people rip out of their rental properties without permission because they know their landlord won’t give a flying fuck.

Worst X-Man ever: Tree Man

Now, I can’t imagine anyone passing a hammer to his fungus-infested hand, that looks seemingly like a bunch of old sticks glued together, and expecting him to build a shed. They wouldn’t do it because it would be insensitive and undoubtedly pretty gross if he actually gave it a red-hot shot. 

I may not have aggressive and gigantic growths attacking my entire face and body, but I can relate to him on a couple of levels. One is that sometimes I feel famous about how downhill my appearance has gone after having a baby, and two, I am pretty useless at building. Needless to say, I’m not afraid at giving it a go, so when my boyfriend and I decided to renovate our modest little home, the fickle feeling of false confidence enveloped me and I was under the impression I was ready. However, my vibrant and over-zealous nature in the old tradie department has since dwindled to a piss hole in the sand after a myriad of brutal knocks to my ego. I soon realised I was approaching this expensive little project with complete and utter cognitive dissonance, which meant I was completely and utterly up shit creek if I didn’t smarten the fuck up.

I attempted to educate myself in this area by visiting the local Mitre10 to peruse the aisles riddled with far too many thunderous fonts and the occasional subdued staff member that speaks and blinks slower than Johnny Depp learnt how to use make-up remover. Apparently this exercise is not the equivalent to doing a three-year apprenticeship. FML. As a harsh consequence of my extensive shortcomings in this terrain, I reluctantly embarked on the terrifying journey of dealing with real-life tradies.

After a few phone calls with gruff, impatient and fucking awful men, I realised I didn’t have the vernacular nor the pleasantries for this shit. I left voicemails to people rambling like a mad, idiotic woman. “Hi Macko, I am trying to renovate my gross 90’s chic bathroom and I need to rip out the useless sink thingo, get rid of some fugly taps and make my shower less shit. If you could call me back, that would be great.” Macko, like many other bastards, did not return my call. I fucking hate Macko.

Chin up molls, I’m pleased to say I have since stumbled upon a few crackers. An electrician mate has been unbelievably kind to us and talks to us like he is explaining what Instagram or turkey slapping is to two demented, incontinent fuckwits. Bless him. We still get all of his instructions completely wrong and he has to fix all the stuff we break, but he does it with such benevolence that I feel like soon he is going to gently tell me I have cancer.

The stonemason who installed our kitchen bench top was the loveliest and most stubborn person I’ve ever met and needless to say, I could completely relate to fifty percent of him. We soon became best friends and if I ever got married, I’d undoubtedly ask him to be my maid of honour. He showed pity on my obvious ignorance and did the job quickly and extremely cheaply. I miss him everyday.

The plumber thus far is as mad as a cut snake, and has an extraordinary laugh that roars through our tiny house and rattles my daughter’s cot. He also laughs at almost everything, which would be awesome if I didn’t have a sleeping daughter in said cot. If I had to do my 21^st speech again, I would want him in the front row because he has not once taken me seriously. I hope he doesn’t tell me I have cancer. Anyway, my inner Tree Man must have been showing because he has agreed to do the bulk of the renovations for a fraction of the cost. I think all I have to do is keep saying random things to fill the gaps in between his outlandish cackle. I can definitely do that.

So, after a pretty ordinary start, it seems we are on track. Sure, we may have so many holes in our kitchen wall I am thinking about throwing out the collider and simply chucking our cooked pasta at it. And yes, maybe I have to make up a few hundred stories to the solitary and ever so eager audience of the good-willed plumber to fuel his fire and diminish our bill, but we are certainly moving forward.

So, get fucked Mitre10 and Macko. All you need for renovations to start happening is the ability to accept one’s inner Tree Man, warts and all.

My Beloved Bitterness Burns On...

My Beloved Bitterness Burns On…

By Bronwyn Lewis

20/09/2014

My life as I know it is about to be turned on it’s head. Again. At the start of this year, I entered into the bewildering warzone of stay-at-home motherhood and in two weeks I shall leave it to return to the sour stench of teenage BO and welcome the self-aggrandising attitudes of our nation’s youth. I’m pumped. So, this leaves me a moment to reflect on how I surprised myself in how much I changed and surprised others in how much I didn’t.

Before you slam your laptop/iPhone/iPad/enormous Samsung thingo down in utter repulsion of yet another ‘mummy blog’, give me a moment. It is definitely not one of those. Or maybe it is.

I would like to think that the birth of my daughter didn’t change me. In fact, my nostrils flare with satisfaction when people suggest it hasn’t. Once that sheer relief that I am in fact still ‘me’ passes, I am left feeling perplexed as to why they thought I probably should have changed more, and wonder what life form they thought I would mutate into. Did they think that when the midwife pulled the slimy and confused little baby out of me that I would lose my sarcastic and somewhat unsavoury demeanour and opt for a more sickly sweet and timid one? Sure, I get that babies are ‘life changing’, but are they really ‘complete personality changers’?

When I stub my toe, there aren’t enough episiotomies in the world to make me say “Darn!” in place of ‘”Fuck-shit-piss-tits!”. I understand that one day I will have to curb my profanities, but for the moment, my chubby, screamy, blonde-haired baby thinks the most outrageous thing I do is perform the dance from Sia’s ‘Chandelier’ film clip whilst she sits in her highchair and rubs yoghurt into her eyebrows. After a good three weeks of this performance, she’s more tired of it than Australia is of Anthony Callea trying to make it big. Like my tolerance of Shania Twain songs, Mr Callea will be forever small, figuratively and physically.

Back to me.

I approached mothers group with the same attitude, and as a result I am the mad, outspoken, painfully honest woman with unbrushed hair who will eventually be ‘accidentally’ left out of invitations to play dates. I’m aware of this risk, but it is worth the sacrifice if I can keep from biting my tongue off until it’s a bloody stump when discussing the shit parts of parenting. In all different reasons parents find themselves gathered - whether it’s day care foyers, nursery rhyme-times, baby friendly cafes - I will be the one who crosses the line into ‘inappropriateness’. I will look openly repulsed when someone challenges the validity of vaccinations, I will call Olive a moll when she is being one, I will call the fat kid fat until he knows what that word means and I will say being a parent is a fucking shit gig when Olive has decided she would like to spend an entire week refusing to eat because she’s too tired and not being able to sleep because she’s hungry. Babies are dumb. Cute, but really fucking dumb.

So in that respect I haven’t changed, but I would be lying if I emerged from my enormous life transition with my pre-baby identity completely intact. I created this tiny person who I can watch sleeping on the baby monitor like a toothless bogan would watch the greyhounds: drunk. Just joking (not joking). Every little change she experiences, I swell with pride because learning how to cough on cue is hands down the fucking smartest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. Or when she learnt that things look differently when she tilts her head, so she spent an entire afternoon giving herself early onset RSI in her neck I couldn’t have been prouder. Or when she recently clung on to me tighter than a pair of Gina Rinehart’s trousers when someone tried to have a little hold of her, which taught me that she is just as obsessed with me as I am with her. It’s awesome. And yes, I film these moments and insufferably send them as group texts to anyone and everyone I know and expect them to watch it on repeat for days, then discuss every minute detail with me when I see them next. If they don’t, I quickly question their commitment to the friendship seeing as they willingly and actively neglect my offspring. I’m becoming about as popular and palatable as Angelina Jolie when she went through that phase of making out with her brother.

In this self-indulgent moment of self-reflection, I have come to realise my extreme reluctance and sheer terror of morphing into a cookie-cutter mother was in vain because it’s simply not in my make up. Even though my daughter’s gappy-toothed smile makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst and worn down the most cynical part of me, my treasured bitter fire still burns on. So I remain me, just with less lipstick and more things to both swear and smile about.