Diary entry of a tired mum.
My mind pulses with half-formed words and ideas that will never see pen and paper. My hands are busy in my metronome outer world. Time tocks past. And is somehow stationary. My body pulled this way and that. Breastfeed one child, the other cries out. breastfeed the other child, the first one needs to wee. Change one child, and I manage to get clean underwear on. Chase the toddler to get her clothes on, while I remain topless and cold. The baby starts to cry. I place her in the high chair and start breakfast, still topless. I put the oats in the pan. The toddler pulls chocolates out of the pantry. I take the chocolate, tell her it's not for breakfast and console her as she cries. The baby starts to whinge. I measure the milk into the pan with the oats. The toddler steals the lid to the oat container. I encourage her to place it back on. She grabs a handful of oats. I take the lid. Shake the oats from her hand. She cries. I turn the stove on and grind my coffee. I begin frothing milk and the oats boil over on the stove. I turn off the milk steamer and salvage the oats. I finish steaming the milk, the toddler wants some. I pour my coffee, a little milk for the toddler. I dish out the oats, one, two, three bowls. The baby is fussing. I speak to her, tell her it’s almost ready. The toddler tips her milk over the table. My anger rises, I admonish her in exasperated tones. I clean up the milk, tell her she’s not getting any more milk. I then apologise for speaking to her harshly. The baby keeps fussing. I get some berries into the porridge, some seeds, a little honey. At last, the meal is ready. I give the toddler her serve, she stands on her seat to eat it. I sit down with my serve and the baby’s. I forgot my coffee. I get back up, get my coffee. The dog comes over to linger at my elbow. I bark at him to get on his bed. GIVE ME SPACE. Feeling guilty, I tell him “good boy” for going to his bed. I feed the baby her oats. The toddler has spread hers over the table. She asks for my coffee relentlessly. The baby is happy. The toddler hops down. She grabs at me with her porridge hands and asks for up, up. I say no, I am eating my breakfast. I shovel my cold porridge into my mouth. She circles back around and asks again. No. She moves to the clean washing piled on the lounge. Touches it all over with her porridge hands. She tips a bucket of toys over. Asks for the TV. Then says WEE WEES. Kryptonite: mummy unlocked. I shovel the last bite and get up to take her to the toilet. Nope. No wee wees, NO WEE WEES MUMMY. The baby starts to cry. It’s 8am. On a Monday.
About the writer
Andy Lawrence is a doula servicing the Illawarra and globally online. Having trained as a research scientist with a PhD in entomology, the birth of her two daughters catalysed a career shift toward supporting women and their families as they traverse the transition to parenthood. She runs women's circles locally to build community connection among women and her doula work centres on guiding women home to themselves and their own wisdom. She works with women who are feeling the need for support beyond that from their partner and are ready to create their village. She believes that supported mothers equals secure families and healthier communities.
