Hi Leunig,
So, I saw that cartoon you made about me. You know the one. There's a mum looking at her phone and she doesn't realise her baby's fallen on the ground and it comes with this twee poem about how the baby wishes his mother loved him more.
This is awkward. I remember that day well. I'd spent all morning conscientiously singing, reading, rocking and cooing. I breastfed and bathed and walked around the house holding a baby that cried and cried. Neither of us had slept the night before. I'd been practising controlled crying (that's when you try hard to keep in control, but you can't stop crying). I had to get out of the house.
Being a mum is hard. All of your relationships change. Everyone wants to judge your choices. Breast or bottle? Cloth or disposable? Co-sleep? Attachment? Are you meeting your milestones? Are you losing the weight? Your thoughts are often ruled by anxiety and guilt, yet you can feel euphoric. You have this overwhelming love for and profound protectiveness of this tiny creature. It's a lot to come to terms with.
And it's not cool to be a mum. 'Mummy' when attached to podcasts, blogs, or business ventures carries, at best, a sort of sneering condescension, at worst, a smug irritation at voices people would prefer remained silent. It's hard for a mum to have an opinion without being automatically dismissed as shrill or silly.
Do you know the bone-crushing loneliness that comes sometimes with caring for a newborn? I hadn't showered in two days. Sleep, when I could get it, came in three-hour batches. My body had become a full-time food-production unit for my child. When you saw me, the baby was settled at last. I had that most precious commodity — a moment all to myself.
It would be easier, perhaps, to put my baby into childcare for one day a week. Then I could get some rest, get my freelance work done. But I don't dare to. I'm still haunted by those cartoons you did when I was a teenager. The baby in creche, all alone, staring at the ceiling, wondering why Mummy doesn't love him ('Call her a cruel, ignorant, selfish bitch if you like, but I will defend her'). Do you remember?
If I'm honest, after I got the work admin done, I did flip over to Instagram. I feel guilty about that. But after days spent staring at cold dishwater I need, sometimes, some visual inspiration.
"I've never seen a baby fall out of her pram. Because babies don't fall out of prams. They just don't."
And sure: my baby fell out of the pram. But that only happens twice a week. Besides, I figured it out, just as soon as I finished updating Insta-stories. I'd only gone a few blocks before I realised. Honest.
Okay, that's my little joke. Nobody's going to believe that. In my time as a mother, I've experienced a lot of things. I once changed a nappy that was so bad, I needed to clean the baby's ears. I've seen the startled, upside-down face of a toddler whose lightweight stroller has been upended by one-too-many shopping bags. (They don't fall out, incidentally. They just sit with their hair standing up, snugly suspended in their five-point-harness.) Once, in a sleep-deprived haze, my friend gave her baby two night feeds in a row while the child's identical twin went hungry.
But I've never seen a baby fall out of her pram. Because babies don't fall out of prams. They just don't. You might have picked up on this yourself if you'd had any knowledge of muscle development, or pram engineering, or, you know, babies.
I notice there are no daddies in this cartoon. I'm not sure where Dad is. Maybe he's at work, maybe he's getting a medal for changing a nappy, maybe he's at the pub, scrolling through Instagram. Daddy's whereabouts aren't important, I guess. He has your blessing to pursue his career without judgement. That, after all, is his place.
I wanted to finish with a poem about you. But I couldn't find a good rhyme for 'misogynist'. So I wrote one about me instead.
Mummy's exhausted. She's feeling alone.
So sometimes she sins with a small glowing phone.
Who needs to target corrupt CEOs?
Just pick on the lady with spew on her clothes
Kate Moriarty is a freelance writer. She writes the 'Home Truths' column at Australian Catholics and blogs at Laptop on the Ironing Board. Main image credit: Sally Anscombe / Getty