Mother’s little helpers

My son Josh was only three when he became a walking thesaurus for the word ‘sleep’. That’s because he heard it said in so many delightful forms – not relating so much to him as to his mother. I’d say:

- Mum’s just going to have a little lie-down now.

- Phew, mum’s ready to have a snooze.

- Oof, I think I’ll just have a wee rest.

- Nap time!

And for a touch of the exotic:

- Going to have a siesta now, darl.

It’s true. Sleep has been the dangling carrot ever since I gave birth one week earlier than expected. Hell, I missed out on all the things I was going to do in my only week off work. I was going to watch a whole pile of videos, read a whole pile of books and, er, sleep…

It was Wimbledon that really did it – staying up till 3am to watch Sampras ace Agassi off the court. My waters broke in sympathy, I was rushed to the hospital with an Hawaiian beach towel wedged between my legs and was never quite the same again.

Motherhood runs to no fixed schedule. When the night nurse woke me at two the following morning – only four hours after I gave birth – I couldn’t believe it. ‘Here’s bub for his first feed!’ she hollered happily. I groaned inwardly, ‘Can’t we begin this whole baby thing tomorrow at nine when I’ve showered and had my brekky? Heavens, I need my sleep!’

Sleep is the biggie but there are heaps of other mum-breaks that have helped get me through the broken nights and spew-caked days of happy motherhood. Much as we love our playful progeny mum-breaks are the dolphin floaties of family life that keep our heads above water and our legs kicking.

In the beginning my respite was magazines and books. My partner reminds me – though I think he’s exaggerating – that I could never breastfeed unless I had something to read.

Apparently I was even a little desperate about it, lunging for the nearest magazine at the first sign of a suck. I’m sure I didn’t really cover the baby’s head with The New Yorker but my girlfriend had given me a garbage bag of the things and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

My aunt and uncle were the next to grant me a mum-break with a four-month voucher for Nappy Wash. If anyone had told me in my bachelorette days that I’d consider a man collecting poo from a bucket on my front verandah more attractive than a date with Hugh Jackman, I’d have thought they were mad.

It all gets very mumsy when you become a mum yourself and I counted myself lucky I had my own mother just around the corner. Mum offered free chats, free nappy changes (to baby), and free cups of tea (to me).

Getting my ‘mum fix’ became so vital that I started having to invent reasons to visit her. Like suddenly needing a spare onion in the middle of a two-year-old’s tantrum or a loan of her cheesecake tin to ward off potty-training blues.

As kids get older they start giving you little breaks themselves – like making their own beds (never ever look at the end result, just be grateful for the effort!), walking to school by themselves, getting their own milk from the fridge, aiming straighter in the loo.

They even take charge of their own social life. Now he’s nine, Josh arranges his own play dates over the phone. He punches the numbers into the cordless phone and paces the room like he’s putting together the next G20 summit – usually held in the lane with each delegate on a scooter. The conversations are brilliant in their brevity:

- Hi, it’s Josh.
- Who?
- Josh.
- Wanna come over?
- Yeah.
- I’ll just get my mum.
- I’ll get my dad.

Seeing films and reading books together are other areas that offer mum-relief as time goes by. Don’t get me wrong. I got a lot out of Piggy Wiggy when Josh was three and I know he was a sweet and admirable character.

But I’m much more in tune with Edward, the handsome white cold-chested vampire in Twilight. Will he or will he not kiss Bella tonight? More to the point, will he succumb to temptation and bite her? I beg Josh every night to let me read him more of Twilight and just pray he won’t be in a Captain Underpants mood.

Throughout the entire motherhood period, high on the list of mum-breaks would have to be girls’ nights. Or girls’ morning teas. Or girls’ lunches. Girls’ anything really. Any opportunity to flee the scene of the grime crime and spend a few hours laughing, sobbing, grumbling, cheering, boasting and generally comparing notes with mum chums.

Ah, the relief that baby Jake’s head span’s reached the ninetieth percentile. Ah, the relief that Susan’s boobs have stopped leaking. Ah, the relief of another wine…

Sometimes, when the kids are at school, ‘the girls’ play a special kind of sport. It’s the best-kept secret for slothful mums. A sport that doesn’t involve sweeping courts, getting wet or revealing cottage-cheese thighs in the gym.

A sport where someone else prepares the court for you, where you can play as badly as you like, laugh as heartily as you want and it only lasts an hour. It’s badminton. Perfect.

So the day comes to an end. Dinner is over and homework is done. Josh has cleaned his teeth (by himself), he’s put himself to bed, he’s having a quiet read. I give him a big sloppy kiss goodnight. My partner is working on the computer. I give him a big sloppy kiss goodnight. I finish watching Kiefer Sutherland do dastardly things to terrorists in 24, my favourite program to relax by.

Well, my arm’s twisted. I guess there’s nothing for it now but to go to bed. Perchance to sleep.

By Jo Stubbings
 

This article was first published in Australian Family Magazine, May 2009.