Good Enough Read online

  Well, everything apparently. Once word gets out we’re co-sleeping with Cella, friends and family from around the globe calls in like we’re some kind of radio talkback show to offer their unsolicited opinion. ‘You’re going to kill her! You’re going to roll over during the night and crush her little face in and you’ll never be able to live with yourself after that!’ cries my usually calm and restrained mother-in-law down the phone from England. ‘No! Give the little critters a space in your bed and you’ll never be able to get them the bloody hell out,’ says a mate, whose two lovely girls, two and four, still sleep in her bed. And elsewhere, another ‘friend’ sends me some magazine articles she’s collected which can be surmised with the following captions: ‘My baby suffocated when I fell asleep breastfeeding her’ and ‘When I woke up, she was blue and cold’. Others don’t even bother trying to argue with me, they just tsk-tsk in my face in cold, hard judgment and I sit with my tail between my legs desperately trying to justify my argument. ‘But the highest risk comes from having a parent who is a smoker, sharing a sofa with a parent during sleep, or being either a premmie or a very small baby and we don’t fall into any of these categories,’ I say, and when I grow emotional I follow up with, ‘MOST SIDS-RELATED DEATHS OCCUR WHEN A BABY IS SLEEPING ALONE OUTSIDE THE SUPERVISION OF A COMMITTED ADULT ANYWAY!’ But I might as well be talking to a pigeon at a train station.

  Perplexed and suddenly feeling quite alone, I trawl internet forums and there are millions of threads dedicated to this topic. Some stats catch my eye. I might be feeling alone in my ‘hippy’ ways right now but one study has found 80 per cent of babies spend some time co-sleeping with their mums in their first six months, with 70 per cent sharing a bed with mum only, and 17 per cent sharing a bed with both ma and pa. Most common period? The first 12 weeks, which makes me entirely normal for quite possibly the first time ever. So in the end I make peace with my decision. I shut down my laptop and stop engaging in conversation about the matter. When my mother-in-law rings to ask if we’ve stopped sleeping in the same bed as the baby, we say yes, and quickly change the subject. So I learn for the first time as a parent to stop listening to all that outside noise and do what I instinctively feel is right. And while we all have it in us, that is often the hardest skill for a mother to learn.

  Suffice to say, Cella lived; today she is five years old and sleeps in her own room but I don’t mind telling you I still use a baby monitor. Because just like when she was a baby, there’s nothing in the world I love more than closing my eyes to the sound of my child sighing in her sleep. What heaven!

  How to sleep your baby safely

  To reduce the risk of SIDS, SIDS and Kids (sidsandkids.org) recommends you follow these six simple rules:

  1. Sleep baby on their back from birth, and never on their side or tummy.

  2. Sleep baby with head and face uncovered.

  3. Keep baby smoke-free before birth and after.

  4. Provide a safe sleeping environment day and night.

  5. Sleep baby in their own safe place in the same room as an adult care giver for the first six to twelve months of their lives.

  6. Breastfeed baby if you can. The evidence that breastfeeding has a protective effect against Sudden Unexpected Death in Infancy (SUDI) has been gathering over years.

  If you’re co-sleeping, make sure you avoid the following conditions:

  * Where baby shares a sleep surface with a smoker.

  * Where there is adult bedding, doonas or pillows that may cover the baby.

  * Where the baby has the potential to get trapped between the wall and bed, fall out of bed, or could be rolled on.

  * When the parent is overly tired or under the influence of alcohol or drugs of any kind.

  * When babies are sharing the bed with pets or other children.

  * When babies are placed to sleep on a sofa, beanbag, waterbed or sagging mattress.

  * Placing pillows at the side of the baby. A safer alternative is to place the mattress on the floor.

  If you’re co-sleeping, make sure you:

  * Place baby to sleep on their back.

  * Only use a mattress that is firm and bedding that cannot cover the baby’s face.

  * Use only lightweight blankets and ensure there’s nothing soft, like lamb’s wool, under the baby.

  * Place baby on one side of a parent, not in the middle, as this increases the likelihood of baby slipping under and getting covered by adult bedding.

  * Consider a side-car crib that attaches to your bed, providing close proximity to enhance breastfeeding while providing a separate sleeping surface for the baby.

  NB: Co-sleeping is not recommended for formula-fed babies because mothers who aren’t breastfeeding do not demonstrate the same responsive night-time practices as breastfeeding mothers.

  For further information visit the SIDS and Kids website (sidsandkids.org).

  I fall into the ‘bodies after babies’ trap

  I’m babbling like a maniac. I’m aware of it, but as usual I just can’t seem to stop myself. The camera pans in on me as I turn an interesting shade of puce – quite possibly from the force of the verbal diarrhoea flowing freely from my mouth. I look at co-host Sonia Kruger in desperation, madly hoping she’ll cut to a whizz-bang infomercial and save me from myself, but does she like hell. Sonia just smiles warmly, which only allows me to continue hanging myself on live national television. Shit!

  A week earlier when the producers of Channel 9’s Mornings show call me up and ask me to sit on their ‘Bodies after Baby’ panel, I can’t say yes fast enough. And why not? As features director of Cosmo Pregnancy magazine it’s a topic I know a lot about, and furthermore, it’s a subject that really gets me riled up – particularly in this day and age when the media is saturated with headlines of the ‘rise of the yummy mummy’ and ‘lose your baby bulge in four weeks!’ variety. Before the show, I interview experts and cram like I’m 18 and studying for the HSC all over again (minus the bucket bong breaks). I can’t wait to share my knowledge!

  I’m sharing the panel with media personality and mum of five, Antonia Kidman, and Amelia Burton, Channel 9’s resident fitness expert. Unbeknown to me is that both Antonia and Amelia are pregnant: Antonia is five months along with baby number six, while Amelia has just passed the all-important 12-week mark. Neither have announced it, both still have stomachs you could grate cheese on. Me? I look about four months along and am nowhere near pregnant. Gulp.

  The segment starts off well enough. We discuss the media’s role in the pressure new mums face to shed their baby weight quickly, and I manage to throw in some coherent responses to co-host David Campbell’s questions. But once we move along and I listen to Antonia talk about how she’s never felt fitter and sexier now after having had those five kids, it’s like someone flicks a switch somewhere inside me. I stare at her in awe, both willing her to go on, but wanting desperately for her to stop talking. Having seen her up close on several occasions, it’s true that she does looks amazing. She certainly does not have the body of someone who not only has had five children, but is halfway through her pregnancy with number six. Her skin glows; she looks like she sleeps well. Initially, I think it’s my envy talking, but then I realise it’s so much more than that. Hold up! I think to myself, that’s all well and good for Antonia, but could we really say she’s the average woman? Wouldn’t she have the resources to retain personal trainers and nannies to help her out so she can afford to keep up a gruelling exercise regimen? My smile freezes on my face and my mind flashes to all the female viewers at home, who I can only assume are suddenly feeling very shit about their own post-baby figures. How can they not be, when I’m feeling suicidal on the couch – even after having had professional hair and make-up done for the show so I look my best?

  So when David leans over and quite seriously asks me how long it took for me to get my pre-baby body back, I have to stifle a very loud snort. This is the moment, I think, that I could lie to everyone and bust out some bullsh
it about how the weight just dropped off weeks after breastfeeding my baby, but I decide then and there to take one for the team – for all the mums out there currently dunking their bikkies into their tea as they make a shopping list for firearms. ‘Actually David, it’s never gone back to what it was,’ I tell him, smiling sheepishly. ‘It didn’t even resemble a normal pregnancy, really,’ I continue. ‘It was like my daughter built a McMansion out of my torso and then trashed it like a frat house on the way out,’ I add, before immediately realising it sounds like I’ve just announced on live national TV that Cella has mangled the hell out of my vagina. And then, just to finish digging my own grave, I quip that my stomach these days resembles an old apricot you’re likely to find in the back of the fridge. This is true, but even as the words pass through my mouth, I picture all my exes who must have once found me attractive coming across this footage and shuddering. ‘Wow, I really dodged a bullet there,’ I imagine them saying.

  * * *

  You know how some women leave hospital wearing their size-eight skinnies? Yeah, I’m soooo not that person. I gain 18 kilos during my pregnancy, and not only do I leave hospital in maternity jeans, I spend the next six weeks getting around looking like a back-up dancer in a Vanilla Ice video (a male one), all long, baggy tops and elastic waistbands. Tired of looking at me in my rather unattractive ‘urban hip hop’ outfit one day, Lee gently asks, ‘Honey, don’t you think it’s time to put those pants away?’ I tense up immediately. I knew this day would come but I refuse to let go. I will kick and scream and he will have to take my maternity jeans from my cold, lifeless hands. ‘Why should I?’ I shoot back. ‘They’re comfortable and that’s all I really need at the moment, considering I’m at home all day taking care of YOUR BABY.’ Lee blinks several times as he ponders the best way to talk this over with me. ‘I know they’re comfortable and that’s great . . . but I think – and don’t take this the wrong way – that, you know, you’re in real danger of becoming the kind of person people laugh about in those “real people shopping in Walmart” emails.’ As one would expect, I am beside myself at this tidbit of information. ‘WHAT?’ I scream. ‘No, no!’ He puts his hands up in self-defence. ‘It’s just elastic waistbands is where it often starts and before you know it, you’ll think nothing of buying a tracksuit and wearing it to the shops and it all goes downhill from there.’ He has the good sense to leave the room at that point.

  And so it is, six weeks after giving birth, I squeeze myself back into my old jeans, which are nowhere near as comfortable as they used to be in light of my larger-than-before stomach. I’m not too worried initially because as the saying goes, it took me nine months to get like this, which means I should give myself another nine to get back to my previous shape. And in my defence, it’s not like I have a Victoria’s Secret parade to prepare for, or a People magazine ‘Body Reveal’ spread to cash in on. It’s just me and nine other sleep-deprived mums pushing our babies around the park, wondering what the hell just happened. But six months later my body still doesn’t look any fitter and while I cope by wearing a kaleidoscope of silk scarves like some sad Steven Tyler wannabe, I realise I may have to find someone to help me – like – exercise.

  And that is how I come to find myself joining one of those ‘yummy mummy’ exercise groups you see threatening to take over the parks. For $20 a session, my personal trainer, Tahlia, promises to help look after our babies under the shade of a tree while she screams, threatens and physically abuses us around a grassy knoll for an hour. Now, I haven’t exercised since a brief spell of doing some school weightlifting and aerobics in the summer of 1994, so to say I’m a little rusty would be an understatement. I turn up at Centennial Park, Cella in pram, dressed in a mishmash of clothing and immediately I feel out of place. All the other mums are dressed like they’re modelling for the latest Rebel catalogue: all Lorna Jane singlets and leggings, visors, pedometers and neon runners. They’re chatting away about how far they ran that morning and which marathon they’re training for. I’m clearly out of my depth so I grab a takeaway coffee and loiter to the side self-consciously.

  Before I know it, the whistle’s blowing and I’m charging across a field like an axe murderer is chasing me. This isn’t so bad, I think as I complete one lap and stop under the tree to have another sip of my coffee and stroke my bemused daughter under her chin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ screams Tahlia, who has appeared out of freakin’ nowhere. ‘Erm, I’m just having a quick sip while it’s hot and then I’ll get moving again,’ I try explaining, embarrassed that I’ve been caught out. Tahlia gives me a frightening death stare, her nostrils flaring with rage. ‘Oh really? Do you see the other ladies stopping for coffee?’ (She shouts the ‘stopping for coffee’ in a whiny voice for effect.) ‘Do you? NO! BECAUSE THEY’RE OUT RUNNING THEIR ARSES OFF SO MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!’ She blows her whistle and stomps at me like I’m a dog who’s gotten too close to the buffet. Fuck! I drop my coffee in fear and bolt for another lap, which I complete but only just after I get a stitch and become convinced I’m about to have a heart attack. Then there are sit-ups, push-ups, running up and down endless stairs. Every time Tahlia ‘requests’ something from me, I want to spit in her face, then give it a good, hard slap. I cannot believe I am actually paying her for this torture.

  I last a couple more sessions before it ends spectacularly. As I run yet another endless lap around the field, cursing everything from Lee for getting me into this position, Cella for destroying my body and the Earth for not imploding and swallowing us all right now, I suddenly drop to the floor like an injured racehorse and refuse to get up. And wouldn’t you know it? As quick as a flash, Tahlia is onto me. She flies over to me, her silver whistle dangling from her neck, screaming until she’s blue in the face, but it’s of no use; I’ve checked out. I look across the field to see my baby crying for me in her pram and I think, Stuff it, nothing is worth this. Ignoring Tahlia, I hobble across the field, wheel Cella back to the car and phone Lee. ‘I think you should know I’m quitting this exercise thing and if you don’t like it, you can just fuck off,’ I cry down the phone when he picks up. ‘Umm, okay,’ he says slowly, barely breathing, probably wondering what the hell has happened to me. I keep going. ‘It’s just that we’re not even finished having a family yet so what’s the point in doing all this hard work to get my body back when it’s going to go to shit all over again when I have another baby?’ My body, I decide, can wait.

  I don’t even know why I’m so worried, really; a study recently revealed it takes the average woman more than a whole year to get her pre-baby body back, with most researchers concluding it’s never usually the same anyway. That makes me feel slightly better I suppose, but in my heart of hearts I can’t help but feel panicked about being stuck in this post-baby body forever. Completely silly, I know, considering I have my health and my baby’s health and nothing else should matter. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever wear slim-fitting jeans or a bikini ever again, or even just a slinky dress that doesn’t involve metres of corsetry. I’m not alone in this insanity, I’ve realised, because every other mother I know is in exactly the same boat (which makes me feel somewhat vindicated). My girlfriend Sarah sums up this pressure to get our bodies back: ‘I know I should be focused on breastfeeding, finding adequate childcare and playing with my baby, but I can’t shake this feeling that if I could be doing all of these things in a smaller size, I might somehow be happier,’ she whispers one day, almost embarrassed by her frank admission. It’s worth noting she is actually a size six and one of those rare freaks who not only left the hospital in her regular jeans, she actually wore them throughout her whole pregnancy because she carried so high and gained next to nothing. She’s not alone in feeling the way she does; research reveals one in four mums are usually or always dissatisfied with their post-baby body, claiming pressure from the media, their husbands and their mothers to fit the slim ideal.

  So, where is all this madness coming from? From me, I guess, and others like
me: members of the media. When I started out in magazines some 14 years ago, things were very different. The internet was still in its infancy, there was much less of an obsession with celebrity culture and we almost always had garden-variety models, not celebrities, on the cover. Yes, people still got depressed looking at airbrushed pictures of models and promptly rushed out and ate three cheeseburgers, but we weren’t actively seeking information about their lives and comparing ourselves to how they lived as much as we do now. Today, if anyone noteworthy has a baby, we can count on glossies around the world doing a dramatic post-pregnancy body reveal – and it had better be dramatic because there could be nothing worse than featuring some new celebrity mum on the cover looking like someone who just had a baby (although personally I would love to see a celeb grace the cover of People with vomit in her hair and a milk-stained top). The accompanying article will briefly mention the birth (‘Oh it was so wonderful and barely hurt at all!’) and the name of the little one (‘We named her Augustine-Atlanta to honour her grandmother Sylvia’), but let’s face it, the bulk of it will be made up of all the juicy details of how she got her famous body back eight days after the birth. The pics will not show an exhausted mum with bags under her eyes wearing her shirt inside out, but a heavily made-up woman reclining in a ridiculously ostentatious nursery and if she hasn’t lost all the baby weight she has claimed to have lost, the magazine will heavily Photoshop her until she’s lost a couple of dress sizes. Remember the furore that erupted after Kourtney Kardashian’s OK shoot, in which she was retouched within an inch of her life a mere week after giving birth to her son? Of course, once the original photos were leaked and the Kardashians had to go into damage control, Kourtney gave a few interviews in which she insisted she was ‘outraged’. I could see how she would be angry, except celebrities always sign approvals on covers before anything gets printed. The idea that this image went on shelves without her agreement is just laughable.