Kon-yu Natalie - Mothers and others : Australian writers on why not all women are mothers and not all mothers are the same

About Mothers & Others

When are you having children?

Why didnt you have another child?

Well, I guess thats your choice, but

They are questions asked of women of a certain age all the time. Beneath them is the assumption that all women want to have children, and the judgement that if they dont, theyll be somehow incomplete.

And thats only the beginning

Being a mother, or not being a mother, has never been so complicated. The list of rights and wrongs gets longer daily, with guilt-ridden mothers struggling to keep on top of it all, and non-mothers battling a culture that defines women by their wombs.

In this collection of fiction and non-fiction stories, Australian women reflect on motherhood: how it should be and how it really is. Their stories tackle everything from the decision not to have children to the so-called battle between working and stay-at-home mums. Including special contributions by Rosie Batty and Deborra-lee Furness, the stories explore every topic from infertility and IVF, to step-parenting and adoption, to miscarriage and breastfeeding, child meltdowns and marriage breakdowns, as well as giving much-needed voice to those who wont ever be called Mum.

With its unflinching honesty and clear-eyed wisdom, Mothers & Others holds a mirror up to the most romanticised, demonised and complex roles women play: those of mother or non-mother, and daughter.

I n the weeks after the birth of my son, when those initial heady days of exhaustion began to wane, I stopped sleeping. At first it was the thrill of realising he had made it eight hours without waking. I went back to bed and lay awake from 3 am until dawn in that liminal space between sleeping and waking so familiar to insomniacs. Somehow in the horrific nights that followed, lying awake furious with myself for not sleeping, I came across God. I hadnt really thought of him since I went through my passionate Blood of Christ phase when I was twelve a phase that came abruptly to an end when the school chaplain confirmed my worst fears (God was indeed cruel), righteously informing me that his children, in all likelihood non-believers, were going to hell, right alongside my atheist parents. It took me a while to come back around to Him, but stranded as I was in my country brick veneer with the new baby, God held a certain appeal.

In those dim early-morning hours I lay awake and thought: If Im not sleeping it has nothing to do with me, its the will of God , and felt entirely liberated by my sleight of hand. But for the grace of God go I. Mental tricks never last for long. If you allow the slightest doubt to creep in as you are willing your overactive brain back to sleep, everything comes undone. A whole conversation might unravel in your brain about the existence of said God and youre done for. And so it was that during one of these nightly reveries I once again began to doubt God and his usefulness, and it occurred to me that it might be more helpful if God were a box where I could put things. And so God became the God Box, that most pedestrian of psychological tools: a place to put the hard things.

The God Box is where I place those difficult, frustrating, overwhelming, joyous parts of my life. Gathered there with my precious new son, my complicated relationship with my mother, fears about global warming and being wholly terrible with money sits a bright, beautiful six-year-old girl: Sunny, the small child who lives with me half of the time and who I decided not too long ago should never feel less loved or special than my son but who is nevertheless not my daughter.

Sunny is her mothers daughter and Im not sure I like her mother. (Into the God Box it goes.) Im sure her mother feels the same way about me. You cant fault us, though, Sunnys mother and me. We are friendly and even generous with one another. I doubt you could expect anything more from a relationship such as ours. But this doesnt change the fact that when the little girl I love so much is being her mothers daughter, I feel a kind of ambivalence towards her. I wish she was different. I wish she was more like the Sunny I know.

The Sunny I know likes to dress like a boy, could probably eat half a block of dark chocolate in one sitting and loves David Attenborough documentaries. The Sunny I know is pretty cool for a six-year-old. But cool or not, I still find myself stuck on a kind of child-guilt hamster wheel. One evening, completely out of the blue, Sunny decided to extend her usual routine of twenty-minute monologue followed by a few rapid mouthfuls and take a further ninety minutes to finish her dinner. My partner and I have the (no doubt misguided) notion that we all should sit at the table until everyone has finished dinner, but after chattering away like a small monkey Sunny had taken to chewing each mouthful over and over. My nostrils flared. Both my partner and I kept repeating, Just swallow it. Please just swallow it. There is nothing more boring or gross, it turns out, than watching a child chew her food. I was about to go off my rocker. But was I overcome by intense irritation because she was my stepdaughter and all stepmothers have a pathological problem with their stepchildren? Or because watching a child masticate slowly really is one of the most annoying things anyone should ever have to endure? Of course, the answer is: who cares? Just leave the room now.

In the car, she said, You know, my mum and you are really different. And that was shamefully gratifying. The indulgent aspect of my personality believes that Sunnys mother and I are entirely, utterly, fundamentally different right down to the television we watch and the kind of food that we eat.

Another day, Sunny told me that I should be using quick oats like her mum, instead of the regular rolled oats that take too long. She said, Then you put them in the microwave for two minutes and theyre done. And showing remarkable restraint I just smiled mildly.

Still, I find myself exhaustively documenting the quirks and foibles of that other family that exists alongside ours, boring my significant other to tears. Recently, there was the kissing episode. After we told Sunny that we were having a baby and she later found out that her mother was also having a baby a few months after us, there were the inevitable weeks of weird behaviour, an anxious little girl with a sore tummy. One Sunday night we asked her what was up. Was she worried? Did she feel like things would change? It turned out it was her mothers partner Jacob that she was worried about. Jacob didnt kiss her on the mouth like he kissed her mum on the mouth, and this was very upsetting to Sunny. She wanted Jacob to kiss her on the mouth. After nearly choking on our mashed potato, my partner and I launched in. Surely this was only normal, we said. People dont need to kiss each other on the mouth. Jacob is one of those gentle, straight-talking Europeans who obviously adores Sunny. If he doesnt want to kiss you on the mouth, we said, this doesnt mean he doesnt love you, it doesnt mean anything at all. Its normal. But were going to get married, she said. More choking. We tied ourselves up in words and then it was over and it was Sunday night and time she went back to her mums place.

When my partner dropped Sunny at her mothers, he mentioned that she might want to talk to her. A few days later, I got a call at work. My partner, slightly breathless, had spoken to his ex-wife. Everything had been resolved, he said. Jacob had agreed to allow Sunny to kiss him on the mouth. On the side of the mouth specifically. It was an Australian thing, the ex had said, and with neither my partner nor Jacob being Australian, they wouldnt understand. Australians kiss each other on the mouth. The conversation was over. Sunny was fine.