S516 - S516s response to 1994 Spring directive part 1 :

After her son was born, Jamila Rizvi felt isolated, exhausted and confused. While desperately in love with her new baby, the world shed known had disappeared overnight and so had her sense of self. Jamilas salvation came in the form of a letter. A dear friend, Clare Bowditch who had been there herself wrote to tell Jamila she would get through this. Her comforting words reassured Jamila that she was seen, that she was supported and that she was not alone.

Now Jamila wants to pay it forward to the next generation of new mothers. The Motherhood is a collection of letters from some of Australias favourite women, sharing what they wish theyd known about life with a newborn. Coming from writers with a diverse range of backgrounds and experiences, no two stories are alike but all are generous, compassionate and deeply honest.

As the old adage goes, It takes a village to raise a child and it also takes a village to properly support a new mother. Here is your village. These sisters (with babes) in arms are here to share the joy, the fear, the love, the laughter, the tears and the frustration, and to hold your hand in the dark. Together, they will give you the strength and courage to find your feet as a new mum.

They warned me that my world would be turned upside down. They lied. My world is not upside down because an upside down world implies that its still the same world viewed from a new angle. Cars flying through cloudy skies and planes gliding under the sea like submarines, dinner parties hosted on the ceiling and dogs digging holes in the leafy green canopy of trees, that sort of thing. My world is not upside down. It has gone forever.

The world I now inhabit in no way resembles what came before. I am wearing leggings, a nursing bra and my dressing gown. It is 1.42 p.m. and I havent yet made it to the shower because the baby wont settle unless he is in my arms. My husband is at work and in a few hours time I will start texting him incessantly, berating him for leaving me alone so long. Im burning mad at him. He has the privilege of being allowed to leave each weekday, whereas I am a caged animal. I live in captivity. I am wild and scared.

Ive watched four episodes of Gossip Girl since midnight and three seasons since the birth but am not properly following the inane plot line. My nipples are sore, my head heavy and the laundry basket is full of tiny piss-stained sleep suits and poo-soaked towels. I have spit instead of perfume on my dcolletage and I couldnt say for sure whose it is. Everything hurts, but mostly my broken dreams. Ive tripped and fallen into a Truman Showstyle loop of awfulness. I have ruined everything.

A new world, indeed

There were lots of tears in those early weeks after my son was born: many of them mine. Once the visitors began to slow and extended family returned home, my crying rivalled the babys in both magnitude and frequency. I was swollen and raw from giving birth, still sweating out excess fluid at night. I was confused. I had no clue what I was doing. I was shocked. My mind dealt exclusively in internalised reprimands of how I should be feeling and dark comparisons with how I was. There was a truckload of anger and even more fear. I was frustrated by the happy motherhood lie Id been sold and convinced that I was the first person ever to go through this. I walked gingerly, afraid of what might happen in my nether regions as the result of a sudden movement. Going out alone was daunting and altogether too hard. I was desperately, desperately, desperately tired.

My tightly controlled life had evaporated. My confident, proud sense of identity replaced with a zombie who couldnt tell day from night. I produced milk like a cow and regularly examined the consistency of someone elses excrement. There was washing to do, always washing to do. My existence was devoted to a tiny human being who was cute but dull company. The reality that the life Id lived up until then was gone and wouldnt be coming back hit me like a punch in the face. I imagined that this was what drowning must feel like. Sitting on our leather couch, I would stare for ages at the burnt-out tea light candles hanging on strings and blowing in the wind outside the living room window. Id made them after seeing a pretty picture on Pinterest, which the final product didnt really resemble to be honest. I fleetingly considered leaving the house to buy the various crafty bits and pieces to construct them again, but remembered I had a baby now. Crying. My stomach dropped an inch: he was awake again. We were never apart long, he and I, yet it was the loneliest I have ever been.

Two years on, I have superhero-like fantasies about returning in time to console my former self. I would sit her down in the beaten-up armchair, gently curling strands of unwashed hair behind her ears. Taking our baby from her arms, Id remind her to breathe. When youre at the gym doing a particularly painful exercise or lifting a heavier-than-usual weight, you instinctively hold your breath even though it actually makes things harder. Life with a newborn is similar. Youre so tightly wound that you forget to do yourself even the most basic of kindnesses. I know what shes thinking. Shes waging a great war inside her head, a battle for acceptance of and acquiescence to the fresh hell that is her new life. Her fear? That it will always be like this. She dares not hope otherwise because the disappointment would be too much. Shes bored out of her fucking brain and yet even the quick crossword is too intellectually rigorous to contemplate. Its as if she simultaneously expelled a baby, a placenta and about 30 IQ points from her body during birth.

I want to hold her and fill her with promises of how much easier, how much better it will become. I want to show her the endless stream of iPhone photos and videos of that beautiful baby boy, who has grown into a funny, clever and kind toddler and who will one day become the very best of men. He is, unquestionably, the greatest thing that my husband and I have ever done. But she doesnt know that yet. I want to show her that all this joy lies ahead. I want her to realise it will be okay and that the world will expand once more and she wont always feel claustrophobic and trapped in this tiny apartment with the walls closing in around her. I want to herald a reassuring message from the future that its true: she will feel like herself again. That she will know herself again, and that life will be big and bright and beautiful and loud and luscious once more.

More than half of new mothers report feeling lonely and isolated during the first year of their childs life. Many new fathers experience the same thing. While, thankfully, the physical structure of my home ceased its fuzzy shrinking sensation within about a fortnight, the loneliness of motherhood stayed with me for several long months. As a community we spend an awful lot of time making sure new parents are doing okay in those early weeks. But for some, the first few weeks after birth actually end up being the comparatively easy bit. Thats the period when neighbours drop by with homemade lasagne, a partner is usually within shouting distance and relatives flit in and out, leaving washed dishes and cute pastel-hued presents in their wake. Everyone wants to come and see you and see the baby and see the nursery and tell you how well you did and give you a whole lot of unsolicited advice.