Suzy K Quinn - Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

PRAISE FOR SUZY K QUINN

Suzy brings home the trials and tribulations of being a modern-day wife, mother and sister with great humour.

Liza Foreman, New York Times

From Suzys readers on Amazon:

Lovely read If there was such a thing as comfort food in book form, this would be it.

Amazing, brilliant, funny, a MUST read Fantastic book, I couldnt put it down (its now 4.50 a.m.).

Well worth five stars Make yourself feel good about life not being perfect. A smile a minute. Warm and sensitive.

Brilliant... Just Brilliant Please, Suzy, keep writing, I am hooked.

ALSO BY SUZY K QUINN

The Bad Mother Series

Bad Mothers Diary

Bad Mothers Detox

Bad Mothers Holiday

(Prequel) Bad Mothers Pregnancy

Text copyright 2019 by Suzy K Quinn

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542044677

ISBN-10: 1542044677

Cover design by Lisa Horton

CONTENTS

Truth there is no birth, only transformation

PART I: NATURES SHIT STORM

#1 LIE JUST GO WITH YOUR MOTHERS INSTINCT

They say the darkest hour is just before dawn.

Well, 5 a.m. on that cold Christmas morning was the loneliest, scariest, darkest hour Id ever experienced.

There I was, sobbing, alone and anxious, wishing some sort of mothers instinct would kick in and tell me what to do.

It was Christmas Day, but our dark, damp apartment did not glow with festive magic.

Save for the single string of cheap tinsel hung over the framed Excuse the Mess, Were Alcoholics print, ours was the apartment Christmas forgot.

Santa hadnt slowed the sledge for us. He kept right on going.

I stood in the blackness, bats beating their wings in my chest, rocking my newborn baby as she cried and cried.

It wasnt working, the rocking. It turns out a wild-eyed, anxious mother on the verge of tears isnt soothing for a baby.

In the winter darkness, I honestly thought I would have a mental breakdown.

Last Christmas Eve, Demi and I had been child-free and living in a big shared house with friends. Wed laughed. Wed celebrated. Wed made interesting cocktails with chocolate liqueur, amaretto and sherry.

This Christmas Eve there was only me, a newborn baby and crippling anxiety.

I had no friends with kids.

No one I could call at 3 a.m. (its always 3 a.m., isnt it?), and I didnt want to wake Demi. He needed energy for my daytime meltdowns.

In the early hours of that dark, lonely morning, Lexi just wouldnt sleep.

Id done everything.

Fed her.

Fed her again.

Fed her a third time.

Jiggled her around while bending my legs in time to the hokey-cokey. But every time I laid her down... WAAAH!

I couldnt do this parenting business.

I just couldnt do it.

Yet somehow I had to.

Before I had a baby, I saw myself as a reasonably capable, competent person. And tough too I mean, I once slept upright on a Thai night bus all night. But this competent, capable self seemed to have been smashed with a big hammer and set on fire.

If I wasnt a capable, competent adult, who on earth was I?

A frightened, empty shell.

Id had bad nights before, of course.

The night I first tried cider and threw up into my own hands.

The aforementioned fourteen-hour night-bus ride through Thailand on a non-reclining seat, watching fellow backpackers sleep comfortably on seats that did recline.

The night I gave birth, sick and fairground-dizzy on pethidine, listening to other poor labouring women screech things like, Jesus H. Christ, Ive shat on the bed!

But this was the longest, loneliest, scariest night of my life.

If I survive tonight, I thought, my inner voice quivering with the drama of it all, what about tomorrow night? And the night after that? Surely I wont survive those.

Id been woken five times since 9 p.m. and Lexi just wouldnt fall asleep. It was torture and I was going out of my mind.

On paper, it doesnt sound too bad. Woken up five times? So what? But I was used to a world of light switches and TV remotes; things I could control.

Lexi had no crying turn off now switch. No sleepy-time button. In fact, no buttons or operations manual at all.

I was exhausted and stressed to the point of terrified.

Can people die from lack of sleep? I wondered, and the bats doubled their wing-flapping in my chest.

SAS soldiers suffered less, I was quite sure. I mean, they can always choose to quit.

Why couldnt I do this? Where was my mothers instinct?

Pre-baby, I had a proper adult, responsible job and believed I was a real proper adult. But during that long, dark Christmas morning, it became horribly apparent that actually... well, I wasnt really an adult at all.

Adults dont cry just because theyre tired.

Almost overnight, I had become an anxious, hysterical female with the brainpower of a table leg.

I was unable to do simple things like make a cup of tea and remember where Id left it.

I started enjoying Big Brother.

Who was I?

I didnt know it back then, but I was experiencing a transformation of sorts. My old identity the carefree, child-free, twenty-something me was being squashed, squeezed and pushed out of existence.

This squeezing and squashing was necessary. It would (eventually) allow me to emerge as a beautiful, sparkly parent butterfly, floating on glittery rainbow wings around small children with a happy, content smile on its older, wiser face.

Most of the time.

Unbeknown to me, I was on a path to happiness. However, back then it didnt feel that way.

You might be wondering who on earth I am and on what authority I champion this identity squashing and squeezing.

Am I a psychologist or something?

Well, no. Im a fiction writer and I write novels about parenting. I wrote the Bad Mothers Diary series (romantic comedy) and Dont Tell Teacher (absolutely not a comedy, unless you have a questionable sense of humour). Oh, and I have two kids.

Really, Im the last person you can rely on to talk sense. I mean, I spend the day making things up. But there is nothing made up in these pages, because I am way too honest for my own good and frequently overshare.

This is my true story of transformation: how I changed from a free-and-easy twenty- something to a gibbering wreck and then, after a lot of pain, a really, really happy parent.

It was a roller coaster, but roller coasters can be a lot of fun. So lets jump into a wobbly cart together and go on a profound journey. The great, swirly, turny, joyful trip of parenthood.

Strap yourself in were in for a bumpy ride.

#2 LIE PREGNANCY IS SUCH A SPECIAL TIME

It all started with pregnancy.

Obviously.

There I was, a normal(ish) late-twenty-something enjoying work and life in the big city. Having fun with my partner and friends. Drinking too much. You know the sort of thing.

Demi and I had recently got married and I felt very lucky to have him. He was (still is) a kind, creative, sensitive fellow who cleans the house and does all our laundry.