Our conversation was a breath of fresh air. I’ve always known that I’m not alone, but it’s not often that the words are aerated and given free reign. Powerful words shared between mothers who could otherwise tuck the thoughts away in a secret compartment, never to see the light of day. “I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum.” Ahhh. “Me neither! Me neither!” I squealed, inwardly, aware of the keen kiddy ears only a few steps away. My eyes lit up as I recognised a fellow mum who worked, not because she absolutely had to, or because she adored her job, but because she knew that she wasn’t designed to stay home full-time with her child.

It doesn’t mean we love our children any less than stay-at-home mums. It doesn’t mean that we weren’t designed to be mothers. And it certainly doesn’t mean that work is more important than family (though it sure pays better). It’s just the realisation that comes with allowing myself to be who I am, not who I think I should be or who I think others think I should be. It’s a free pass out of the jail of guilt that comes with handing your kids over to someone else for a day or three. I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum. What a brilliant thing fresh air is.

“Welcome to the Great Debate! On the affirmative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should mean the end of life as you knew it, is New Beginnings. On the negative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should not mean the end of life as you knew it, is Clutching On. Opening the debate is the affirmative.”

New Beginnings:
“You chose (either intentionally, or by a lack of diligence or thought) to have a baby. You made a decision to bring another life into the world. It is, therefore, your DUTY to care for and nurture this person. Your DUTY. Anything other than complete devotion and dedication is negligence. From the moment of conception, you can choose to harm your baby and jeopardise her future (for example, by drinking black tea or nibbling on soft cheese during pregnancy; by leaving her to cry in her early days; by having her jabbed with toxins; by saying no to any request; by getting angry at impossible behaviour), or do the right thing and always put her needs first in the most gentle of ways. ALWAYS.”

Clutching On:
“You cannot be serious? Are you really saying that a new mum should forsake her own needs and desires for her baby? That anyone should completely surrender themselves to any other person? We don’t do it when we marry, do we? (or do we?) And at what point does this duty, this dedication stop? Are we expected to pander to our children until we hit the grave with a thud, unrecognisable as the person who once existed before parenthood? Why not just jump into the nearest vacant plot now?”

New Beginnings:
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think? Nurturing another human is the most rewarding task of all. Watching her grow and develop; fostering the most sacred and lasting bond of all. Letting her know that you are there, always, to comfort and support her. To cuddle her when she’s sad and nurse her back to health when illness strikes. Allowing her to see that you would do anything for her. Is that so hard?”

Clutching On:
“Allow me to clarify the topic. We’re talking about ‘the end of life as we knew it’, yes? Right, well, let’s stick to that shall we, and stop using Guilt to distract us from the debate. I’m not saying that it isn’t a parent’s job to love, nurture, educate and nurse her child. I am not saying that it’s okay to wittingly cause harm to your child, in the womb or in the arms. But I am saying that life does not need to end for the parent. It is well known that a child needs many things in order to thrive both physically and emotionally. One of the most significant factors is the wellbeing of his parents. Parents need to respond to their own needs, nurture their own emotions in order to make themselves available to nurturing someone else. It could be a cup of black tea, a row of Cadbury chocolate, a hit of tennis, dinner out with friends or returning to work. Life as we know it does not and should not end when a baby arrives.”

New Beginnings:
“Selfish. When a baby arrives, she is your life. Tennis? Work? You’re happy to leave your baby for such trivial pursuits? They are more important than your own child? If you’re a real parent, with real feelings and a proper sense of responsibility, you don’t need or even yearn for more than that. Life as you know it does and should end when the most precious gift of all arrives.”

Clutching On:
“Well start digging that plot. Or should I say, you mind the child and get someone else to dig it for you? Guilt abounds and drowns us parents, even when we do attempt to do our best for our children. Unrealistic and outdated expectations only set us up for failure and a close encounter with the ailing mental health system. Go get a spade and leave me to go for a run (child looked after by another loving adult) on the green grass above you.”

At this point, both parties are required to shake hands and congratulate each other on doing the best they can (it’s in The Club‘s Code of Conduct).

Thing is, I rarely get to drink the deliciously dark, sweet guilt – I mean tea. Before even getting to the point of putting mug to lips, the kettle may boil half a dozen times. I either get distracted (life really is a series of distractions) or hear the little man call out from his cot as soon as  the ‘click’ of boiled water sounds. So, if I get to the point of adding hot water and a smallish (okay, generous) teaspoon of sugar (it’s raw…does that make it better?) to a mug with an Earl Grey teabag dangling innocently inside, it’s a miracle.

If the Gods are on my side I get to pick up the cup, sniff, blow and then sip. If the God’s are on my side. Generally that cup of saving grace remains on the kitchen bench getting stronger and colder until it’s beyond redemption. Life just interferes. I used to sigh and tip the cold, golden-brown liquid down the drain. Now, I do one of two things:

1. I pick it up, sniff, blow (not sure why…habit I guess, and distraction) and sip. But that’s as far as the guilty affair goes. Indulgence doesn’t taste as good when it’s been left to sit too long.
2. Avoid cold black tea by:

• leaving another task half-finished and sipping serenely
• letting the baby cry and gulping/choking the hot tea down
• drinking scolding hot tea while precariously clutching onto the rescued baby with the other hand, supported somewhat by a hip and held over the cushy rug (in case I drop the mug…or the baby).

The problem with these scenarios is that guilt and Earl Grey don’t mix too well.

It seems that cold black tea acts as a metaphor for life with kids – guilty intentions to indulge in a feel-good activity, interrupted; attempts to complete a task from start to finish, severed; plans, hopes, dreams left to sit on the bench, going cold (okay, a little exaggerated, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to). Perhaps I should stick to eating too much chocolate (that’s also in the Top 1000 list).

The challenge was recognised when the baby was safe behind my belly button, not yet latched onto my breast or demanding most of my attention – the challenge of introducing a new family member to the threesome that had existed quite happily for more than 4 years. Yesterday’s major confrontation and meltdown was probably a culmination of many things – a nasty virus, fatigue, a parent-free few days with grandparents and… a baby.

It started out quite simply, as always, with unanswered requests and cheekiness. Enough of that got him some Naughty Step time. After many long minutes of serious wrestling, retrieving a plastic step (the Naughty Step), rescuing curtains that were on the brink of being pulled down, dodging hits, kicks, scratches and evil stares (yes, our Big Boy could well be that kid you see on grainy home videos on the ‘Kids Out of Control’ special on Today Tonight), we had this simple exchange.

Him: ‘I hate being on the Naughty Step!’
Me: ‘You chose not to listen. You chose to be cheeky and that’s why you ended up on the step. It’s not my fault and it’s not Dad’s fault.’
Him: ‘It’s not my fault.’
Me: ‘Well whose fault is it?’
Him: ‘It’s Oliver’s.’ (the baby)

And cue….guilt. Guts ripped out. Heart torn to shreads. Head swirling. Hot, stinging tears welling. The anger vanished as I crumbled inside. How could those two little words hurt so much? Did he mean it? Have I really ruined his life and our relationship forever, or is he looking for a scape goat? This is a child psychologist’s dream interaction, I thought. Let’s see where it goes with a little probing. So, holding back my flood from gushing forth, I inquired:

‘What makes you say that it’s Oliver’s fault?’

I held my breath in anticipation of more gutting revelations. Nothing, but a shrug of the shoulders. End of the line. Just as well no one’s paying me to be a child psychologist. From here I forced myself to keep him company during the morning tea that I had finished long ago and then accompany him to the lounge room for a spot of ‘let’s move on now and try to be friends again’ Uno, during which the flood gates opened in an almighty release of too many emotions. For the one who gave birth to him, fed him, nurtured him and showed him the world… ouch. Now where’s Dr Phil?

I assumed that, after working full time for what felt like too many years (but was really not many at all!) I was more than ready for any excuse to stay at home. What I didn’t anticipate was the struggle that I would face in doing so. Expectations of leisurely days, a darling baby and domestic bliss were shattered by about week 12, when I had my first evil thought about returning to work. Evil, because: 1. it wasn’t in the plan to return to work until at least 9 months (and plans are EVERYTHING to a control freak) 2. I had made a conscious decision to become a mum, so I was not only obliged to stay home with the thing, but supposed to find it the most rewarding and enjoyable time of my life, yeah? Oops.

The novelty of having a baby, becoming a mum and not having to go to ‘work’ had begun to wear off. I began to lose motivation, confidence and brain cells. I needed (not just wanted – that’s an important distinction) to exercise my mind, have adult conversations, have an excuse to get out of trackies and put some makeup on. Like many sibling relationships, I needed space to create opportunity for our relationship to flourish. I needed to know that the pre-baby me still existed in there somewhere – the one who could speak well to groups of people, make others smile, help people in need of help, be acknowledged for a job well done and earn my keep.

When my Big Boy was 6 months old I returned to work one day a week, wracked by feelings of guilt and failure. I had failed to survive life at home with a baby and failed to experience the bliss of new mummyhood. I felt incredibly guilty about returning to work so soon and leaving my baby in the care of someone else, but I knew that I just couldn’t be the loving, caring, present mother that I wanted to be if I continued to stay at home ‘full time’ with my baby.

What that one day a week did for me was to begin to restore my sense of self and give me a greater appreciation of my family – quality time, not quantity (and for the record, that’s still how I function best, especially with a crazy 4 year old). Second time around I have been much wiser, looking out for myself and responding to my needs, because I know the consequences of ignoring those needs, for my mental health and the health of our relationships at home. I know that I am the best mummy when I am happy and satisfied and if that means having someone else mind my kids for me sometimes, then that’s just how it is.

So, stay at home or return to work? I’m not a huge fan of giving advice to expectant or new parents, but if I was to dish some out, it would be this: Honour who you are. Be truthful to yourself despite what you think you should be doing or feeling because you are the one who has to live with your choices. The consequences of being guided by expectations (whether they are yours or those of others) are not worth it.

It came about during a re-cap of my stay-at-home-with-a-newborn day (needless to say, the tale was brief, predictable and rather dull). On this particular day I chose to seek my husband’s sympathy by whinging about having to get our sleeping baby in and out of the car at my big boy’s child care drop-off/pick-up, potentially turning a chunk of the day into a settling nightmare. ‘Why don’t you just leave him in the car while you go in?’, my husband suggested.

My eyes widened in horror and our conversation proceeded as such:

‘Are you serious?! Leave the baby in the car?!!’

‘Yeah, why not? You’d lock it of course.’

‘But what if someone stole him?’

‘The car’s locked.’

‘What if he broke in and drove off in the car with the baby in the back? It happens you know!’

‘Who’s going to do that at a child care place?’

‘Someone…I don’t know. It just wouldn’t be right. What sort of a parent leaves their baby in a car unattended?’

‘You wouldn’t be long.’

And so it continued. On the weekend the scenario shifted to the petrol station and this time it was my brother-in-law insisting that a baby alone in a car at the petrol station was okay. My sister backed me up (under duress, perhaps…).

‘You can’t do that!’ I shrieked. ‘Someone could report you!’

My momentum was waning but I plowed on.

‘It just isn’t right. I would feel soooo guilty.’

‘No need. He’d be fine.’

‘How do you know?’

Etcetera, etcetera…

It made me wonder what other people think about the ‘kids in cars’ issue. You see, my perspective is loaded with Mother Guilt, anxiety and paranoia. My husband and brother-in-law’s opinion is, well, male. Laid-back male. What do you think?

Having a newborn again, and all the demands that that places on energy, patience, perseverance and ultimately sanity, has not really been of concern to me, despite finding the early days with our first son more than challenging. This time I basically know what to expect – broken sleep, squirty nappies, leaking rocks for breasts, screaming (predominantly from the child) and lots of washing. Nothing rocket-sciencey , just monotonous, messy and exhausting.

What has thrown me is the challenge of having enough for two children and a husband– enough patience, enough energy, enough love – and the guilt associated with failing to be everything to everyone, despite knowing that this is simply impossible and not to be attempted by anyone. You see, the capacity to engage the rational, realistic part of the brain does not even go close to outweighing the impact of what is really at the core of parenting – guilt – in all its cruel irrationality and power.

I am engaging in the activities and conversations of my two big boys as much as I can between feeding, settling and resting. My efforts exist, but they are not enthusiastic and sometimes not even sincere.  I snap and grizzle, demanding less noise and better listening. The guilt nibbles at my toes incessantly like a school of small but determined tropical fish in waters of Malaysia. My husband, who has become cleaner, cook and entertainer extraordinaire, has been lumped with a bossy, bitchy wife and my son now has a largely absent mum (no improvement from the incapacitated one he has put up with for the last 9 months) who rears her disciplining head too often.

And then there’s the guilt associated with feeling nothing but love towards the helpless, beautiful newborn who seems to be doing all the right things. I know I’m sleep deprived and hormonal and I’ve been told by many that it takes time for everyone to adjust to the introduction of a new family member. It makes sense in the rational part of my brain, but where’s the magic wand that makes it easier here and now?