An update

Oh thank you for the nice things you said about my interview with Kim Hill. Kim Hill! It was so exciting I have to tell you. I was basically almost mute until we went on air because I was just like

Kim

Actual

Bloody

Fucking

Hill

I mean she’s a legend. The best. And I was a bit (like very fucking) intimidated. And worried I’d swear. And worried I’d say something about my vagina or something really terrible. All in all I just said tits, shit, and that we should genocide old white men. So it was fiiiiine.

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Four

It was dark and I heard a little whimper then: “mama?”

A little body quickly climbed into my bed and huddled up closer reaching for my hands.

I pulled my arms around him and softly stroked his hair.

“I saw a shadow”

“It’s OK baby you’re safe”

“Can I come in bed even when I’m four if I see a shadow an is a scary man?”

“Of course”

“Can you tell me a story so I don’t cry?”

I was tired. But he was almost four.

“What story?”

“A story about a monkey been my best friend”

I whispered into the dark about the little monkey who wants to be best friends with the little boy. They build a house of flowers. They’re always safe.

The story ends the same every time.

“You finish it – mama is tired” I say.

“An den that little boy found his mama and she carried him up the big hill to the house and she cuddled him to sleep”

“Goodnight baby” I said and a short silence followed and then…

“Even if the boy is four does he keep his mama?”

“Yes”

“Even if the boy is..” he struggled to free his fingers to hold up six or maybe eight – finally ten. “…this many?”

“Yes. Go to sleep”

He wants to be a big boy but he fears it.

And tomorrow he will be four.

He wants big boy clothes and big boy toys but he also wants cuddles in the night.

He wants adventures – pirates and monkeys and houses of flowers but he wants his mama to carry him up the hill when his legs are tired.

And today was his last day as three.

He wants to DO IT MYSELF but he wants the crook of my arm, my shoulder, the space under my ear, the arch of my back, his hand in mine.

I try to reassure him that four isn’t a threshold to cross where everything changes. It’s just another day but on this particular day the answer to “how old are you?” is a new one. And every time you say it it’s a little less new.

But it’s a hard concept for an almost four-year-old to fathom.

And I’m not good at explaining. Because I look at that little button nose, and the flushed red cheeks, the golden locks, and pointy knees and the little ears and I fall over myself trying to say what four is.

Four is how did you get so tall when I remember saying to your father “quick, quick – now” and he would rush to me and put both hands on my belly. He wanted to feel you move and now you run between his legs and climb him like a little monkey on a tree.

Four is folding you up like origami so I can hold you in my arms like I did when you were born. I put you in a sling and sang to you as I walked around the kitchen.

Four is trying not to laugh when you flail around dramatically demoting me of best friend status at any given moment. And trying not to be too pleased when you say “I didn’t mean so, you are my bes fren”.

Four is trying not to cry when I drop you off at kindy and you say PLEASE MAMA I MISS YOU. I miss you too don’t you know? I’d rather have you on my knee but there are bills that must be paid.

Four is trying not to curse everything when you tell me other kids are mean and there are all these rules about clothes that you don’t understand. I don’t want you to have to change for anyone.

Four is realising every birthday that I’ve learned so much from you and there’s so much more to learn.

Exhausted on the couch after the fourth birthday party I said to my husband – I’m too tired, my eyes are going to fall out of my head.

He kissed me on the forehead and said – yep, maybe four is the year of sleep.

But maybe I can take one more year of little visits to my bed.

Little arms around my neck.

One more story.

One more trip up the hill carrying a little boy with tired legs.

I could do this just a little longer to keep you all mine.

Maybe four. Maybe more?

Maybe forever.

Maybe that’s what four is?

It’s so many, many things.

One thousand four hundred and something days of sleepless nights that you wouldn’t swap for pockets full of gold.

A house of flowers, a tired baby, a best friend, lessons learned, a button nose.

Yes, you’ll always keep your mama.

As long as you need me I’ll be here.

Happy birthday baby.

 

If you liked this, follow me on Facebook for more of the same. Also I have a book coming out and you should buy it. If you want me to speak at your event email me at emilywritesnz at gmail dot com. if you want to be a jerk and say mean stuff to me or tell me nobody cares especially not you even though you’ve spent six hours perfecting your shitty missive at me you can email me at go fuck yourself dot com.

Goodbye, old friend

I said goodbye to my friend today.

The longest relationship I’ve had.

I was 10 when I got him. I didn’t like him at first. He looked like a rat. But he slept behind my neck. He used my hair as a blanket. He got rounder but never much bigger.

He went everywhere with me. He was my friend. When I moved to New Zealand he came too and he was my home so I wasn’t so homesick. When nothing felt sure or stable – he was there.

When I felt lost and hopeless trying to find my place in the world he was my companion. I felt as if I always had this funny little friend who would accept me.

When I became overwhelmed with life and it all seemed too hard I often thought – well, he’s still here, I’ve still got my friend.

When I met a very cute boy and moved into my first flat with him – my friend joined us soon after. This boy had never had a friend like this round little thing. They became best friends too. And when we got married our friend was there in the front row.

When I finally, finally got those two lines on a stick – our friend ran around our legs as we hugged. It’s all going to change now we told him. And it did.

Everything changed.

One baby who followed him everywhere, then two.

And he was old and tired and he was too little and frail to reach the bed to sleep on anymore. He was moved to the corner. I had less time for him, I didn’t stop as much to cuddle him. He nipped at the kids and he growled and he barked and woke the baby. And we stopped talking late into the night.

And then last night – out of nowhere – he came to me as I was watching TV. He never does that.

What’s wrong? I asked. It had been so long since we’d talked. He lay down at my feet and I lifted him up. He was so light. He rested his little face on my arm. I gave him a cuddle then took him to his blanket. I had a feeling.

In the morning I got up before the children to check on him. His eyes were closed. Then he opened them just as I thought – oh.

He lives, I almost laughed.

The immortal Otis.

He’ll always be there.

I began to get the kids ready, quickly did a bit of work in a stolen moment, then my husband said from the bathroom “hon, something is wrong we have to take him in”.

He had gone into the bathroom and I wonder if it was to hide from the children.

My husband stayed with him, I got the kids in the car, then we carried him in his blanket. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to a car ride, but he was quiet. Calm.

Why is Otis in the car? Eddie asked. I thought back to all of the car trips we had with him, and realised after the children arrived we stopped taking him out. He was to old and always needed to be carried. It was too hard, a baby and this old little thing. So he stayed home. To my son he just never goes in the car – but I’d had decades of him riding on my lap. We had driven all over the country, moved house, beach every day…a long time ago.

“He’s going to see some old friends” I told my son.

As I dropped the kids at kindy I started to cry and I was grateful for a kind teacher. I got back in the car and we drove slowly so our friend could see out the window. He watched the scenery pass and seemed to enjoy seeing the hills and the water one last time. Before we reached the place though he’d rested his head against my hand. His eyes hidden beneath my fingers. We were taken straight through which was a small comfort. Inside a kind man talked us through what would happen.

We both began to sob. I did not expect it to be so hard.

We told him he was such a good boy. We thanked him for being our friend. Always. All these years. A constant companion. We said sorry for how things had changed. I wish we had taken you to the beach more. Tried harder when the babies came. We love you. We do. He just closed his eyes and lifted his head toward us. We scratched between his ears. We smoothed his fur. He went to sleep. And then he was given a final helping hand to leave us. And as we cried that little heart stopped beating and we said goodbye, finally, to our friend.

I carried him home on my lap wrapped in his favourite blankets and that’s how he’s buried. With his collar and lead. Covered in flowers. Ready to run along sand dunes like he used to. To chase butterflies somewhere. Somewhere where there’s lots of crumbs. And no children. And laps to sit on. And a space on the bed.

Tomorrow, if it’s sunny, we will plant wildflowers in the part of the garden that now belongs to him.

As I tucked my babies in tonight Eddie said “was Otis your best friend when you was little?”

He was, I said.

“Was he deddy’s best friend too?”

He was, I said.

“He was a good best friend” Eddie said.

“He was”

The best.

Rest in peace Otis.

What is it like to have a child?

I was asked – what is it like to have a child? To have children? The person asking was trying to decide whether or not to have children and if they did – when? Is there a perfect time? When do you know you’re ready? Do you just know?

And I said – I have no idea, because really I don’t. I don’t think you can prepare – not really. You can buy the cot and buy some nappies and read the books but everything falls away when you hold your baby for the first time. And then again and again and again it changes.

The car seat capsule is no longer just a car seat capsule that you bought because the price was right or it looked safe or the bored teenager at the shop said “this is our most popular model” or it was gifted or given or shared or hired.

You put it in the boot “just in case”. Maybe joked about how weird it will be when one day you will turn around and in the back seat will be your baby. Your baby.

You’re going to be a parent I mean how? You’ve got the capsule. That’s the main thing you need right if you’re giving birth at the hospital. You’ve got to get this baby home and then you parent right? That’s how it works surely…

When we left the hospital the first time with our first baby – I crawled into the back seat on reflex. We had been together 37 weeks and I wanted to stay as close to him as I could. I sat right next to him. Still sore. Head spinning from lack of sleep. Nursing an aching heart.

He looked so tiny in the capsule. He wrapped his tiny fingers around mine. I touched his tiny ears. Marvelled at his perfect little nose. Gently stroked his cheek.

His beautiful big eyes gazed up at me and I thought – this is all I want forever.

And that is what it’s like to have children. Every day very normal things are filled with wonder because your child is here and you get to parent them. You were lucky enough to have this child and they’re exquisite because they’re yours and you love them so much it feels like you’re carrying your heart around everywhere.

The second time around the capsule was again magical as I climbed a little more confidently into the back seat and sat again, his little fingers around mine. I marvelled at his tiny ears so like his brother, his perfect nose. I gently stroked his cheek.

And he gazed up at me, just hours after his birth, and I told him about his brother. Tears streaming down my face. Still overwhelmed by the beauty and enormity of the moment.

My love tumbled out in an incoherent mess of words – You will love your brother. He already loves you. We love you. We are so glad you’re here. Welcome. Look at you! You’re the best, most beautiful baby, we belong to each other. We will look after you, keep you safe, love you so much. I promise, we promise. It’s going to be so good my little one.

And I thought again, please, let me just have this forever.

And it’s often said we don’t get moments forever. Of course, they grow like weeds and get so tall out of nowhere and they get a haircut (and you’re like – you are not a baby when did this happen). Of course. And no futures are promised to us, how fragile we all are. Some moments aren’t forever.

But that’s not the end of the story.

We are told we will never have that moment again and I don’t know that that’s very fair in many ways. The specific moments are, of course, different – frozen in time – but that same hum of breathtaking, heartbreaking love revisits you over and over and over. The feeling, it stays.

When my boys are playing – shrieking and whooping with delight, chasing joy – suddenly the sun hits golden hair just so and I catch a smile, and in a rush that hits me so hard tears prick my eyes I see their little ears, perfect noses, flushed cheeks and those beautiful blue eyes.

And I think, no – you can’t prepare for this specific type of magic.

The warmth, the comfort of truly being so content in a moment because my gosh we get this, my gosh we are so lucky we get this. Maybe not forever but for now. And around the corner is four-years-old (how?) and nights slept all the way through (I hope, I hope) and new battles and challenges and moments of gold and moments of grey and heartache and broken bones and first days of school and sleepovers and everything all wrapped up into lives lived.

But for now, let me have this moment forever. I have this moment forever.

This is what, I think, it is like to have a child.

The JFDI club – Introducing Sera

I meet some awesome mums and I thought – instead of this blog always being me, me, me which is so freaking boring and uninspiring….I’d talk to some of the totally badass getting it done mums I meet. They inspire the shit out of me. So maybe they’ll inspire you? A while back I wrote about the Just Fucking Doing It club. I think it struck a chord with some mums and I’ve thought about it a lot since.

The mums out there who are just fucking do it really inspire me. I don’t need perfection, I’m not perfect. I don’t need marathon running and conquering the world – I just want to talk to real mums who are doing cool things – no matter what the scale. You can nominate a mum for me to chat to by commenting here or on Facebook or Twitter. Let’s celebrate mums being awesome.

So here we are! The very first JFDI Club mum – I’m very happy to introduce you to Sera Devcich!

Sera is stand-up comedian and actress and mum. She’s performing along with fellow mum and awesome person Lee Ray on Friday 30 September at the Johnsonville Club.

I had an email chat with Sera about parenting, comedy, life and buffets – all the important stuff….

Sera has one daughter “technically I’ve just the one but she has constant mood swings, so I’m counting her as three”.  She definitely qualifies as a women who is just fucking doing it though she might take some convincing…

“I don’t want to brag but today I got up and within half an hour I put pants on. Ok, that’s a lie but it was definitely within the first 45 minutes, they were men’s sports trackies. Hot tip for mothers playing at home if you dress terribly enough in the morning your child will be too ashamed to be seen with you and you can drop them at the corner and not have to go in. You’re welcome.”

Really, Sera is also solidly doing stand-up comedy throughout the country. On top of that, she’s producing some of New Zealand’s top comedy line-up shows, various comedy projects, and performing corporate entertainment all over the place. And that’s not all – she’s quietly pottering away at some solo shows…all the while child taming! Actually very impressive.

She’s not sure how she got here: “I’ve always been on the stage and before stand-up comedy I performed about the place in theatre shows, my favourite shows to be a part of were the ones where I got to be funny. I’ve always gotten a massive buzz from hearing people laugh but there is a real lack of comedic roles for women in the industry,” she says.

“One day I decided to do a raw stand-up comedy show and it was awesome. I got to dictate my own material and the set went really well, so well in fact that I got booked for a pro-show straight after. I’ve been going for a year now, I feel like I found my niche.”

Like, I think – all of us – she doesn’t believe in having it all. I was basically crying laughing  nodding reading her explanation:

“It’s utter crap, you can’t have it all, because you can’t do it all, and you can’t do it all because you are human and shit. Having it all sounds exhausting and kind of terrible anyways. To be honest I have like 20% of my life together – the stuff that I’ve prioritised –  and the rest is a shit storm and even at 20% I’m tired but not to the point I’ve forgotten how to be happy. Does having it all make you happy? Really? Because I had it all a smorgasbord once at valentines (don’t judge me) I had it all, like four times over because when in Rome. Anyways it didn’t make me happy.  It was too much, that extra slice of ham ended up meaning nothing to me, I didn’t appreciate that fourth bowl of mousse, seriously I ate until I couldn’t breathe. Then… somebody else got up for more, so you bet your sweet ass I got up for more because in my twisted little head it was now a competition. I then continued to eat until I started sweating and then I vomited on the table and valentines won’t let me back. More wasn’t more. I didn’t win. All you can eat is a good idea but the reality of it is that it’s probably unhealthy. Maybe it’s better to decide what you put on your plate and just enjoy that – it’s not a competition. Also Valentines can be very judgey.”

“You can do anything, but not everything.”

She also doesn’t have a philosophy any more than any of us do – “My philosophy on life evolves to suit my mood, terrible but true. If I’m up to it I’m like “put your best foot forward, we carve our own way in this world” but if my daughter is sick and vomited on my shoes, I’m like, my best foot is covered in vomit, and from there my life philosophy very quickly descends into “it’s not how much we do blah blah it’s important to ask for help”

“I guess I’m trying to live my life authentically regardless of how embarrassing that may be on some days.”

I asked Sera about being a parent – “Being a Mum is the most ridiculous unreasonable job in the entire world. If anybody else had treated me the way my daughter has over the years I wouldn’t rest until they were prosecuted. But somehow it still feels like a privilege, the best bit for me is seeing her develop into her own person, my daughter argued with me over her democratic right to have a fringe despite having a cowl lick in the middle of her head she cornered me with hand on hips “AND? AND WHAT IF MY FRINGE SPLITS? TELL ME WHY IT MATTERS?” I couldn’t and I had to apologise. She has a fringe and I love that I’m raising a little girl who’s so much smarter than me.”

What else has Sera learned along the way? Even though we hate advice here, I asked Sera to tell us the best advice she’s ever been given:

“Whatever you do Sera, somebody is going to fucking hate it so play to the audience who love you. “

And since we were on a roll – I asked how she deals with the hard times as a parent – the days when you’re overwhelmed and over it…

“Be honest about the shit storm. I have daily Confessional sessions with some of my tribe, it’s not unusual for me to start a phone conversation with: “I think I might be a fuck up babes.” I have people who I can be honest with and who are entirely honest with me, it’s companionship and kindred that gets me through. It’s so good to be able to laugh at how horrible life can be, I also love hearing how terrible they are, that’s a real self-esteem raiser during a bad time. A laugh, maybe have a dramatic sob then a slap on the bum to get back out there. I’m not sure where I’d be without my tribe, I’m lucky I have good people in my life, who will love and praise on me for the most ridiculous things, “round of applause for Sera for not burning toast, she’s a modern marvel.”  In a shit storm you need to celebrate each other’s small wins. Also dancing in my knickers to 90’s music, spice up your life.”

Comedy seems like a tough industry, I wanted to know how she stays motivated: “In terms of comedy, it’s the desire to be a good comedian, which sounds kind of basic but it’s a simple as that, If I want to be good I know I have to take the knocks, so I guess I try and refocus on why I’m doing what I do, cos I love to make people laugh.”

You can laugh with Sera at the Johnsonville Club on 30 September when she performs for Live Laughs. Tickets are available here and from the bar at the Johnsonville Club. There’s an Earlybird deal finishing on the 1st Sept, $20, otherwise tickets are $25.

You can win tickets to see Sera and Lee by commenting on this post! I’ve got a double pass to give away – kindly given to us by the awesome folks at The Humorous Arts Trust. The Humorous Arts Trust are a Wellington-based arts charity helping to grow the stand up comedy community in the capital – it’s an awesome cause and I’m really glad they exist!

Thank you Sera for chatting to us! It was great to get to know you just a tiny bit! I’m looking forward to your show. It’s so cool to see mums on stage killing it. It’s going to be a really fun night. And no kids! Bonus!

A little wish

We told our little one that for his fourth birthday we would all take the day off  – no work, no kindy, just us – and he’d be able to pick what we did for the day. High tea? Staglands? The Zoo? Looking for penguins at Greta Point? A bush walk? A ride on the cable car? Whatever he wanted – we would try to make it happen.

He asked us about whether we would be collecting again for the “hosdiddle” because he remembered that sometime near his birthday last year he’d stood at the railway station and shaken a little bucket. He had filled the bucket with coins, met some new friends, and given all of the money raised to the Wellington Children’s Hospital.

“I want to get moneys again for the sick babies” he said.  I flicked an email to the lovely Sara and lined us up for an hour collecting – this year the street appeal actually falls on his birthday.

A week or so later I said – have you decided what you want to do on your birthday? We could go on a ferry if you like? Or maybe to Zealandia? And he said – “I told you! I want to get moneys for the sick babies who getted made better at the hosdiddle!”

Oh OK I said to him – but you only collect for an hour – so we can work that into your day. And he said – “No, that’s what I want to do all day! I want to get moneys for all the babies all day for my birthday!”

I got a bit teary because it was just so sweet I mean gosh, but I thought – does he really want to do this? So I said – do you just want to see Hospi again? Because we might be able to see him even if you just collect for an hour. You don’t have to collect all day to see Hospi.

And he said – Yes, but then continued on in that stream of consciousness way of talking three-year-old’s have: “an I not only want to see Hospi I want to collect moneys all day because when I was a liddle a couple more years ago I seen Hospi all the time an he maked me ged all better when I couldn’t do breaths an I had to be at the hosdiddle. An Hospi maked my baby brother ged all better too. An they maked better the sick babies when they come to the hosdiddle. So I want to get them not jus one whole bucket but six whole buckets of moneys”.

I sometimes wonder how much he remembers from his time in the children’s hospital. We – my husband and I, our family, and all of the doctors and nurses, worked hard to support him and we tried to help him understand what was happening but he was so, so small. It was so hard to explain what was happening to him during surgeries and tests – we tried. It was ever harder to put him through procedures and wipe the tears away before, during, and after. We all cried so much during that horrible time. But we tried not to do it in front of him. We tried to make the environment a good one for him – and so did the hospital.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe we are through the other side – but we are.

And when we hear our precious baby say he wants to collect money for the hospital for his birthday it reminds us that they did more than care for his tiny body. The children’s ward is a breathtakingly sad place a lot of the time, but there’s so much kindness there. There’s so much love, it’s overwhelming in its abundance.

Now my baby can breathe, because of the wonderful people at Wellington Children’s Hospital. Now he just takes my breath away. And that kindness that enveloped him during his time there has turned him into this beautiful little boy who wants to give back.

So on his birthday – 30 September – we’ll be heading around Wellington and Eddie’s little wish is to collect six whole buckets for the place that was so gentle with him and his very grateful parents. We’ll be with him – and if you think your workplace would tolerate a visit from Eddie and his bucket – please let me know by commenting or emailing me at emilywritesnz@gmail.com. Please make sure it’s OK with the boss! All of the funds raised will go to the wonderful folks at the Children’s Hospital of course and we have their permission! We’ll also end our day collecting at the railway station so we might see you there!

If you’d like to help Eddie reach his six buckets birthday goal – you could also donate here, we set up a Givealittle that will go directly to the hospital. It’s a way for people who aren’t able to give in Wellington to support the cause if they’d like to.

To anyone who donates on the day to any of the collectors,  or directly into Eddie’s bucket, or on the givealittle – I want to say thank you! Thanks for supporting my little one and showing him he can make a difference in the world, more importantly – thanks for supporting a wonderful cause. The Children’s Hospital staff are just wonderful, amazing people. And we love them.

I’ve written a bit about the kids and hospital if you’d like to read a bit more about how we feel about all of this –

• my feelings about the hospital after Eddie’s time there , and
• his brother’s stay

There will be lots of people collecting 30 September so please give generously. Or again – let us know if you want a visit! emilywritesnz@gmail.com! Or there’s the Givealittle! Thank you!

If you have a little one you think would love to shake a bucket for a great cause you can apply to be a collector for the Children’s Hospital here. You can follow Eddie’s collecting journey on Facebook.

Us too

My son doesn’t fall asleep.

He crashes. Furiously. Ferociously.

Sometimes the journey to bed is calmer than other nights. He angrily asserts that he doesn’t want to sleep. His words are MAMA, DADDA, EDDIE, MINE and he yells them one after the other. I wish we could understand him. There’s a gulf between us at bedtime. And even holding him close to my chest I feel as if there’s water between us.

He dips and falls in his cot – holding his arms up reaching for us if we put him down. We respond with love. We quietly and evenly tell him he must sleep.

A shower.

pyjamas.

Cuddles.

Bed.

A routine to the minute. We keep time and the clock holds all of the hopes for the night as well as signalling that there’s just so many open hours ahead of us.

Most nights it is a thrashing chaos. I hold my hand on his belly and shush him. I sing softly. I hold him in the chair – wedged into the corner of his tiny room. I lay on the mattress by his cot – with my hand through the bars, stroking his hair.

The mattress lives in the room by necessity. Sometimes we are so exhausted we fall asleep seconds after he does.

He cries. He screams. He coos.

My husband starts the first shift, then I’ll take over. Sometimes one of us has enough fortitude to give the other the night “off”. We’re quite equal – he seems to have no preference. He’ll drag either of us into the night. It makes little difference which one of us has to squeeze our eyes tight against tears in the dark.

When his breathing calms and I can feel his chest rising he is Schrödinger’s baby. In the dark I don’t know if he’s awake or asleep. I have to time my exit perfectly. If he’s awake and I leave I’ll have to start over. But I despair at spending more time than I need to in the tiny room of no sleep.

I think of all of the things I need to do. I become more frustrated as another half hour passes. Forty minutes. An hour. I try to swallow down and shake away the feeling that I have so much to do. I have to be here. This is where I need to be. But I don’t want to be here.

And then I think – what parent thinks that?

I feel guilt in treacherous waves. It feels like tempting fate to say I don’t want to be in this room of no sleep. The reason why we don’t voice our darkest parental frustrations is surely tied to the depth of our love for our children. What if I said something – that I didn’t want this? And what if? What if by some terrible cosmic force my beloved child was taken from me?

I touch a button when I see an ambulance. Keep the souls safe.

I am a sceptic, an atheist, and terribly superstitious.

After my baby was born I never stopped knocking on wood. The tap, tap, tap is my life now. The soundtrack to Life Parenting With An Anxious mind.

How could I live? How could I live without my baby? How could I live knowing he ever had a moment when I didn’t surround him by love? Even all the endless hours at night that he keeps us awake. All of those fucking terrible hours.

If I ever said the words what if somebody heard? What if something greater mistook the words for a wish? And they didn’t know that I just meant in that moment. That I just meant I’M TIRED. Please, I’m so very tired.

At my beloved aunt’s unveiling there was a haka. Beautiful and devastating. A powerful grief exploding. So fitting for a woman who was loved by so many. She wasn’t my real aunty. She was my husband’s. But I adored her and she loved me too. Really.

I miss her like we all miss the people who we imagined rocking our babies. Before you carried your baby you imagined a photo and they were in it and now you’re here and they’re not. And sometimes that seems absurd but it’s so ordinary – that sadness. The worst thing is how used to it you get, you shouldn’t get used to someone being gone forever.

During the haka I became overcome with emotion. I began to sob and I looked around me at the trees gently swaying in the wind. A kaumātua leaned over, I suppose wanting to help one of the few pākehā in attendance – he said, that’s our tīpuna, the ancestors, the family who were there before, they’ve come here for us. They’ve been called. And they’re all around us.

I felt like I was surrounded by love and I’ve felt that since.

I’ve felt it in the room of no sleep.

Sometimes I cry in the dark with my baby. After an exhausting day, after the night before of no sleep and no sleep before that and no sleep coming – I feel so overwhelmed and hollow.

I cry holding my baby’s hand through the bars of the cot. Imprisoned by the absence of sleep.

And then I’m calmed as he is.

I feel that feeling again.

I wonder if it’s all the love that we send each other at night.

The mamas all around the world who are so tired. Their backs sore from rocking their baby. Their throats raw from singing and shushing and a cold that never quite goes away because their immunity is shot from never sleeping. Their eyes red and sore. A dull throbbing headache. An aching neck. A longing for quiet and rest.

I think of them when I try to soothe my baby who won’t be soothed. I look past the curtains and picture Te Marama. And other mothers looking there too.

An invisible thread tying us together in this shared experience.

There’s a level of exhaustion that some mothers experience that cannot compare to anything else. It is expected and understood by most that babies are not great sleepers.

But at some point there stops being sympathy for mothers and fathers whose children don’t sleep. As if there must be some explanation. The rules haven’t been followed. It has to be someone’s fault. You just have to do the right thing.

Some mothers with children who sleep give advice on how to get your child to sleep. As if you haven’t tried everything already.

I met a mother once who said her baby slept and she didn’t know why. It was just luck she said. And she’d never ever give advice because who knows what makes a baby sleep?

I laughed and then began to cry. Big fat tears filled with relief. “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong with me?” I laughed again and coughed and sobbed. She pulled me into her arms – “It’s OK. You don’t have to be sorry,” she said.

Relief. Relief in the silence rather than the advice. The stupid advice.

You need to leave them to cry. They say. I did. They say. It only took three days to get them sleeping through the night.

You need to co-sleep. They say. That’s what I did. They say. It’s the easiest way to get them to sleep.

You need a routine. They say. The same bed time every night no matter what.

You need to look for tired signs. They say. They’ll rub their eyes and when they do – put them to sleep.

They need to be in the cot and you need to leave them and check every eight minutes, then every ten then every fifteen.

Don’t rock them to sleep. Just put them straight down.

Don’t hold them. Don’t make eye contact.

Don’t talk. Don’t sing.

They need to know bed time means bed time.

They say and they say and they say and I just watch their mouth moving as their voice becomes a hum as I hear the same words and I feel so tired.

They speak with such authority and it’s so tiring.

And each line is delivered as if it’s wisdom.

And if you react the way you want to with rolled eyes and say – our babies are different, I do have a routine. I’ve had one since he was four months old. I know what tired signs are – he’s my second child. I co-sleep. I have tried not holding him. I’ve tried no eye contact. I’ve tried everything there is. Maybe your child just isn’t mine.

Maybe children are all different just like adults are. And maybe my child is just like me. I can’t sleep. I lay in bed at night and count and then I think about the numbers and the sounds of the words that make the number and I think and I think and I think and all the thinking leads me to places that I don’t want to go to and I’ve always been that way.

Even as a child?

Maybe I’m not doing anything wrong.

Maybe this is just how it is.

And sometimes they’ll make comments like – well, when you’re tired enough you’ll change your mind. Or – I had to, I was so tired I was going crazy.

As if you’re not. As if you just have to reach some point where you say oh golly, I am tired! I’ll just try the newest sleep fad and I’m sure it will work because it worked for you. It’ll be just like a switch I flick. Once I’m tired enough.

And I start to feel so angry and frustrated and I want to scream and cry and I want to switch off all the noise. I’d rather be in a room with a screaming baby than listen to another person tell me how to get my child to sleep as if they know anything at all.

As if it’s not a cosmic joke which babies sleep and which ones don’t.

And then I feel calm. And I feel them.

The mums with the babies who don’t sleep. Who never give stupid advice. Who never assume you’re just not doing it right. Who never say when you’re tired enough you’ll do this.

They just smile and say – yeah. Solidarity. Mine is three. And she hasn’t slept through yet. Or – just – I’m so tired too. What I wouldn’t give for sleep!

And I feel safe with them. Like I don’t have to explain myself. Or lie. I don’t feel shit around them. I feel at peace.

My people. My mums. The mums like me.

The mothers of the never-sleepers who every night go to their rooms of no sleep.

I hope they feel the invisible thread.

I hope they see the moon too and know we are there. Us too.