We built a village

There’s a lot of talk about a village. And how we don’t have one anymore. How mothers before us knew it takes a village. That they spent their days at each other’s houses. Children happily playing outside as they laughed over tea and ate home-made biscuits.

How they talked about everything and nothing and they had connection.

How their babies grew together. Learning how to walk as they leaned on each other.

How life was simpler back then.

Your village was small. But you could call on each other.

And someone would come over and clean your house if you rang and said you’d had a rough night. The baby is teething and you just can’t stop crying.

And the mothers would come and they’d make you a good, strong tea. And they’d put you to sleep and take the kids for a walk.

And they say we don’t have that anymore. That life is too fast now. It’s too complex. We don’t have villages. We don’t look out for each other.

There are so many column inches talking about the mummy wars and how we labelled and separated ourselves from each other.

Not like back then when mothers were just mothers. And living next door was enough to build a friendship on nothing but the fact that the baby has a wail louder than a siren.

And they taught each other to feed their babies. And life was easy. It was different.

But we don’t have that now they say.

But it’s strange. I hear this but I am writing from within the village.

We didn’t build a village with bricks.

We didn’t lean over the back fence and say – would you like a cuppa?

We reached out and into a virtual world when we realised we were all going through the same thing.

We built a village not from mortar but from from tweets and fuzzy words on a forum titled “Why won’t my baby sleep?”

We built friendships on nothing but the fact that put baby cries with such ferocity that it makes our head spin.

We taught each other that we were enough no matter what anybody else said. It wasn’t always easy. It was different.

We know it takes a village.  As our children play we laugh with friends no less real because we happen to chat online. We make plans by instant message and catch-ups at a park because we built this village through tapping out SOS on a keyboard.

And the call was answered even across the seas and our village is wide and open.

We talk about everything and nothing and we have connection.

Our babies grow together but apart and we lean on each other as they learn to walk.

Life might not always feel simple but we simply know that whatever happens we will have a kind word lighting up a page when we turn to our phones.

No matter the time. Or our location. We have this village.

We can call on each other and we rally. We create more villages where there weren’t any before.

We use labels to identify needs to ensure support. This place a home for the mums who wait by hospital beds for babies that might not get better. This place a home for mums whose children struggle with social interaction or whose minds never stop racing. This place a home for the mums who feel so anxious so much of the time that we make sure we cheer the achievement of just leaving the house. This place a home for the mums who never felt comfortable calling themselves mums. This place a home for the mums who have grief raw and ragged at the surface. This place a home for the mums who feel they’re never quite good enough.

This safe village where there’s a place for everyone.

And someone will start a thread where they will share a bank account number so they can start collecting for the mum who needs her car fixed. She lost her job on parental leave and her partner left. They’re a message away when you have a rough night. The baby is teething and you just can’t stop crying.

And the mothers will come and they’ll tell you that you need a good, strong tea. And they’ll say I can’t be with you to hold you tight but I can promise you from here that you’ll be OK mama.

And they say we don’t have that anymore. That life is too fast now. It’s too complex.

We don’t have villages. We don’t look out for each other.

But I’m writing this from a village.

Where we always look out for each other.

The confessional

It’s time – time for some truth. Time for some parenting confessions. I’ll be honest, I have said a few white lies in the past, at a coffee group, to a colleague, a friend even…definitely to family now and then. It’s just sometimes I don’t want the lecture or the raised eye brow or the tilt of the head and the half smile. I am sure every parent has a confession or two. This will be our safe place, I’ll share if you do…..

*deep breath*

Confession #1: We are co-sleepers

Look, I try to pretend we aren’t. But we are. I will say things like “Oh he mostly sleeps in his own bed” or “Mostly it’s just a visit in the morning to get him to sleep longer”. Unless if by mostly I actually mean never – it’s a fib. Because mostly he actually never bloody sleeps unless one of us is in there. And we never set out to be co-sleepers. I actually said before having kids I’d never co-sleep. My bed is a sanctuary I said. HA HA SOB. For my hubris, my bed is now not a sanctuary. Co-sleeping is the only way my youngest sleeps for longer than 45 minutes. He will cry out and reach a hand into the darkness and when he touches my shoulder or my husband’s wrist or the side of my face his body relaxes, and he goes back to sleep. If he reaches out and we are not there he screams and then he wakes himself up and then it takes forever to get him to go back to sleep. That is why we co-sleep. In other posts I’ve talked about co-sleeping, but I’ve often told people it’s only occasionally, or I’ve allowed them to believe that our youngest has grown out of it. We recently went on holiday and I didn’t put up the cot. That’s when I realised we are really co-sleepers. I didn’t even bother with pretending that he was going to at any point sleep in the cot. I should be more open about this, but lots of people who don’t co-sleep believe co-sleeping is why he won’t sleep. I co-slept with Eddie until he was almost two and then he moved into his own bed in his own room, just before Ham arrived. Eddie is a great sleeper now, and he even has sleepovers. Co-sleeping (I believe) has worked really well for him, and we are sure it will work out well for Ham too. So because I don’t want to be told not to do it, because I’m comfortable with doing it, I usually tell people he doesn’t sleep with us – but the cat is out of the bag with this post I guess.

Also, people ask weird questions about co-sleeping. Like when I once said I co-slept with Eddie I got asked “but what about y’know…” And I’m like sex? And they were like “yeah y’know”. I was literally six months pregnant when they asked me this question.

Anyway, for now though, Ham still doesn’t sleep through the night but I am OK with that.

Confession #2: I am not OK with my kid not sleeping through the night

I just lied to you. I’m sorry. I so often tell people I am OK with not ever getting sleep. I always say things like “yeah, I’ve accepted that Ham is just not a good sleeper”. I have not. I am really fucking shitty about having two babies that don’t sleep. There I said it. It’s bullshit and it’s not fair and I want a baby that sleeps. Damn, that felt good! I tell people all the time that It’s just the way it is and I’m alright with it. NOPE. The other day I saw one of those pictures on Instagram – you know one of those typography things – some baby book milestone app thing. The baby was sleeping and it had the baby’s name and weight typed over it all pretty and under interests said something like pottery and fascism (I can’t remember) and it also said “Sleeping through the night at eight weeks” and for a brief second (not that brief) I just saw this red mist? Is that weird? I wanted to kind of punch a wall? That’s not weird right? Don’t answer that. I honestly am so fucking annoyed that my kids don’t sleep and that I’ve tried everything and just THIS IS IT. And I’m so fucking annoyed other people get two or three fucking kids who sleep all fucking night from TWO FUCKING MONTHS OLD WHAT THE FUCK. And sometimes I see those posts where people are all Oh I’m so bored my baby has been sleeping for a week and a half and I just want to wake him up! And for a second I just actually put a hex on them. Not a really bad curse. Just, I silently pray that they will pour some cereal into a bowl and then pour the milk but only a tiny bit will come out and the carton will be empty and it will be too much milk to save the cereal but not enough milk to eat it. Or I wish that they will go to the store and their favourite brand of cereal will be temporarily out of stock. Yes, my spells are mostly breakfast related don’t judge me.

I just feel real sadness that I won’t ever know what it’s like to parent without being severely sleep deprived. I really wish I knew what it was like. I wish I knew what type of mother I would be without bags under my eyes and a dull headache. Would I be calmer? Patient? Would I be a much better mother than I am? Would I be a better wife, a better daughter, sister, and friend? Would I be a better volunteer, a better community member, a better writer? I feel sad. And so I lie. I say I’m not that tired and I say I am fine with the fact that my kids don’t sleep. I am convincing myself so that I can adjust to my reality and eventually, hopefully, make peace with it.

Confession #3: We don’t ever eat as a family and I don’t give a shit

And yes, I’m always going to lie and say we do. I get it, eating as a family is important. Yes. Fine. I concede this is true. But it is also significantly more stressful than not eating as a family for us right now. The baby eats first in a high chair. Our dining room table is covered in 128 loads of washing. My oldest does not eat with any kind of distraction. He would love it if we sat together encouraging conversation. Because then he could talk and not eat. Look, I’ve seen that ad. I’ve seen where they ask the kids who they want to eat with and they’re all MUMMY AND DADA and that’s cute but also I don’t care. Logistically I need to eat my food quickly so I can handle the youngest who just threw an entire pot of yoghurt on the floor while my husband coaches our son saying “just one more spoonful please buddy”. We are working on ways to make dinner time less stressful but right now this segmented regime of splitting up the children and assigning one adult to each one to make sure they both have something in their bellies before bed time – it works and it is the least stressful way to eat. Yet I will always tell people we eat as a family because we do – umm sort of. I mean I eat the bits left over on their plates or the parts Eddie doesn’t want while standing and trying to catch falling food (which I also eat). So we kind of do eat as a family. I mean I get why people who have grown kids are always like EAT AT THE DINNER TABLE blab la bla. I mean they have fond memories that are very removed from the realities of two under three because they’re reflecting on something they did 20 years ago. Also they’re all about conversations at the table as if the table is some designated talk zone and nowhere else in the house is a place where you can talk. We have our conversations before bed. Snuggled up warm. Sleepy tired eyes closing as we recount the day. Free from distraction we talk about who we helped that day. How we can help others tomorrow. What our favourite part of the day is. Who was our best friend today? Who loves us? Who makes us happy? Can there ever be a dolphin that is also a firefighter and do dinosaurs smile and what would happen if you didn’t have a face (what is it with the weird shit kids come up with). It is relaxed and loving and gentle and it doesn’t feel forced. Eventually those conversations will move to the dinner table but the fact is dinner right now for us is just GETTING THE FIRST BORN TO EAT and STOPPING THE SECOND BORN FROM EATING EVERYTHING. So rest assured not only are we talking but the oldest is very rarely not talking. But all of that feels like justifications for something I don’t feel guilty about so instead I just say “mmm yeah eating at the table so important yup definitely….”

So there you go. My confessions. I’d love to hear yours. I know some of these you might think are ridiculous. Maybe you think I’m silly for not just being out with them – and you’re kind of right, which is why I’m putting them out there. We are our own worst judges and even though I don’t feel guilty about any of these…maybe I do? Maybe it still feels like I have a picture in my head of what a good mother is and I’m still trying to be that image. Maybe it’s time to put pencil to paper and redefine her. Draw her so she looks a little bit more like me, so I can be a little kinder to myself.

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Under different stars

When I was pregnant I stood in front of the long mirror leaning against the wall of my warm and dry home. I saw my belly full of life. I felt content. Almost everything felt right in this world I was bringing my baby into. Our little world.

But we worried about the carpet. It was old. No place for a new baby. The baby would crawl and the carpet was dirty. Lives had been lived on this carpet. You could vacuum it but it would never be really clean. Not clean enough for a baby.

We had some savings, it was a family home we were renting, we knew a guy.

So we got new carpet very cheap.

We painted the baby’s room. We bought little stars to put on the ceiling. I practiced singing to you – the colours Kōwhai, kakariki, whero…

We bought books about the legends – Māui and Kupe. Stories too of where your papa’s family is from – Tommy Solomon the last full-blooded Moriori Rēkohu. Tales of the Chathams. We wanted our baby to know his whakapapa.

We bought little onesies with the names of our favourite bands on them. We imagined our baby as a mini-me. Would he look like you? And me? Our mothers? Our grandfathers?

Baby, your father used to press his ear to my belly and listen for you – for a heartbeat and the sound of rushing water.

***

When did you know that this is no place for a new baby, that you had to run? That you had to find a home somewhere so far away from the home that you had? So many lives were living on the roads that you were walking, could you picture your child crawling in safety as you walked that road?

Did you think of a home where the rug was worn from shared memories, of loved ones, of lives lived?

You used your savings, your family helped, you knew a guy.

Out in the open did you see any stars. Did you sing to your baby in your belly the colours of your home. Did you practice the words that you would need to know to try to make a new home. A home where you could tell your precious child about where they are from and what it means and why they’re here?

Did you have clothes for your baby, an outfit of hope, of love. Did you imagine your baby’s face? Did you see your mothers? Like yours, like the loved ones you had to leave. Like your younger sister.

You didn’t have your partner with you they say. Just your little sister.

You crawled through the gap in the fence.

Did you see a glimpse of yourself mirrored in the rushing river. Did you feel fear. That everything was wrong in this world. This big and terrifying world.

This world where we closed our borders to you and and your little sister and your belly full of life.

And they found your bodies by the side of the river. You, and your sister, and your baby.

And they put their ear to your chest, and your belly and they listened for you. And there was nothing but the sound of rushing water.

***

More than 14,000 human beings are stranded in a desperate, horrific refugee camp near the northern Greek village of Idomeni. On Monday, they tried to cross a river. Three died. They called them migrants. But they have names. They were a mother and her baby and they counted them as one. Her sister. And a man who might have been their brother. This is just one tragedy in the humanitarian crisis happening right now, after war has driven millions of people from their homes. More than four million people, the equivalent of the entire population of New Zealand, has been displaced by war.

We can do something. We can turn toward our fellow mothers.

The NZ Red Cross runs refugee support services in New Zealand. These include resettlement support for refugees and education and employment assistance. They also do extensive volunteer training. You can donate goods to make a house a home for a family arriving in New Zealand. You can become a refugee support person to make their transition to a new country and home easier for them.

Encourage the Government to double the annual refugee quota:

“New Zealand’s refugee resettlement quota was set at 800 places in 1987, and has not increased in 28 years. Today it is even lower at 750 places. The United Nations ranks New Zealand at 90th in the world for hosting refugees per capita. When adjusted for our relative wealth we rank at 116th in the world. Even Australia accepts over three times more refugees per capita than New Zealand. Doubling the quota would not make New Zealand a world leader in hosting refugees – we would still only rank as 78th in the world. But with the quality of services offered in New Zealand we would be able to hold our heads up and say that we are doing our bit. ”

We must double the quota.

Join and support the Doing Our Bit campaign to raise the refugee quota. Sign the petition.

We must never forget that it’s grace and luck and privilege alone that means we do not have to cross a raging swollen river for our babies. We must never forget our duty, the ties that bind us to mothers no matter what stars we sleep under with our babies.