The Saturday morning queue at my local Brisbane café is long.
It’s my first time leaving the house alone since the birth of my second baby, Bobby, six weeks ago. My 18-month-old toddler, Noah, clutched the rails of the safety gate, sobbing, as I kissed him goodbye with promises of a smartie cookie on my return.
I notice another mum ahead of me, cradling a new baby and trying to stop her toddler from sprinting outside. Just as she’s approaching the counter, her toddler breaks free, and she’s forced to abandon the queue to chase her outside.
"Stop it, Daisy!" she whispers viciously, catching hold of the curly haired girl and dragging her back inside.
Me as a mum, trying to feed newborn Bobby while toddler Noah tries to “help.” Source: Supplied
The man behind her is already ordering and the line has lurched forward hungrily, social distancing forgotten. She resigns herself to the end of the queue.
I’ll admit it: a few years ago, I would have judged her. I was a first-class honours grad and newly admitted lawyer. I was working in my dream job, after a stint in The Hague. I went to French film festivals and rode my bike along the river.
I was everything my Chinese-Malaysian migrant father had dreamed of.
Now, with two small babies, it's been months since I’ve written a sentence, let alone formed a compelling argument in a courtroom.
The woman’s toddler escapes again, this time to yank a large handful of geraniums out of a pot outside. She follows, and flops down onto a milk crate seat, tossing her face mask aside in defeat. She settles her newborn into the pram. A triple pram. What? Yes. There are two tiny newborns, plus Daisy.
Me and my dad celebrating a family birthday. Source: Supplied
I can’t bear it any longer. I rush over to her.
"I saw you give up your spot. What’s your order? I’ll line up for you."
She looks up and I see myself reflected in the messy bun piled on her head, stained flannelette shirt and remnants of old nail polish on her toes.
She’s tall, blonde, and slim. She’s the kind of beautiful I would have admired from afar as a chubby teenager. But now, even though my body resembles a pile of mashed potato more than ever, I see her only as an ally. Early motherhood is a great equaliser.
Her eyes flood with tears. "Would you? I’m desperate for a flat white. I had big plans to leave the house today but the twins…Daisy..."
The waitress is oblivious to the raw human emotion on the battlefield of her café as I order my new friend her flat white and an almond croissant. It is gooey yet crispy, with a sugary, nutty crust. I remember Noah’s cookie and get one for me too, and a chai.
Pandemic parenting is no time for dieting. At university, I would buy one block of chocolate to last a month. After a difficult day of lectures, I would permit myself a single square. These days I toss blocks of chocolate into the shopping trolley like a food staple. Treats have become the norm because difficult days have become the norm. Some days the only thing fuelling me is a bowl of pasta puttanesca and some garlic bread to look forward to.
Rae Helmore. Source: Supplied
I take the coffee and croissant over to my new friend, who is rocking the pram with one foot, trying to unbutton her blouse to breastfeed and calling to Daisy who is putting pebbles into her pockets. Instinctively, I take the pram and rock it, and coax Daisy over.
"Thank you," the mum weeps into her coffee.
I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes mine back. My eyes sting with tears.
I offer feebly, "It’s impossibly hard. I know."
Crying in public is my new normal since becoming a mum. Displays of emotion were rare in our household. My father had been sent to Australia as a 12-year-old, shipped off with his Malaysian school uniform instead of a cuddle to go to a Brisbane boarding school. Alone and armed with only basic English, he excelled in school and became a doctor. There was love in our own household but also an expectation to succeed.
Noah and Bobby watching the world go by on the family property. Source: Supplied
Now here I am, knee deep in the trenches of the 'two under two' zoo. There are no ribbons or accolades in motherhood. You can’t quit. There’s just you, weeping into the Milo tin in the pantry.
"I’m so shit at this," the mum wipes her nose with her sleeve. "You must think I’m crazy. Oh my God, thank you," she rips into the almond croissant.
I want to wrap her up in a cashmere blanket and tuck her into bed with a cuppa.
"You’re not crazy. I only have two babies and most days I’m a shell of a human. You have three under two, and you’ve successfully left the house. You are a superwoman."
She smiles ruefully and gets up to leave. I can tell she is about to sob the whole way home.
A few weeks later, I see Almond Croissant Mum again. She looks tired but calm, in linen pants and a white singlet. She has fresh nail polish on her toes, the colour of pink sherbet. I’m holding a grizzly Bobby, and my jeans feel too tight.
Rae Helmore as a little girl. Source: Supplied
"Hello!" she whispers, rocking the double pram. I can smell the shampoo of her freshly washed hair. She and Daisy are drinking milkshakes.
"Asleep?" I whisper, pointing to her pram. She nods and smiles, relieved.
"How are you going?" she asks.
My chin quivers. "Surviving not thriving, I guess. I’ve badly stuffed up Bobby’s naps today and he’s really letting me know."
I don’t add that I’m worried I will never again sleep a stretch of more than four hours, or that my postpartum hair loss is making me feel hideous.
"That day you got me the coffee and croissant; I was about to really lose it. You saved me," she says. "I haven’t forgotten it."
Almond Croissant Mum gathers up her babies and we head off in opposite directions, returning quietly to the trenches.
Rae Helmore is a Brisbane writer, lawyer and mum of two boys. Rae is in the final stages of her manuscript, a memoir about surviving postnatal depression in a pandemic, I Started Hearing Shark Music. Rae was recently selected for Queensland Writers Centre’s Printable program and is a regular attendee at Queensland Writers Centre’s Writing Fridays. You can find snippets of Rae’s life on her Instagram
This article is an edited extract of an entry chosen from the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
