Both things can be true … and a baby

Writing in the early hours from the newborn trenches, with my daughter swaddled asleep in the crook of my arm.

She’s already a mini comedian at three months old, a trait inherited from a long lineage of humourists. My late Nonno memorised an entire Australian joke book, reciting barely understood gags to confused passers-by on his daily walk. Her equivalent is headbutting me while burping, crying when I try to read her a four-page book (knowing full well how much I love literature), and pretending to be sound asleep until I place her in the bassinet.

The established parents I know were struck by some kind of love amnesia, forgetting to tell me until after I gave birth how difficult the first few months can be. It’s tough. Really tough.

I’m proud of the new skills I’ve learned. Like holding a bottle to her mouth with one hand contorted backward so I can hold a cup of coffee in the other hand. Not falling asleep into pumping equipment at 2am. And changing a dirty nappy while another yellow liquid poo streams across my fingers and on to the floor (apologies).

The adage ‘Sleep when the baby sleeps’ is, in reality, like sleeping next to a crow. No one tells you about the squawks and coos babies make in half sleep. I’ve reframed this as an opportunity to plug in headphones and watch the FIFA world cup. Unlike the younger me depicted in Coffee goals – reluctant to rise from slumber for a sports match – I’ve grown to love the adrenalin rush of goals scored, the calming elegance of a ball passed between players. I’ve created a womb of my own curled in the nursery chair wearing a Peter Rabbit Oodie robe and Ugg boots, trying not to wake up baby (finally asleep in bassinet!) as I gasp at the tablet screen.

Here’s a poem I wrote before my writing desk disappeared under a layer of Bonds jumpsuits. Before I found a deeper well of love, resilience and purpose. Before I started saying Her and We, not just I.

Both things can be true

A version was published in Dialogues: the Romanian /Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry and Prose, Vol. 10, 2026.

We connect to disconnect.
We don’t seem happier than they are.

Couples want to start a family.
Parents want their freedom back.

He wants to be mothered.
She wants to envelope and protect him.

He wants to father her.
She wants him to envelope and protect her.

They long for what they can’t have.
They have everything they need.

They’d rather roam the globe untethered.
They’ve been trying for a while now.

We don’t want to bring a child into a world that’s warming.
We’re happy if we do, happy if we don’t.

Holding my friend’s daughter made me feel complete.
I was happy to give my friend’s daughter back to my friend.

I’ll write about the pain I feel/saw in your eyes.
I may/may not be a mum and that’s alright.

I need to be with you.
I’m relieved you’re not here.

They don’t seem happier than we are.
They disconnect to connect.