Mopping

While mopping the kitchen floor today I thought of a friend I'd made when we lived in the Pilbara. We had babies not far apart, like about six months, her one came before mine, but before the babies arrived we would often spend time together.
She came from central Europe where she had run a ski chalet. Cleaning and cooking were her fortes, but she once ran over a flock of birds outide the flats because she didn't think she should slow down for them. You don't slow down for things, they must get out of a drivers way, she explained. Another thing, was that she used a great amount of salt in her cooking. Sometimes her rigidity bothered me, especially when she couldn't help but point out the flaws in my cleaning techniques. "Your home is dirty" she would tell me and grab a scourer from the sink to scrub a mark off the floor then put it back. She would catch a look of contempt on my face sometimes. I regret allowing her to see that. But one thing that I found unacceptable about her was putting floor germs onto the sink. She wasn't the sort of person I could argue with though. But if I only washed the floors every few weeks then it was my business, and I certainly didn't use the dishes scourers for the job.
Then in the bathroom today, I pictured her pointing to the toilet brush and saying "You haven't cleaned that, its obvious." We drifted apart over time. Rigid, proud yet free of arrogance and likable is how I fondly remember her. Pity I didn't learn more while I had the chance.

I like to keep my hands clean and I like to shower frequently. I can't bear stickiness on me or on surfaces. I really dislike that 'animal' smell people get when they haven't washed. My house sometimes smells when the kitty litter needs changing. All the ceiling fans need cleaning. I hardly ever wipe the walls or doors, or clean the windows. Papers build up on the table surfaces. I'm a slob maybe, and don't welcomc visitors because I don't like being judged on it.

My Story - Between months of hitchiking and working in out-of -the-way places I would be at home with Mum and Stephen in Newcastle. During those times I tried to be good to Stephen but ended up always screaming at him in frustration. Then I'd hate myself and remember that I was behaving just like the way Dad had always behaved towards us. He always acted like he hated us while Mum always acted like she felt sorry for us. In passing that is, because they were busy with their own lives. One thing we learnt from them was that you look after 'number one'.

My uterus was pointing backward. Perhaps I had never fallen pregnant because of that, apart from my periods only coming every few months. I had a funny discharge and was given four tablets to take and another four to give to the boyfriend who was fast drifting out of my life without me understanding why.
I had a drinking problem. Once a week I'd have to get drunk.
I met a guy. He asked my to marry him. I'd only known him a week. He'd stay at my mothers house sometimes, sleeping with me, but could never please me. The more he tried to the more I hated him. Mum liked him and would ask me why I treated him so badly. I didn't have an answer. He stopped coming by. I tried to hound him but he avoided me.

During that time with him I heard a voice in the night in my head that asked me if I wanted to get pregnant and have the baby adopted out. I said yes, if it would help. The guy had already gone when I discovered that I was pregnant. I so wanted to 'get him' that I went to a legal-aide lawyer, but nothing could be done.
Via outpatients, I was given the oportunity to visit with a psychaitrist. Every few weeks I flooded her office with tears. I'd go away broken, but I lived for those visits.
"There is something wrong with me" I told her. "I don't know what it is or even how to begin to fix it." The aching hurt, the shame at admitting that, brought out a lot of sobbing from me and she put the tissue box within reach.
"Maybe if the baby was a girl I'd consider keeping it, but I don't want to keep it."
"You have a lot of tears." She said, then continued.
"What will you do once the baby has been born and adopted out?"
"I might move back to Melbourne." I paused, "I might commit suicide." I said. It wasn't the first time I'd thought of it. I'd stood next to a seventh storey window wondering if I could make myself jump out. Only the memory of my love of sunday school in the Dandenong Ranges caused pause to think what a sin I'd be committing.
Going forward was beginning to look increasingly difficult though, I told the psychaitrist. I was afraid of reaching that place where I could no longer find a way to keep going. I'd been reading self-help books, travelling, trying to be different, to evolve, to learn the truth about myself and the world. But me was with me the whole time. I couldn't run away from me. I couldn't change because I didn't know how to.
I couldn't bring up a baby, I told her. I wouldn't know how. Nor could I take a pristine, beautiful baby into my mother's filthy environment.
She listens to me. I talk. I cry. She listens.
Then she says that after the baby is born maybe I'd like to engage in a course of psychotherapy. She has a student in need of a client.
This is my lifeline I realise. I can live and not die. She is saving me. So I say yes I would like that very much.
I keep seeing that wonderful woman right up until the baby is born. She even visits me in hospital. She asks me if it made a difference to me whether I had a boy or a girl once the baby was born. I told her no. I hadn't changed my mind.
I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. An ex-boyfirned and the current boyfriend I started going out with at six months pregnant both brought flowers. I re-assured the ex-boyfriend that he wasn't the father. My mother visited and tried to convince me to keep the baby, that she would look after the baby for two years then I could have her back. I couldn't send this poor baby away. Mum was feeling sorry for the baby. I lay down on the bed and turned my back on her.

I breastfed that baby in hospital for ten days because I wanted to give her anti-bodies and make sure she had the best start with mother's milk. I had her at feeding times and not before or in between. The thought of the baby screaming in the nursery for its mum didn't cross my mind.

I have to say that my next three babies were never allowed by me to cry. They cried and I picked them up and fed them or otherwise made them comfortable.

But back then, with that baby, I had no concept of the baby being a human being that I should give everything I can to to make her happy.

After ten days I left the hospital without the baby. My milk was in, and my boyfriend asked if I was alright when I suddenly broke down into tears because my breasts were sore, full and leaking and the baby wasn't getting the milk. My boyfriend always was quite aloof. He didn't expect much from my body. He left me alone unless a pushed myself onto him for sex. Then it was just that, no foreplay. I recovered quietly from the ordeal by myself.
I saw the baby again six weeks later and my mother nursed the baby through most of the interview until at the very end I took the baby from her for a short hug before giving her back. I believe she went to a good home and I'm so glad about that.