What if it happened to you

The other day my two year old was on the balcony playing with some toys. She threw her doll Sula, the elephant from the show Bing Bunny, over the railing and it landed in the neighbour down stairs’ courtyard. The neighbour was outside and said she’d bring it up later, which she did. For the time that my daughter was without her toy she lamented. She kept talking about Sula and how she fell outside and where was her dolly and why didn’t she have it. She pouted and fussed and regretted. She didn’t cry because we, my parents and I, kept reassuring her that we would get her dolly back and not to worry about it, but to learn not to throw your toys over the railing. When she finally had her toy back in her hands, she cradled it and took care of it. She wrapped it in her muslin wrap and rocked it. She nurtured it and played with it for the rest of the afternoon. Still the next day, whenever we went outside or played with Sula, my daughter remembered that ill feeling of losing something valuable and relived it. She kept telling me and anyone else who would listen, like her dad when he came home from work, in her two year old tongue, that she dropped Sula outside; she was gone and the lady brought her back. She then held Sula close and kissed her plastic head.

The last couple of mornings I was confronted by a horrific and gut wrenching image on the news and social media, one that has captivated the world. The image is of the three year old refugee child who drowned at sea and washed up on a Turkish beach, not far from a tourist resort. He was dressed in ordinary children’s clothing, sandals, shorts, a tshirt. Face down in the sand, almost in a foetal position, exactly the same position that many children, including my daughter sleep. Except he wasn’t asleep, he was dead. The next image is of a Turkish official cradling his body away. I'm not reproducing the image, but if you live under a rock and haven't seen it, look it up.

The first few times I saw the photo I scrolled past as fast as I could to erase the image from my brain, but it kept showing up and I could no longer ignore it. The image. I could no longer ignore the image, not the issue. I know the issue. I think about the issue every day; especially since our country is currently one of the cruelest in the world when it comes to our treatment of refugees. I read about fleeing people and stopping boats and the inane rhetoric never stops; so much so that it has just become a permanent landscape in my brain that I compare everything to. My kids kept me up all night….at least we have a home. My daughter is annoying me and demanding my constant attention….at least she’s alive and well. We are cramped in this apartment and I wish we had a house…..we have a roof over our head, everything in the world we could need or desire, we are warm, we live in a nice suburb, we are safe, there aren’t bombs, we have electricity and running water etc etc.

But this image, this story really got my attention and snapped me out of my complacency. It made me cry. Not much does anymore. I finally couldn’t resist the compulsion to read the story, because the next image I saw was the face of the father of that child, who had to identify his body and that of his wife and his other child. That man lost his entire family. He is only one. There are hundreds, thousands of people losing their families, their loved ones, their babies every single day.

If my daughter at the age of two knows inherently what loss feels like, if that minor event of temporarily losing a toy can affect her so much that she keeps reliving it and feeling the panic and the pain; if we all can only imagine what that feels like, to lose a loved one, a child so unnecessarily; if we can be moved by that image and that story and feel empathy and sadness and anger and helplessness; then WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?

When is it enough? How many more children and people have to die? That is one very stark image, but one of many and nothing is changing. No amount of praying (please!), collecting money or clothes or toys, marching with witty placards, writing blogs….none of it is helping. None of it is stopping a small bunch of greedy arseholes upholding systems that displace and destroy the masses. We could try to change things at the polls, by voting with our conscience. Anyone that votes for leaders like our bunch of sorry dipshits, that continue to maintain these policies of exclusion and demonisation and persecution of people who are fleeing danger, created and preserved by these leaders and politicians to begin with, anyone that votes for these arseholes is complicit. What are our choices though? In Australia, whether you vote for the blue team or the red team, it doesn’t matter, they are one and the same. We can vote for the green team, but really….not everyone is going to do that and I guarantee that team isn’t rich or strong enough to dig us out of this hole.

This is a great quote from Russell Brand’s book Revolution. He thinks we shouldn’t vote at all. For a long time I disagreed with him. We can’t throw that right away. If we do we have no right to complain. We have to keep participating in the system if we want to change it. Or do we? He makes a very valid point. We can’t change the system if we keep feeding it. We need to destroy it and establish a new one.

“A Revolution is where a political system is overthrown from outside the formal political structures that already exist. The 1997 UK election that swept Tony Blair’s New Labour into power, jolly though it may’ve been, wasn’t a Revolution; it was at best a refurbishment. It was comparable to the election of Obama or Clinton: a bloke with a nice smile and an angle is swept into power after a more obviously despicable regime and then behaves more or less exactly like the predecessors. We shouldn’t be disappointed. No version of ’bloke with nice smile’, or different colour skin, or accent or vagina, will work. True change has to subvert the system that produces these people.”

It applies in Australia too. Abbott’s government are monsters, no doubt about it. What is Labor going to do differently? How different were they when they had the chance? They came up with Nauru! What are the Greens going to do if by some miracle everyone voted for them en masse?

Nothing, that’s what. The people who get into politics are a certain kind of animal. They are people who are born into privilege. Politics and private school education run in the family. They come from old money and old notions of class and ideology. They were political in school and at university and after that went straight into political jobs. They’ve never worked in a factory or been unemployed and had to struggle on welfare payments. They are on scholarships and trust funds and easy street pretending they know what ‘the people’ need and want.

So how do we expect them to represent us. They don't. They represent themselves and their mates in big business. 

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I know that photo broke my heart, but didn't surprise me and I know one thing for sure. If it was my family being bombed and at risk on land, I may make the same choices refugees make when they get on boats and risk their lives in the ocean if there was a slim chance at a better life.

Maybe we should all think a bit harder next time we have to vote. These people, the politicians, they work for us. We are their employers whether they like it or not. We have to unite and demand they do a better job. There are more of us than them. We are so powerful together. Maybe we need to start understanding our strength and acting on it.

For now all I can do is hug my kids tighter and be grateful every day that it's not me and my loved ones out there, as selfish and heartless as it feels. Because it doesn't take much for the tables to turn. Who's to say the thin veil that is our stable civilised country isn't thrown to the dogs by a pack of selfish bastards one day. They don't care. They'd sell us down the river in a heartbeat if it meant a greater profit. 

All these photos have achieved is reflection and navel gazing and a whole bunch of words on the internet in the comments section. But maybe if each and every one of us chose to demand more from our leaders, maybe some day the tide will turn. I hope it happens in my lifetime or at least my children's.  

Here's something we can all do though. Get on this website and read, learn, donate, get involved. These people are the beginning of something.

http://www.asrc.org.au/

My Fling with PND

My fling with PND lasted about an hour. I say fling because it wasn’t a full blown relationship. We met, we checked each other out, we had a bit of a pash and then I realised PND was a complete bastard and wanted nothing to do with it, so I dumped it.

When I had my first baby, I was so thrilled that I’d finally conceived after a year of trying and getting really close to intervention, that I literally threw myself into mothering her. I jumped every time she squawked. I leaped out of bed enthusiastically in the middle of the night to feed and soothe her. I prolonged every phase of her development; mostly because I was too inexperienced to read the signs that she needed to change, but also because I indulged in the established routine and was afraid to alter it. With support and information, we got there in the end. She ate solid food and weaned off the breast easily, she slept through the night, she rolled, crawled and walked, she got teeth, she’s talking and she even sits on the loo every now and then and actually goes. Even when I was tired and frustrated and confused though, I was never really depressed. I never felt utter despair. I didn’t feel rage. I wasn’t confused to the point of sobbing. I was content and happy. For the majority of the time it was me and her in the trenches. Her dad at work during the day and during the night, I insisted he sleep so he could function at work the next day, knowing I could rest when she napped.

When the twins came along she was 18 months old. Again we were thrilled to be having not only another baby; a much wanted sibling for her, but two healthy little girls. Our family was going to be full, abundant; something we dreamed of, but weren’t sure we were going to achieve. Despite everyone’s shocked warnings of how busy we would be and the necessary banter about the chaos that would ensue, we were truly excited and thrilled. We weren’t under any illusions that it was going to be easy, but we felt prepared. Raising our first through that first year was still fresh in our minds and we learned a lot. We knew it wouldn’t be the same though. There were two babies at the same time and a toddler who’s nurturing still needed to be observed and progressed milestone by milestone. We were going to become masters of multi tasking, champions of triage, expert jugglers. Well I was mostly, because let’s face it, I’m the primary carer whether I care to admit it or not. Yes I have support; my husband and parents do their best to help me. However, the majority of care giving for all three children at this early stage is my sole responsibility. It was my choice, my preference and I can do it. I do it pretty well. But it’s bloody hard and sometimes, it doesn’t have to be, but it is. Sometimes there are more obstacles and hurdles to jump than there needs to be.  

I first flirted with PND shortly after settling back at home from hospital with the twins. I’d had another caesarean and was in a fair bit of pain, but luckily the hospital sent me home with a small supply of Endone. I have a lot of feelings and rationalisations about both my caesarean birthing experiences. Bottom line is I did not give birth vaginally. I say vaginally not naturally because that implies that it’s a competition between natural and artificial birth simply defined by which part of your body the baby came out of. And people are too shy and uptight to say the word vaginally....vagina. It is so much more complicated than that. Yes, a caesarean operation is medicalised and involves a lot of artificial intervention for want of better words, but vaginal births are rarely without assistance too. I am completely in awe of women who go into labour naturally and give birth without any drugs and no intervention like episiotomy, forceps, vacuums, tearing and no assistance to the baby afterwards either. Heaps of women do it and have done throughout history. More women are aiming for that these days and when everything aligns and there is a perfectly healthy, low risk pregnancy, strong supportive networks around the pregnant woman, intelligent and woman focused midwifery and doula services, progressive medical systems to fall back on, education, money, comfort, time, peace of mind – so many factors; when all those circumstances combine and harmonise, it is definitely more possible and desirable for a completely natural birth to happen. When it doesn’t go completely perfectly, we are lucky enough to live in a country where medical birthing support is available and accessible and whether a woman needs a little help or a lot, her birthing experience can still be positive with the desired end result that everyone aims for; a healthy, safe AND HAPPY mum and baby. I needed a lot of medical support both times. The first time I wasn’t prepared for it, the second time with the twins I was, but still needed more than I thought I would. I was in excellent hands. I was surrounded by incredibly kind and capable people at both hospitals; one was public the other private and I learned a massive lesson; that so many expectations are placed on birthing women, so many false assumptions are promoted and there is a lot of misinformation out there. We as a species are still evolving biologically, emotionally, psychologically and culturally and all these factors contribute to our birthing experience. It is the single most important and profound human experience there is; perpetuation of our species and next to death and physical illness or injury the hardest thing a human will have to endure. Really. What else is harder or more profound? Don’t get me wrong. In saying that, I am not saying that a choice or otherwise not to experience that leaves you lacking; there are other human endeavours that are just as challenging in other ways, but giving birth and raising a child is intense and unique. We need to honour that better as a species and acknowledge what is necessary in a collective way to ensure that the experience has the best possible outcome for everyone. At the moment we don’t do that all the time. This is reflected in so many aspects of society. The administration of medical support to pregnant women to facilitate self determination in their birthing experience, the gender inequality women experience in the workplace and in society generally, how public spaces cater to parents, children and families and how we address issues surrounding depression and mental illness to name a few. We don’t look after our planet either, we don’t look after each other. We need a Revolution. Right now I’m reading Russell Brand’s book by the same name. It says everything I am trying to say so much more concisely. 

So the drugs ran out, I was making sense of my birthing experience; mine and the whole idea of birth generally and at the same time trying to fall into a new routine with two newborns and a toddler. When I say I was thinking about it generally, I was thinking how lucky I was, even though I felt obligated to explain or defend my experience of a very medicalised birth to many people. When you have a caesarean you have to explain what went wrong. It is not how I experienced it. Everything went right. I didn’t die and neither did my babies. I was surrounded by kindness and made comfortable in every possible way and I was surrounded by the love of the closest people in my life at all times. What more did I want? What more did I have to do to demonstrate and prove to people that although I would have liked to have given birth vaginally both times and everything I came across – people and information – preparing me for birth was telling me that was the proper way to do it, I actually had no control over how my body behaved and could only trust that the intervention I received would ensure a good outcome? I thought about women who have none of that. They may give birth vaginally and drug free, euphorically and safely, but they may have no other choice and if something goes wrong, it goes terribly wrong. They may be living in a remote community or in a war zone or a refugee camp. They may have no family or medical experts to cajole them through the pain and terror and have to muster the strength through their own self determination and survive the consequences no matter what happens. I started to think about birth on a global scale and this was magnified with every little experience I confronted. Whenever I found myself lamenting over a particular aspect of my experience, I imagined the alternatives. I found gratitude. I reasoned that it could be worse and how can I make it better for myself and for others. This story helped me immensely.

 

I took the babies and continued to take the toddler to the health clinic for their periodical check ups. At the end you do a little tick a box quiz, which I love and have absolutely no cynicism about how leading they are (eye roll) and I always scored pretty well. I always answered completely honestly, because I am up for the discussion with the nurse and ready to rant about how I feel about the label Post Natal Depression. Again, it’s not that I don’t believe it exists. I am certain it does and that there is a spectrum. However I understand where I’m at on that spectrum and my critical analysis is that you can’t put a woman in a pressure cooker and expect her to remain cool as a cucumber in a crisper all the time. That’s just madness. I always answered the questions truthfully and I especially loved the one about the sense of humour. That is my measure for my state of mind. Can I still laugh at things? Am I still able to find the comedy? The answer is almost always yes. The other good ones are about crying and raging. Do I cry and rage often? Not like the normal amount that is expected when you are elbow deep in shit most days, when you are exhausted from broken sleep and waking through the night sometimes hourly, when your body is being ravaged by breastfeeding and mastitis – I’m on my sixth bout and this time the site of infection was right behind the nipple and one of the twins has teeth…..yep excruciating. When you are alone with three babies most days and you’re doing most of the feeding, lifting, napping (them not me), changing, cleaning, singing, entertaining, routine monitoring, cooking and food preparation, thinking and planning and observing….what do they call that these days? Hypervigilance. 

So at around the babies’ 6 month check, which was really at 8 months because we were delayed after one of them had a minor cleft operation at 4 months; it was at this appointment that I answered truthfully; I hadn’t had a good belly laugh in ages. I cry more than normal – when the babies refuse to sleep, when I am in pain, when I feel unfit and frumpy, when I haven’t got time to write or crochet, when I’m bored of the same three rooms and I despair at a world that is cruel to women and girls and I am raising three. I rage more often than I used to. I nag my husband and my toddler; I pick fights with them and my parents. I get the shits with the general public (OK I did this most of my adult life, but now it’s for different reasons like why are they taking up the pram parking when they don’t have children, why is their trolley abandoned in the middle of the isle, why is the neighbour continually slamming doors or using power tools beneath my bedroom window, why do people have to mow lawns so often, why are people so impolite, rude, indifferent, conceited, incompetent, complacent….why am I so angry all the time.)

The baby health nurse listened to me and validated my feelings. She said everything I was going through was understandable. I’m in the thick of it and she recognised that I am very self aware. I made a commitment to take some time out and go back to looking after my body and mind through yoga. I have now bought a ten class pass and started classes.

When the teacher asked at the first class if there was anything in particular we wanted to address at the session I had to bite my tongue. People said their lower backs and neck hurt, some wanted a good stretch – I wanted to address my deep seeded rage and existential confusion; I didn’t say it out loud. At one part of the class we were lying on our backs and he asked us to take a deep breath and release it with a loud sigh; I fought the urge to scream out MOTHERFUCKER.

It’s a start. I’m trying to do one or two sessions a week and I’m already seeing the benefits. For some people who are experiencing Post Natal Depression it is much more serious and complicated than that. Maybe they don’t have the tools to critically analyse and understand what they are experiencing and only see the symptoms independent of the causes. For me it isn’t like that. I can’t control feeling like crap; crying and getting angry, feeling overwhelmed and confused, feeling lonely and isolated and desperate that everything is bleak and hopeless. But when the moment passes I can make sense of it and I understand that I feel those things not because of something inside me that is dysfunctional or broken, but instead I see it as a very normal response to what I am experiencing being a stay at home mum to three babies under the age of two. I think that if mums didn’t respond with the emotional and psychological behaviours that we associate with depression after making a human or two or more in their bodies, having given birth and being suddenly bombarded with the immense responsibility of taking care of babies; if they were all calm and positive and well groomed and happy all the time; that would be psychotic. That would be dysfunctional and not a normal response to the stimuli. 

For some women, medication is absolutely appropriate. I am afraid to take anti depressants because I think I will like them too much. I recognised something very sinister in myself when the Endone ran out and I faced the prospect of having no more pain killers. I felt a bit like a junky that needed their next fix and was not going to be able to score. I have an indulgent and addictive streak that I need to keep an eye on. I am very good at utilising tools like wine for example, to self medicate and keep me calm. This hasn’t been an option until recently because I don’t like to drink at all while I’m breastfeeding, but the babies have cut back on feeds and I’ve been allowing a glass or two each night and it has made an immense difference. I can get a good buzz on with just a small amount and it is helping me get through the nights. The babies still don’t sleep through and I think the nights are the hardest for people who experience depression. On second thought, the nights are hard on most normal human people who are engaged with the nature of existing and have a mind and emotions. The nights are dark and silent and the self and the mind are alone to dwell and reflect. The self is awake to dance up a storm of despair and uncertainty that the day time can easily mute and hide in the light. If it was legal, I’d smoke a joint once in a while.

I guess my point is this. PND is very real and very debilitating for some women, but it isn’t a flaw in them. It isn’t a condition that is inherent in their nature. It is a response to a situation that will push any normal person to their absolute limit. Women all deal with this pressure differently and we all make choices and sometimes have no control over how we experience pregnancy, child birth and parenting.

I’ll end with one of my favourite quotes. 

The Bachelor

IT'S SHIT!

Hey thoughtless, don't ruin the park for me!

The only place I can really get to on my own, with twins and a toddler, without someone meeting me at the other end is the park up the road. It’s literally across the street. I can time it to avoid breastfeeding and nappy changes and still get maximum time outside. The babies nap in the pram and the bigger one can have her morning tea and play for at least a couple of hours. I feel safe there. I’m not anxious about taking heaps of time to pack and unpack the car or fulfil the kids’ needs away from home and I know if anything happens I don’t have far to go to be back in the comfort and security of home.

Sometimes though, I come home feeling disappointed and cranky that I even bothered and it’s not because of anything my kids have done. It’s other people. Don’t get me wrong. The majority of the time I meet absolutely beautiful strangers. Mums, sometimes with twins themselves or children close together who understand the chaos my life entails, often connect with me in the moment. We don’t even get each other’s names. We just learn the ages of our children and chat quickly about what we are experiencing most recently. We share a little bit of the anguish we feel, but by instinctively trying to buoy each other’s spirits, end up finding the positivity and humour in our own situations. It’s what keeps me going back to the park. That and watching my toddler roll around in the sand, run in the grass and sunshine, climb, swing and try to befriend other children. She forages for leaves and sticks and collects rocks. She watches insects and points out birds; she lights up when she sees dogs. She giggles at the wonder of smaller children and idolises the older ones; following them around and copying their bravery. 

The disappointment and frustration I feel escapes her. She isn’t aware of what I am aware of. She doesn’t see the flaws and dysfunction like I do. I myself know that these moments are insignificant in the scheme of things and won’t prevent me from going out, but they are important enough for me to think them through and dwell on them. Probably more than I should, but I feel they deserve enough attention to be addressed and to extract some sort of learning from them. At the very least I need to make sense of these incidents within myself so that they don’t bother me next time, because I know I will come across the same stuff again and again.

Some mothers are not friendly. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t return your smiles or acknowledgment. Their children are the same. When my child approaches them, they turn her away or turn away from her. It’s no big deal. You never know what someone is going through or how they are feeling. Their hostility is just my interpretation and for all I know they could be in a world of fatigue, pain, depression, fear, anxiety that I know nothing about. They don’t owe me anything. They don’t have to say hello or smile. They’re not there for me. It would be nice if we could all put aside our personal feelings and experiences when we are out in public so as to connect with other human beings and allow that human interaction to soothe us and to temporarily fulfil us, give us joy and maybe heal our ills, but there is no obligation. It’s an unwritten social contract that a nice community, a civilised society is reliant on people being courteous to each other. 

I can handle being ignored or watching my child being ignored, what irks me is actual hostility. The adults are subtle. They’ll just ignore you, maybe scowl imperceptibly or do inconsiderate things like litter, park their cars selfishly, bump into you, get in your way and pretend they don’t see you, but generally they don’t tell you to fuck off even if they’re thinking it – sometimes they do though. But kids do, they innocently verbalise their discontent. 

The other day my daughter approached two older boys at the park smiling and giggling. She has no fear or shyness about other children. She’s a bit of a busy body. She spends a lot of time alone with just me and her baby sisters because she doesn’t go to kindy yet. She’s only two and she’s quite content at home at this age and while I’m home looking after her, there is no rush to institutionalise her too early, there’ll be plenty of time for her to be out in the world. In my experience, children that do attend day care or some sort of formal establishment with other children, don’t necessarily socialise any better at that age. I’ve found they’re sometimes less willing to engage with others because they get enough of it and want to be left alone at every opportunity. Neither is any more or less right or beneficial in my opinion. She’s the opposite. She wants to know what other kids are up to, what they have and if she can join in. I’m trying to guide her to know how to do this with respect and without being a pest, but she’s two and all she knows is that if there are other kids around, she wants to play with them. As soon as she approached, one of the boys stood up to her, he was taller, bigger and said “No. We don’t want to play with you because you’re a girl.”

My heart skipped a beat. She didn’t flinch. She probably didn’t even understand what he was saying, but to me it was the start of a social script that she was going to internalise. Over and over again, if she hears it enough and feels it enough, she is going to think that she can’t because she is a girl. My feminist brain exploded, but I kept my distance (she was in the sand and I was on the path with the twins in the pram) and didn’t get involved. I watched them continuously turning away from her, walking away, taking their toys and her innocently thinking it was a game and following them. I intervened only by trying to get her attention and diverting it to something else. I led her to another area next to children and a lovely mum who were willing to play with her. It’s not the boys’ fault. They’re babies themselves. Wanting to play uninterrupted, not wanting to share their bikes and having no obligation to do so, but they were unkind and incidentally, there was no one around to correct them and encourage them to be nicer. Their mums were sitting away from them, not paying any attention to them whatsoever, deep in their own conversations. Again, they have every right to….sort of. Maybe they really needed a deep and meaningful. Us mothers rely on our connection with other mothers, but perspective, priorities. Make time and space for those connections to happen, but if you take your kids to the park, maybe supervise their behaviour. Not only for their own safety, but so we can all as parents, encourage our children to play nice. To practice kindness to one another without compromising their own needs or being martyrs. They don’t have to play with each other, they don’t have to share their toys if they don’t want to or if they are busy playing with them. They don’t always have to be inclusive, especially if they are deep in a game and some stranger expects to be included. But be kind. Say kind words. Be conscientious of other people’s feelings. Children need help to do this and if the adults don’t know how or can’t be bothered to negotiate civilised human interaction, what hope do the kids have.

You don’t have to be a helicopter parent to observe children in their play, leave them to their own devices, but at the same time know when to intervene to guide them to be kind and prevent and avoid conflict. It is also ok to make sure your children are safe at the park or out in public generally. It’s ok to demand a safe and secure space for children to play and mothers to occupy without having to compromise that experience to share the space with people who don’t belong there or don’t know how to behave appropriately there. 

I hate it when older kids from the high school up the road come to hang out on the play equipment at the park. They run up the stairs, run down the slide, swing roughly, throw sand or rocks, shout. I know they have a right to go wherever they want, but how about knowing your place. How about showing some respect and maturity and understanding that if there are small children and babies around, it’s not the place to be boisterous and behave like lunatics. You might not only injure a child, you’re being a shitty example and a nuisance.

I also hate it when some adults invade that space inappropriately. I recently confronted an incident and was shot down by most people and while I totally saw their point and knew the risk I was taking, I didn’t give a shit and felt I did the right thing and was happy to look like a bloody idiot, but take the precaution.

I was at the park with a friend. The twins were in the pram and she and I were swinging our toddlers. A man with tripods and camera equipment turned up to the park and asked us, (rhetorically, he wasn’t anticipating us to say no and I wish I had), if we minded if he took some photos of the area. He said he wouldn’t photograph our children directly, but we may be in some of the photos. He was middle aged and well dressed; he looked like an intelligent person. He knew full well that it was something that could be misconstrued or that it may make us uncomfortable, but he didn’t give a shit and he didn’t approach anyone else at the park for permission, just us, tokenistically. I didn’t immediately say yes. I asked him what it was for. He said it was for real estate purposes around the area. I didn’t make a big thing. He didn’t show me any identification and I didn’t quiz him further. I acquiesced. I didn’t have much choice without making a scene. And that’s exactly what he knew would happen. He didn’t give a shit how uncomfortable it made us or how suspicious it looked; he had zero respect for our feelings or the security of that space where mums and kids come to play with some level of privacy and safety. He carried on fulfilling his own needs. 

I gave him the benefit of the doubt and we ignored him. I did openly take my phone out and photographed him just in case and he didn’t seem to care. Later that afternoon I went home to read about a recent incident nearby where a man was caught photographing children suspiciously at a local school. Alarm bells rang and I panicked a bit. So I went to social media where I think you can be as open and expressive as you want and get messages and information out quickly. I knew the risk I was taking, that I was potentially unnecessarily vilifying someone, but I thought it through. My intentions were good. I wanted to put it out there just in case and used closed community groups to do it in. I wasn’t accusing him of anything, I just wanted people to know what happened, to see his picture and maybe identify him and speak for him (nobody that knew him personally did) and to eliminate the possibility that the two incidents were connected and that there was anything sinister going on.

That didn’t happen. What I feared would happen happened. People lost their fucking minds and accused me of being a stalker, a monster, out to destroy an innocent man’s reputation. I argued weakly that it wasn’t what I was trying to do at all and that I just wanted to make sure it was ok. That if he felt ok to photograph us and use the pictures for whatever purpose he wanted that he didn’t mind being identified and discussed by the community. I genuinely did it without any malice at all. I just wanted to make sure. The posts were removed from social media. I was called names. Some people suggested I report it to the police. So I did. 

When I rang the police it was like the woman that answered was expecting my call. If she was a local who was on social media, she probably was. She said they’d send someone around and about half an hour later two cops turned up. One was a hostile looking young woman. She came in thinking I was a trouble maker. She left with a little more sympathy and understanding I think. It was obvious I wasn’t a psychopath. I told her and her partner, a giant of a young man who was very serious, as he should have been, that they would have to follow me around and we couldn’t sit down to talk because I was on a schedule and had two babies I had to get down for their nap. We discussed what happened. I told them to excuse my nervousness, but I was genuinely breathless with anxiety that I had two fully armed police officers in my home and how my toddler would interpret this. Like with most things I fret about affecting her, she was oblivious.

I told them what happened and that I hoped I was making a total idiot of myself and was completely wrong and that I felt that being personally attacked and placing myself in the position of a fool if I was wrong was worth it if I was circulating information that was useful if my suspicions were founded. The male officer said a couple of things to me that made me think that not only was he very young and a little bit socially unaware, he was also a bit naïve. He asked me if the man was bothered when I photographed him back and when I said no, he implied that that was enough to show he wasn’t up to anything. He also said to me that if he was well dressed, he must have been ok too. These two things annoyed me. Just because he didn’t care if I took a photo of him and that he was well dressed didn’t mean a thing. I argued that he knew he was making us uncomfortable. He knew that enough to half heartedly ask for our permission. I mean what did he think it would look like?  A middle aged man, turning up to a playground taking photos of the area around children. If he was doing it for work, why not wait until the playground was empty or cordon off an area. If he needed photos showing high traffic or people frequenting the park, provide those people or by all means use us, but show us some information. Introduce yourself properly, give us your card, make us feel at ease that you aren’t up to anything. Don’t mothers and their kids deserve at least that courtesy? At the very least it’s lazy and unethical, just to save a buck and some time.

  

When I expressed all this to the cops in between wrapping and tucking in my babies and ushering my toddler out to the lounge room I think they saw that it was clear that I didn’t have time for this bullshit. I wasn’t some bored sociopath wanting to start drama or out to get someone. I was genuinely concerned that something untoward had happened. It made me uncomfortable and had I not read about the other incident I would have just lived with my discomfort and carried on.

I don’t regret it and I’d do it again. This time I’d go straight to the cops first, but there is nothing legally to stop me from utilising social media and despite placing myself at the mercy of other people’s indiscriminate abuse, I’d post his photo up again.

It’s hard being a positive and kind person and parent when you are socially aware of the risks society can pose to your children and at the same time knowing the potential there is to raise kind and strong individuals who see the world as a safe and enriching place full of people genuinely wanting to do good things and have positive connections. I know I fret more than I should and that bringing this stuff to my children’s attention risks creating a problem in the first place, one that if I just let things slide they’ll not really notice exists and can just go on being blissfully unaware, but prevention is better than cure and I’m getting involved. I can’t help myself. We should all be engaging. It’s a fine line between naivety and resilience.