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Image: Getty / Tina Tiller
Image: Getty / Tina Tiller

Summer 2022January 11, 2023

Nobody told me that new motherhood would be this strange and wild

Image: Getty / Tina Tiller
Image: Getty / Tina Tiller

Summer read: Maddy Phillipps’s son is one and no amount of sage advice could have prepared her for the past year. Here she shares five major lessons from 12 life-changing months. 

First published October 24, 2022

Recently my son turned one. I am not big on birthdays, preferring to celebrate my own by skulking at home and feeling guilty about not replying to messages on Facebook, but this one felt surprisingly momentous. Unbelievably, my partner and I had sustained human life outside the womb for a full calendar year. And here was me thinking my life had peaked in 1999 when I was in the audience on Ready Steady Cook. Though I don’t believe that having kids is a prerequisite to a full, purposeful life, no year has taught me more than this one.

These five lessons from those 12 months were the most surprising parts of new parenthood for which no books, Instagram posts, well-meaning colleagues, distant relatives, or parenting subreddits managed to truly prepare me.

Lesson #1 – Birth is a trip

Unsurprisingly, my induction into motherhood involved a birth. Officially, my birth was an NVD (normal vaginal delivery) at Birthcare. Unofficially, it was a deranged, sleepless, three-day hormone bender that stretched from Saturday night through Tuesday morning. It involved cranking house beats, numerous showers, a birthing pool, McCain oven chips, the entire BBC Pride and Prejudice miniseries, copious amounts of vomit, and lots and lots of  “No!”s.

Then, just when it was feeling like my second year at Otago uni revisited, A HUMAN CAME OUT OF ME. The human cried then immediately shat on my newly jelly-like empty stomach, and all of us were covered in blood and poo and vomit, and I ate a muesli bar and had a cup of milky tea, and my baby fed then drifted off to sleep, but I couldn’t sleep for the next six hours because I was still so high on hormones and the fact that I’d actually expunged a tiny mewling boy from my innards.

Those are the facts, but they don’t do the experience justice. The whole thing was so surreal that it resists description. Ever since, my mind has been consistently boggled that so many women I’ve encountered in my life have had this out-of-this-world experience (obviously, no two births are the same, but having seen photos of a friend’s C-section with her organs draped across the operating table, I am confident that all methods of baby-extraction are the stuff of pure madness).

Before, I had always seen birth as a cuddly kind of thing, all soft pinks and blues and fluffy ducks and little hats. Nothing could be further from the truth. Birth is hormones and total presence in the moment and blood-red gore. Birth is a life-changing, mind-altering, psychedelic, consciousness-expanding trip. Who needs ayahuasca when you can have a fucking baby?

Ayahuasca, a South American psychoactive brewed drink, doesn’t compete with giving birth. (Photo: Getty images)

Lesson #2 – Parenting is relentless

Once the initial high of the birth subsided, I was brought crashing down to earth by the realisation that now my partner and I had to keep that baby alive and well. This was… an adjustment. Even my most soul-crushingly busy work weeks, where I’d hunched over my laptop early in the morning, late at night, and on the weekends, paled in comparison to sustaining a newborn. I was now required to feed and change and launder and soothe literally around the clock, no matter how bad or sad or tired I felt. When my son needed something, the buck stopped with my partner and me.

My new life as a mother felt relentless: the sleep deprivation was bad, the breast engorgement was bad, my perineum and lower back were very very bad, but the worst thing of all was the  24/7 sense of total responsibility. I sometimes wished my son would reverse birth himself, just for a little while, just to assuage it. Parenting felt like being on permanent retainer to the world’s most demanding client, and I imagined I would never be free to chill out and enjoy life ever again.

Feel like sleeping at 3am. Your baby might have other plans. (Photo: Getty images)

I wasn’t wrong, exactly. Parenting is still constant, and still tiring, and my ability to read a single news article, much less a book, in peace remains severely curtailed. But, surprisingly quickly, being fully responsible for another human life simply became the new normal. Cleaning stubborn poo from tiny testicles? Easy. Administering Pamol in your sleep? No problem. Lovingly preparing a healthy, balanced meal knowing that there is about a 20% chance your kid will eat it, but that’s OK because you get to forage for smooshed and hurled scraps after they go to bed? Standard.

And with every passing month, there have been more and more blissful moments to offset the more banal, unrelenting tasks. There is no more potent antidote to exhaustion than the screeching joy of a baby being hurled dangerously* high in the air, or stroking a fluffy dog, or eating sand, or hurtling down a slide face-first. Now, at one year old, my son is a legitimate delight, and there is no other tiny bossy creature to whom I would rather answer.

Lesson #3 – You may not recognise your own mind

I like to think of myself (hopefully with some degree of accuracy) as an adventurous, easy-going person. I assumed these qualities would seamlessly transpose from my old identity to my my new, motherly one, and I would be super chill about any potential threats to life and limb that might befall my son in the world outside my womb. This was not the case.

I spent the first few days of motherhood believing that my son would, apropos of nothing, drop dead. It seemed impossible that such a tiny, fragile being could actually keep itself alive. This then turned into a paralysing fear of SIDS or suffocation, to the point that I was only truly relaxed when I was fully awake, hovering over him, watching his chest move up and down and checking that his wee cherubic nose had unrestricted airflow. Sometimes at night I woke up soaked in sweat, suddenly convinced I’d fallen asleep feeding him and he was buried under the covers in our bed, only to realise he was snoozing safely in his bassinet.

When I walked past our open second-floor windows, intrusive thoughts would shunt their way into my stream of consciousness, telling me that I was going to drop him out the window. Not content with that little piece of horror, my brain then threw in a visual of the aftermath of said dropping. So, open windows were my nemesis, then I started to worry about positional asphyxiation in the car seat, then one night I dropped my phone on my son’s head and made my partner drive us all to Starship to ensure he didn’t have a brain injury (the doctor examined him, then told me that, while normally they would keep a young child with a possible head injury  in hospital for observation, in this case, due to “the mechanism of injury,” she thought we should really just go home).

Retrospectively, this was classic postpartum anxiety, but at the time it seemed completely rational. And much like the initial feeling of relentlessness, it seemed like this situation would go on forever – yet, over the first few months, 95% of the anxious thoughts faded away. No doubt my postpartum hormones calmed down, and of course my son became bigger and stronger day by day, but I think a big part of my brain relaxing a bit was building up a memory bank of Times Things Went Wrong and He Didn’t Die.

We dropped his capsule on concrete with him in it, and he was fine; I dropped him under the water in a pool when he was eight weeks old. He was fine. My partner inexplicably decided to take him for an impromptu dip in a warm, muddy bog, and despite my grumpiness about a possible UTI from the fetid bog water (“Honey, they are THE MOST COMMON CAUSE OF HOSPITALISATION FROM AGES O TO 3 MONTHS!”) he was fine. And, due to his Shrek-like enthusiasm for the sludge of the swamp, acquired a new nickname (“Bog Boy”).

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It’s just as well the anxiety has ebbed, because toddlerhood is a whole other level of accident and adventure. In the last two days alone, my son has been clawed in the scalp by an ornery cat, fallen off a swing, hit his head on numerous items of furniture, and slammed his fingers in a door. Yet he is fine – more than fine – and so am I.

Lesson #4 – You will abandon deeply-held beliefs

The cloth nappies were the first to go. While pregnant, I had painstakingly researched and purchased a full set. According to the seller, they were nearly as simple to use as a disposable, and highly effective. I lovingly laundered, folded and filed them neatly into changing table caddies. So easy! So organised! So eco-friendly! It was going to be great!

When we left Birthcare, we were given a pack of disposable nappies to take home. Over the next few days, I watched with grim anticipation as the packet emptied, nappy by nappy, knowing that soon our daily tasks would expand to include rinsing poo out of rags. Conscious that I had spent several hundred dollars on the nappies and evangelised about them throughout the pregnancy, I did not share these thoughts with my partner.

On our son’s sixth day of life, the disposables ran out and we were compelled to commence our Cloth Nappy Journey. We immediately realised that, unlike the planet-killing hyper-absorbent polymer filling of disposables, cloth doesn’t wick away moisture from the skin, so the baby feels wet whenever they pee. Our son did not like this. Every liquid emission, whether asleep or awake, resulted in screaming, which meant he was waking up and screaming roughly every 20 minutes. He got a horrible nappy rash. Our laundry décor now included a fetid, poo-ey nappy soaking bucket, and we were doing three loads of laundry per day. I dreamed wistfully of the times when I could go a full 10 days without doing a load of washing, provided I wore bikini bottoms instead of undies on day 10.

Despite my noble intentions, I simply could not go on. On day four of the Cloth Scourge, I begged my partner to go to Pak’nSave and get us a box of disposables. He said desperately, “Are we even trying to be eco-friendly AT ALL any more?”

With an intoxicating rush of profound relief, I replied, “No.”

Our Cloth Nappy Journey was, blessedly, over.

Since that watershed moment, I have either compromised or completely abandoned previously-held views about co-sleeping, baby swings, baby food in pouches, salt before age one, baby-led weaning, and screen time, and fuck it feels good. Nothing hits quite like a child contentedly sucking flavoured yoghurt from a hydrocarbon-derived pouch, anaesthetised by an episode of Bluey.

The cloth nappy dream was beautiful while it lasted. (Photo: Getty Images)

Lesson #5 – You will have mixed feelings about pretty much everything

I am, obviously, biased, but I think my son has the coolest, most endearing little personality I’ve ever encountered in a baby. Listening to him laugh with his whole being, cackling and screeching with glee, is joy and love that’s qualitatively different to anything else. And when he’s upset, all I want to do is envelop him in a cuddle and let him know I’ll do whatever I can to make it better. For me, that part is effortless, instinctual: in that sense, motherhood is the easiest thing in the world. But in other ways it feels like nothing but effort: wiping, cleaning, changing, feeding, STOP PULLING THE CAT’S TAIL AND PUT DOWN THAT SCREWDRIVER AND GAH WHY IS THERE ROTTING KIWIFRUIT DOWN THE BACK OF THE COUCH CUSHIONS AGAIN.

These diametrically opposed thoughts are fundamental to the parenting game. Pretty much everything evokes mixed feelings: seeing them happy lifts your spirits like nothing else, but they’re exhausting; you want a break, but then you miss them; you miss your old life, but you can’t imagine life without them in it; you love watching them grow, but you’re nostalgic for when they were small(er). As the brilliant Caitlin Moran says, kids are intoxicating: they’re both too much, and never enough, and that’s just the nature of the beast.

For me, recognising and making peace with this duality has been the most important lesson of motherhood so far. Well, that and learning how to eat left-handed as a snoozing baby naps in the crook of my right elbow.

*Not actually dangerously.

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Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

Summer 2022January 10, 2023

I was flashed at my local mall and it was no joke

Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

Summer read: After encountering a flasher at her local mall, Alex Casey investigates Aotearoa’s growing rates of indecent exposure in public and how the crime can escalate.

First published September 12, 2022

I would say about the very last thing on my list of things to do at the mall was “look at a stranger’s penis”. But as I charged round the corner, listening to a spooky Stephen King podcast that didn’t help the approaching moment of unease, there it was. The man was tucked discreetly between a pillar and a large pot plant, out of sight from almost everyone else mooching around the mall. I first noticed his fixed gaze. Then I noticed his penis was hanging out of his jeans. 

My pace picked up but I continued on my path past the penis-yielding stranger. Surely I shouldn’t yell and make a scene. Surely this man has just made some sort of bad toilet mistake. Surely it was just an ill-placed finger. Surely I didn’t just see that. I looked back one more time, riddled with doubt and confusion. My eyes met his once more, and then I looked down. His penis was definitely, definitely out. I was being flashed. Well, less of a flash and more of a dangle.

Now, careful readers may have noticed that I have tried to make the above encounter “funny”, just as the majority of people I tell the story to like to respond with a “funny” trench coat joke. But the truth is, I was terrified. It felt as if the mall floor instantly crumbled away to a portal crawling with all of the monstrous men that have ever scared me in public. All at once, I am 15 and a man is masturbating next to me on the bus. I am 20 and a man is sticking his hand up my skirt at the Queen Street crossing. I am 30 and a man is showing his penis to me at the mall.

After collecting myself on the escalator, I turned around and headed back towards the scene of the crime. The man had already rejoined the bustling crowds of the mall, so I told the nearby security desk and wrote down a description of him. About 10 minutes later, I saw him elsewhere in the mall (sans exposed penis) and called 111, hands and voice shaking, to tell them I was on the trail of my flasher. The woman on the phone took it very seriously (while still gently rebuffing my offer of doing a citizen’s arrest) and said they would send a patrol car out to find him. 

Indecent exposure is considered a form of sexual assault in Aotearoa, relating to anyone who “intentionally and obscenely exposes any part of his or her genitals” in a public place. Perpetrators are liable for imprisonment up to three months, or a fine up to $2000. According to Victim Support NZ, the crime can have serious implications for victims. “You may feel more anxious about going out on your own,” the website reads. “Indecent exposure can make the world around you feel less safe.”

It’s also a crime that is on the rise. In information released to The Spinoff under the Official Information Act, NZ Police revealed that reported incidents of indecent exposure have increased in Aotearoa by more than 85% over the last four years. In 2018, the total number of reported incidents was 126, an average of 10.5 a month. By 2021, that number had ballooned to 235, an average of 19.5 a month. Data for 2022 revealed that 104 instances had already been reported by the end of June, averaging 20.4 a month. 

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‘It was just kind of accepted’

In the days that followed my mall incident, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to me and what it meant. Who was he? Why had he done it? What did he want? I quickly found that almost every woman that I told had a story of her own and, after making a few inquiries around the office and later on a private Facebook group for New Zealand women, I was soon reading through dozens and dozens of stories from around the country. Not only were there many stories of indecent exposure, but of other indecent acts including public masturbation. 

There were stories of runners who had encountered flashers in the early hours of the morning at their local park. There were stories of young women who were flashed by their neighbours on the way home as schoolgirls. There were decades-old stories of creepy old men wearing, indeed, trench coats, and there were stories from just a few months ago. Girls flashed at their local playground by a man on a swing. Men flashing passing trains. A woman trapped in her car at the mall while a man exposed himself and proceeded to masturbate while staring at her. 

The local mall was a recurring location in several stories. Another woman, who worked as the sole charge of a women’s clothing store inside a mall at the age of 19, says indecent exposure (flashing) and indecent acts (such as masturbation) were a “known and frequent occurrence” on the job. “Men would come in during late nights, they would pick up a particular item of clothing off the racks and they would go into the fitting rooms and masturbate into the clothing while you were alone in the shop and then just leave it in there.” 

It was something the female workers discussed, but never formally raised with management. “I never reported it, it was just kind of accepted as part of the job,” she says. “We paid for the clothes to be drycleaned but I’ll just say this: never buy clothing from an outlet mall.” 

Although encountering “creeps” became a running joke in the store, one night things took a much more serious turn. While trying on a dress for a male customer, who had said he was buying it for his wife, the woman had to lock herself in a changing room after he put his hand up the back of her dress. She reported the indecent assault to police soon after, and ultimately the perpetrator was charged, but the impact of the incident lingered long after. 

“I remember going home in the dark every night and just feeling really scared because I thought the people on the street might be him,” she says. The store brought in new rules about having no-one on sole charge at night, but the woman had to cut down her hours. “I kept working there because that is what you have to do to pay the bills, but it definitely affected my ability to take as many shifts as I would have.” 

When I reported my flasher incident to the mall security desk, the guard remarked that they had been having a “crazy” day of bad behaviour towards women throughout the mall. In 2020, journalist Veronica Schmidt wrote about her own experience in St Luke’s mall, where a man filmed her changing in the Kmart dressing room. When she approached staff members for assistance in calling the police, she says they dismissed it as a “civil matter” that was “up to the two of you to sort it out between yourselves”.

The former retail worker wasn’t surprised to hear of other distressing instances that have happened to women in shopping centres, including my own. “I think malls in particular are a real melting pot of people who are very willing to push the boundaries of what they are allowed to do,” she said. 

‘Your world changes’

Wherever their public encounters occurred, everyone who shared their experiences described the same feelings of shame and fear. “It is just really confronting,” said a woman who saw a man exposing himself on an Auckland bus. “I felt like I was five years old again and scared of everything.” Another woman who witnessed a man masturbating across from her hotel room in Wellington said she was shaken long after the event. “I just kept thinking, is he still watching me? Is he going to pass me on the street? Once it all sunk in I felt very, very uncomfortable.”

Kathryn McPhillips, executive director of sexual abuse support network HELP, says all of these reactions are normal. “It can cause a trauma response which pervades through the rest of your life,” she explains. “Your world changes because it feels like that threat is now possible anywhere.” I tell her that I now think of the flasher every time I go to my lovely mall, which she says is normal too. “If something bad happens to you somewhere, that place forever becomes associated with it. The memory can often come back in an intrusive way – it’s not like a memory that you can let go of, it can take hold of you.” 

The author waits to give a statement at the police station

A few days after the incident, I got a call from a police officer in Newmarket. They had found the flasher on the mall CCTV footage and wanted to know if I could come in and give a formal statement. I visited the station on a dreary weekday morning and sat in a strangely pleasant room lined with historic photos of the suburb and station. I recounted the incident in granular detail, ignoring the feelings of doubt and an instinctual urge to “not make a fuss”. Once I had given the statement, the officer said I could watch the CCTV footage if I wanted. 

I sat there agape in front of his laptop as I watched the man approach the pillar and pull his penis out from his jeans in the blurry CCTV high angle. Seconds before I was scheduled to come careening around the corner in a flurry of cat jumpers and leggings, I noticed a crucial detail I would have otherwise never known – the man flashed someone else before he flashed me. An elderly woman passes in front of him and stops, startled, raising her hands momentarily in fear. She quickly moves on, before I come around the corner and take the flasher’s focus. 

‘People generally think it is funny’

Part of the reason that indecent exposure is not taken as seriously is that popular culture has turned it into a punchline. Nate Gaunt, a psychologist who specialises in treating harmful sexual behaviours, says depictions of flashing in old Benny Hill sketches, postcards and movie posters have sanctioned the behaviour for decades. “People generally think it is funny, because we have this flasher-in-the-raincoat idea and the streakers at the rugby, but it really does cause harm,” he says. “It is definitely a crime, but it is also something you’ll find on a greeting card.”

McPhillips at HELP says she has witnessed a “general minimisation” of indecent exposure in society that stops people from seeking the support they might need. “People tend not to call us when it happens because the people around them are feeding back that it was nothing because they weren’t physically hurt,” she says. Where indecent exposure does often arise is during counselling sessions for survivors of other forms of abuse. “That’s when we hear how damaging those experiences really were for people.” 

‘Funny’ flashing in popular culture

Most of the women who shared their stories with me did not report what happened. The woman who witnessed a man masturbating from her Wellington hotel room told reception, but they “didn’t seem too bothered”. Another woman who encountered a man exposing himself on the bus in Auckland said she was “too scared” to do anything in the moment, and later felt conflicted about reporting it. “I was worried that it was something to do with mental illness, or that the person might have been homeless and maybe it is more complex than I think.”

At any given time, Gaunt has multiple people with these sorts of compulsions on his case load. The motivations behind the crime are varied, but he is quick to point out that they aren’t always related to sex, “just as we know that rape is actually about power and fear and control and aggression”.  He says this type of behaviour tends to be related to high levels of anxiety and stress, poor coping skills and poor self-regulation. “Put it this way,” he says, “I’ve never met a person with this problem who would have a high or even average self-esteem.” 

The risk with these sexual problems going unreported and untreated is that they can escalate. “There is a process of desensitisation, needing to do more and more risky things to get the same level of buzz or reward,” explains Gaunt. “Sometimes the offending can become a lot worse, more aggressive, more careless.” Indecent exposure came into renewed focus in the UK in 2021 following the rape and murder of Sarah Everard by officer Wayne Couzens, just days after he was reported to have exposed himself to staff at a McDonald’s drive-thru

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‘You can stop it happening’

I was back at the station again a few weeks later, staring at photos of various possible perpetrators. Once again, the doubt crept in. How long was his hair? Maybe his eyes were different? How much can you really remember about someone you see in one terrifying moment? After covering each face and using the process of elimination, I settled on who I was reasonably sure was the perpetrator. I fretted for several days about the choice, even getting the officer to assure me over the phone that they wouldn’t charge an innocent man if I was wrong.

Aside from giving a victim impact statement for the judge, this was the last interaction I had with police. The officer said he would be in touch with any developments, but my part in the process was over. I’ve come out of it relatively unscathed, but every time I go to that mall now I am forced to remember that unsettling afternoon. I remember the man’s gaze. I remember the big fright. I remember all the other men from the past, always threatening to ruin my present. Unfortunately that’s quite an annoying feeling when you just want to go and do $2 karaoke

McPhillips says the key to moving forward from indecent exposure is to talk about it. “The way that we recover from this sort of thing is to share it, to be validated, to be understood,” she says. And as technology evolves, Gaunt says it is essential that we consider the impact of new forms of digital indecent exposure. “If someone sends you something on your phone and you open it, is that not exposure as well?” McPhillips agrees that digital incidents should “absolutely” be taken as seriously. “The act is still the same and the dynamic is still the same.” 

Gaunt’s advice to anyone who experiences indecent exposure in any form is to report to police as soon as possible. Of course, there are myriad of reasons why people might not feel empowered to report these crimes. In Aotearoa, it is estimated that only 10 out of 100 sex crimes committed are ever reported to police, and only three of those ever get to court. Of those that make it to court, only one is likely to get a conviction. Despite this, Gaunt says reporting can be a key step to “direct someone’s compass” in the right behavioral direction.

“It gets people help and it lets people know that certain things are not acceptable,” he explains. Even if it doesn’t have a lasting impact on you, Gaunt says the next victim might not be so lucky. “You can stop it happening for another person. The next person the offender comes across might be a child, or they might not be able to get out in a hurry.” He says that taking this crime seriously benefits the perpetrator as well as their victim, and that he has “great reason” to feel optimistic about the chances of rehabilitation. 

“I have seen many, many people who have made really positive changes and can stop this behaviour and get back into a good life.” 

If the events depicted in this story have been triggering in any way, please consider contacting any of the following organisations:

HELP

Safe to Talk

ACC’s Find Support

Women’s Refuge

Rape Crisis

Lifeline