4.11
The moment she arrived back at Heather’s, the wonderment of her creation vanished like the shiny face of the sun eclipsed by a super-sized moon. Nothing had prepared her for motherhood. Nothing could have prepared her. No magazine or self-help book, no friendly advice or suggestion. Nothing. Motherhood had already irrevocably and dramatically changed her life. Childbirth was an initiation into the perdition of nursing, a milky maelstrom, a shitty, pissy nightmare of nappies and sleepless nights. Only Jackson Pollock could have portrayed the chaos, her all garish spatters forced into haphazard positions, constrained by the canvas and the artist who contrived the work. She could only meet with shaky stoicism and bitter resignation the fatigue, her daughters’ unquenchable thirst and the
