My dad didn’t take any time off when I was born. My mum went back to work when I was six weeks old. Her leave was more for birth recovery and less about childcare. I was sent to live with an older aunt who was already home with her two kids. I stayed there for a few months until we secured a live-in domestic helper from the Philippines.
I was born in the 1980s in Hong Kong when the local economy was booming. Young men and women were expected to work and contribute to Hong Kong’s success. Professional achievement was celebrated and long hours at the office was a sign of importance.
Our helper stayed with us until we moved to Australia when I was eight years old. She looked after me and my sister (who came a year later) so my parents could return to full time work.
There was no shortage of affordable domestic helpers, and most middle-class Hong Kong families I knew had one. As a little girl, I perceived their work — mistakenly — to be “low-skilled and easy”, allowing others to go out and do harder, more important work.
I perceived their work — mistakenly — to be “low-skilled and easy”, allowing others to go out and do harder, more important work.
When my family moved to Melbourne in the 1990s, property prices and the cost of living required only one income. My dad had a PhD while my mum had finished high school. Dad was educated and skilled. Mum did not have “higher education” so she stayed home with the kids.
I don't remember anyone telling me that mum had an important job and was doing worthwhile work. But having children and caring for them was nearly always an afterthought when it came to planning my future. The priority was to do well at school, go to university and secure a stable job.
The all girls’ high school that I went to reinforced this. We were taught to find a place outside of the home with motherhood rarely spoken about as something to aspire to.
On the cover of our graduation ceremony program, for instance, there were sketches of three young women, one standing behind a lectern giving a speech, another was an athlete on a medal podium. There was even an astronaut in outer space.
There was not a breastfeeding mum with unkempt hair.
Even as I was preparing for children, the government’s parental leave, paid at minimum wage, reinforced my perception that mothering was low-pay and low-skill work.
The government’s parental leave, paid at minimum wage, reinforced my perception that mothering was low-pay and low-skill work.
If I underestimated the demands of motherhood, then I most certainly underestimated its rewards.
From the moment my daughter arrived, I loved her. She was perfection, with a mane of beautiful hair. All I wanted to do was to hold her and protect her.
And to think that maybe she would love me too. When she needs me to go back to sleep, when she drops everything and runs to me at childcare pickup, when she gets me bandaids because I was crying from the stress of work and lockdowns.
Here was my once screaming baby, now a toddler showing kindness and compassion.
Motherhood is a chance to shape the next generation so they make better decisions, build positive relationships, and leave the world a better place than you left them.
For a feat so great, how could it be easy?
As a high achiever at school and work, I overprepare for every exam, presentation or interview, yet I found myself woefully underprepared for the biggest job of my life — motherhood.
We need to show women (and men) that parenthood is hard and worthwhile work. To help nurture communities where students can see a graduation cover with a pram-pushing parent featured alongside published authors and acclaimed artists.
Personally, I will raise my daughter so she knows the rewards and challenges of motherhood. If she chooses to have children, she will not be blindsided by its demands. Instead she will be prepared, for all that motherhood can offer.
