If you’d asked me 12 months ago to describe myself in ‘elevator talk’ I would’ve said, “I’m a successful communications manager working in the health sector. I love travelling the world, splurging on $260 face cream and pouring myself into a taxi after too many mojitos.” I would happily debate the merits of BB creams vs. foundations, squatted till my glutes screamed to fit into skinny jeans and knew all about my hairdresser’s unfaithful ex. Between my job, social life, studying for my Masters degree and performing in the odd amateur musical, I never sat down and got off on thrill of meeting deadlines and celebrating successes.

Fast forward 12 months, one baby and 17 kilos and my life would take a broken elevator with a tardy repairman to describe.

As a previously fashion conscious compulsive shopper, I’m currently sitting at my computer in a mismatched tracksuit covered in breast milk, saliva and a blob of something that after a quick ‘scratch and sniff’ test is identified as regurgitated pumpkin. I used to fit into a size 28 jeans, now that’s my BMI. The last piece of jewellery I bought was a Baltic amber teething necklace and this Summer I’ll be chaffing in shorts fastened with a hair band thanks to my new tummy that hangs over my c-section scar like a zebra print moonbag. My mascara has coagulated past its use by date and my eyebrow plucker has cashed in its super and commenced an early retirement.

After eight months on maternity leave I don’t know if or when I’ll return to my previously satisfying job. Could I leave my gorgeous baby boy in the care of strangers while I fiddle with marketing plans and Photoshop double chins? I’m not sure. My role has been snapped up by a 20-something year old who is willing and able to spend 60 hours a week tied to her desk at the mercy of the constantly shrinking deadline. Would the executive group want to trade her in for a part-timer who’ll be doing the childcare dash at 4.30pm every afternoon? I doubt it. Search part-time marketing and communications roles on Seek and you don’t even need to scroll, a reduction in work hours brings up a short list of assistant roles paying less than a nugget fryer at Maccas. After years of fighting for promotions and working through weekends, I’ve stepped off the career escalator for a while and my bank balance is currently in debit of 86c.

Late nights socialising with friends and performing in sometimes dodgy theatre productions have become cosy nights in, dreaming up different accents for Mr Rubber Ducky, and singing Wallace the Wondrous Warthog to an audience of one. I go to bed at 8.30pm knowing I’ll be up at 12, 3 and 5 to nurse or cuddle and sometimes swear. My Masters, which I planned to finish at the end of this year, may take another five and I haven’t seen or heard from most of my gay mates as suburban mums with muffin top aren’t the trendiest club companions.

While I’d love to say that I still read three novels a month and am able to come up with witty one-liners and unique cultural observations, my bedside table is now piled with books on sleep training and last week I forgot how to spell “yoghurt”. I haven’t said anything remotely amusing since last November and when I hear myself talk about nappy contents and baby-led weaning, I start to wonder why no one has offered me a job as an aural anaesthetist.

I’m grateful that my husband and I travelled extensively as newlyweds because ever since flying to South Africa with a five-month-old, I’ve been Googling “self lobotomy” to rid my brain of the memory. I know Christmas in New York is lovely, but we’ll be spending the next 18 December’s in either Ballarat, Creswick or Geelong.

Now before the smoke starts rising from the keyboards of mummy trolls, let me say that I wouldn’t change a thing. Sticking my post-coital legs in the air for eights months was the best decision I ever made. My gorgeous little chicken-legged cherub has crept into deepest crevices of my heart and made my life fuller than I ever imagined it could be. Sure I’m fat and unfashionable and I haven’t waxed my legs in eight weeks, my career is in the toilet and a new grey hair just sprung up to say “Hi, you’re old”, but I’m the best goddamn frog impersonator in Melbourne and my little man thinks I’m Miranda Kerr. So if you ask me to describe myself between the Ground Floor and Level 2, I may just say, “I’m a new mum” and leave it at that. Because for now, that’s more than enough.