When I was discharged from hospital with my first baby, there was a chunk of me that felt out of place in my own life. Was I really a mother? An actual mother? Like my mother?
I found it hard to believe – even as the c-section scar ached under the seat belt during that precarious first drive home. There was a baby asleep in the back seat and apparently we were her parents! I couldn't shake the feeling that we were just playing ‘house’.
I remember getting a promotion once and thinking, ‘Do these people know what they’re doing? This is a mistake! I’m not up for this and they’ll soon realise it.’ The higher the performance ratings, the more amazed I was to have ‘scraped through’ again.
Same story for some of the marks I received at uni. Surely they meant to award a ‘credit'. They don’t realise how much work I haven’t done! These words? Thrown on the page in a desperate flurry. Smoke and mirrors, hiding the obvious: I have a superficial grasp on the subject matter.
Sometimes, when I travel for business, I think how comical it is that I should be clattering through the airport in a business suit and heels – PowerPoint presentation on the memory stick in my bag – checking emails and coordinating after-school pick-ups like a grown-up.
Our two-year-old often clambers up at the desk, bashes the keyboard and exclaims proudly that he's ‘Working!' Occasionally, I feel the same way – that what I’m passing off as ‘work’ is really an elaborate game involving a website and masterclasses, published articles and clients… the trappings of the professional world, which is more typically inhabited by people who don’t feel like a fake in the Qantas Club.