MADELEINE WEST: 'I've been taking my baby to work with me for 6 months. Here's how it's going.'

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It's 30 degrees outside. I'm presenting to a roomful of recalcitrant ministers, sweating under the weight of a heavy wool overcoat like Albanese awaiting an audience with Trump.

It's just another day, another unexpected twist in the roller-coaster that has been bringing my baby to work for the last five months. 

This week I was in NSW Parliament. My work as a child safety advocate saw me lobbying to legally close the loophole allowing predators to hide their wealth from victims' claims in their superannuation. Serious and sobering work.

Watch: The physical and mental challenges of motherhood on Mamamia's Well podcast. Post continues below.

So it felt pretty frivolous when moments before addressing said MP's, and already wracked with nerves, I had to navigate a wardrobe malfunction of cataclysmic proportions.

Why? Because, like Mt Vesuvius to Pompeii, Bubs had chosen the moment that would guarantee maximum disruption and destruction to erupt. Spewing the morning's feeds and a large serving of fluorescent sweet potato, splattering it down the back of my fave white silk shirt, in my freshly washed hair, and onto all available surfaces nearby. 

With no time and limited options, I knew that an attempt to sponge down would only result in further devastation. I actually considered explaining away the very visible mess as a unique print by an up-and-coming artist: "You've heard of Banksy, but are you familiar with Whoopsie?"

Thankfully, the receptionist clocked my wretched state and offered me access to the Lost and Found. There were scarves, forgotten activewear and an actual vampire cape (?).

But I fell upon that musty tweed winter wear like a seagull on a hot chip, and proceeded to sweat suspiciously throughout the afternoon, praying Bubs wouldn't make like Krakatoa and erupt again.

Thoreau said 'nothing is to be feared so much as fear itself'. Clearly, he'd never been confronted by the projectile power of a six-month-old with a very full belly. 

I've decided to try to make every day bring your kids to work day.

My actions are probably frowned upon in many quarters and considered an inconvenience, even selfish. It's not a decision I have made lightly, but in the absence of extended family and with a pretty limited income, my options have been limited likewise.

I qualify for the childcare subsidy but, as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, for me, daycare simply is not an avenue I'm willing to pursue.

It is my choice, and in the process I'm rewriting some pretty rusted-on narratives about being a working parent, and challenging a work culture that's well overdue for an overhaul.

What I perhaps wasn't prepared for was how alien the notion of a small person being in attendance is in our modern working lives, even in workplaces which are child-wellbeing focused, or whose purpose is to support parents.

The irony isn't lost on me, neither is the fact that most establishments, while rightly featuring disabled amenities, do not extend to facilities for little people. Nothing says you are not welcome here quite like architecture, which is impossible to navigate with a pram, and nowhere to discreetly change a nappy.

I'm not saying businesses should be designed around the comfort of kids and parents, just observing that every single person walking this planet was at some point an infant regularly requiring a change table. Last time I looked, no-one has ever emerged from the womb a 32-year-old accountant in a fitted suit.

This is bub number seven for me, so it's not my first rodeo. Mild inconveniences aside, I'm doing my best, and at every turn, striving to ensure others are not inconvenienced.

So far, so good (but I will take this opportunity to apologise to that sweet lady in the elevator who leaned in a little close to go 'goo-goo' and copped a nasty hair tug for her troubles. This baby has one powerful grip!) 

It hasn't all been a bowl of cherries.

Lack of sleep combined with the need to digest loads of new information in the rapidly evolving tech space are a recipe for disaster.

At 3am, I might find myself baking a cake while cleaning the fish tank, while prepping for a school address, while ironing laundry and shooting off emails. Yet just a few hours later, standing before a school hall packed with 15-year-olds keen to understand how the coming Age Delay for social media will impact them, I suddenly can't find the word for 'iPad'.

Or if asked by a kindly teacher how I like my coffee, I stand mute and as useless as a Nokia flip phone for a teen trying to post a TikTok. I'm tired and I admit it.

New baby fatigue in your late 40's hits different to in your early 20's. Maybe it's because those uni years of partying all night and still being capable of sitting an exam then heading off to the café shift before doing it all again weren't such a distant memory then.

Or maybe (clutch your pearls) it's just because I'm a lot older…and I'm feeling it.

My little one is the calmest, sweetest, chill little bub, but still invariably needs a feed or decides to exercise their considerable lung capacity right in the most crucial moments of a Zoom call or midway through a presentation.

The onset of teething has ratcheted such incidents up quite significantly. As mentioned earlier, baby spit-ups have become a regular accessory to my couture, I never choose to wear but frequently do. If not puke, it's drool. I limp to the finish line each day covered in more body fluids than a flower child at Woodstock. Ew…that was a bit much, but you get my drift. 

On the upside, there are many positives. Sometimes, the most daunting of meetings are immediately softened just by my baby's presence.

It's funny how having a cooing little elf in the room can immediately mellow even the most fraught of environments and soften the most stiff and stoic of opponents. I find bringing my baby to work puts things in perspective. 

Yes, I've been late at times and had to interrupt a serious discussion when the waft of a freshly filled nappy becomes intolerable, but by the same token, whatever needs doing gets done eventually.

The stock market has not yet crashed nor has World War III broken out just because I brought my baby to work, even if the violently raised brows and snorts of derision flung my way suggested otherwise.

One bonus is I don't need to go to the gym! I'm doing plenty of the kind of weight-bearing exercises my age necessitates. My squats are on point picking up items the baby drops while strapped into the carrier. My arm definition has never been better just from wrangling a little one in and out of the car, not to mention the juggling act that is folding up and hefting the pram around several times a day.

And I've discovered active wear doubles as business wear when teamed with stylish pumps and a well-cut jacket. Which is a win because Lycra is much more forgiving of baby eruptions and easy to sponge down. 

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So all in all, bringing a baby to work is hard, but not impossible. It's not for everyone, and nor should it be. But I firmly believe it should be an option, and parents should have the right to exercise choice: whatever that looks like for them.

In my experience, a happy mum makes for a harder worker, a more diligent, focused and loyal one at that. 

In the past, I found the guilt, unique to mothers, of being away from my babies quite disabling. Now, it means precision preparation, a fair bit of inconvenience and lots of juggling, but at days end, I never miss a thing.

Feature image: Instagram.