Kate Hamilton
freelance writer and journalist

A Sob Story for All Ages

August 9, 2008 · by Kate · in Journalism, Sydney Morning Herald
First published in Sydney Morning Herald, August 9, 2008

When Amber Jones* was a year old she was left to sleep in her own vomit by her parents as part of a popular baby sleep-training regimen known as controlled crying.

Weaning war and peace

April 2, 2008 · by Kate · in Blog

Obi woke early and instead of the usual morning gambol in bed, her prising open my lids and saying ‘mama awake!’ with great surprise, she headed out to the loungeroom and started a long, quiet conversation with her toys. Still half asleep and glad of the respite, I drifted for a few blissful moments, head under the doona, the next thing I knew she was whimpering.…

Work

March 30, 2008 · by Kate · in Blog

I’ve started work. I have a desk in a chaotic collective studio that is mine, two days a week. Obi is 22 months old and has never been apart from me for a full day. She is breastfed to sleep and has been babysitted exactly twice, for a few hours, by a grandparent.…

Sleep?

February 2, 2008 · by Kate · in Blog

9.45pm. Bed. Mmmm. Early night. Drift off to ominous sound of baby grinding teeth.

11.10pm. Wake up to husband aerating doona; warming cold hands on belly. Swear.

1.17am. Wake up to baby slamming her head into mine. Pushing cold feet into my belly (note for tomorrow: socks to bed) and dragging her toenails down my thighs (note for tomorrow: cut nails).…

Birth Pangs

November 8, 2003 · by Kate · in Good Weekend, Journalism, Sydney Morning Herald
First published in Good Weekend, November 8, 2003

One in four Australian babies is now born via the scalpel and, if the trend continues, natural birth may become obsolete. Kate Hamilton reports on why we’ve lost our faith in nature and what it’s costing women.

I, Spy: Diary of a Girl Gumshoe

September 1, 1999 · by Kate · in Harper's Bazaar, Journalism
 First published in Harper’s Bazaar, September 1, 1999

The trail begins with an e-mail from mission control. “Find me a spy.” Cool, I think, flicking through my wardrobe for an evening gown and trying to decide which pair of stilettos would best conceal a deadly weapon, invisible ink and my favourite red lipstick.

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