Taking Care of Business: The Transferrable Skills of Motherhood

It would appear that I may be up for a promotion. Now I will admit that this has taken me a little by surprise as my "external commitments" (also known as children) mean that I constantly feel like I am short changing my employer. I appear to be either setting up for work having arrived harassed, dishevelled and clutching either a rancid sippy cup, part masticated banana or nursery essential whilst cursing under my breath for having forgotten to drop it off with the relevant child; or loading myself up like an over worked pack horse about to start an expedition to outer Mongolia as I attempt to make my way out of work with a ten minute window to collect two children in two separate buildings who will undoubtedly want to show me everything in their respective nursery rooms from the rose coloured pebble amidst 7437 other rose coloured pebbles to their new, rather loquacious best friend who demands a play date, tonight and won't take no for an answer. Meanwhile the intervening period at work, between arrival and departure, is filled with a sense of being rather incapable and more than a little inefficient.

This aside, it would appear that the powers that be either know something that I don't or are too easily distracted by my ability to procreate at the most inconvenient times of the work calendar to notice my short comings and are really committed to positive discrimination. Regardless, I thought I should prepare myself for interview process as, if memory serves me right, my interview technique is somewhat lacking. I recall having perfected the art of profuse sweating from the underarms, back, belly and upper lip accompanied by an incessant and indecipherable babble akin to a toddler who is keen to express the inner, rather convoluted, workings of their mind. What my technique does not involve is poise, clarity of thought and confident, articulate answers. Therefore, I decided to research what skills I should possess as potential "management" and prepare my answers accordingly.

The numerous websites which I stumbled upon listed several key skills that one should possess in order to be a successful manager and that during interviews one should be able to "use specific examples from one's own experience to illustrate how one has acquired the necessary skills and to demonstrate how one has used them effectively."

Well one was stumped. 

One had nothing.

Whilst examples in the work place eluded me I got to thinking; I spend 3 days a week between the hours of 9am and 5:30pm doing my paid job and every other minute, hour and day attempting to do my more than full time occupation of managing the two unruly rug- rats at home. Those children had spent their entire lives (a grand total of 6 years) preparing me for this moment. I was ready.

They had had me in training for this day

Communication and Motivation

I am a skilled communicator. This is evidenced in the multitude of ways in which I can convey and effectively disguise a negative answer from “I’m not sure”, through “not right now” to “oh look, there is a bus/bird/pebble/lamp/key/dog/chair!” Furthermore, I also have a strong background in the field of translation and a history of effectively deciphering a variety of instructions, emotions and frustrations uttered by my “juniors”.

However, I would strongly contest the belief that a person in my position should be available at all times and establish an "open door policy" as I feel that a healthy distance should be established between management and the “junior staff” to allow for authority to be maintained. I find that locking myself in the bathroom for regular intervals throughout the day aids me in this practice.

Distance is key

My ability to motivate is second to none. I am universally acknowledged in our family unit to be the most effective at inspiring our "staff" to defaecate in the appropriate vessel. I have even gone the extra mile and devised an anthemic song to encourage those who are doubting their abilities and inspire them to achieve their excrement related goals. Go me.

Visualise your goal

Organisation, Forward Planning and Strategic Thinking

Organisation and forward planning is an essential part of my daily life. Anyone with two toddlers must be organised and able to identify all the possible eventualities that may be encountered if they wish to leave the house. Should they also require the toddlers in question to accompany them they must also employ some effective, strategic planning. On multiple occasions I have found myself facing a mutinous duo who would no more like to venture out into the elements than they would feast on cold cabbage stew and under these rather testing circumstances, where appointments are looming and scheduling is tight, I must employ the most strategic of thinking. I must engage my experience, knowledge and insight to achieve my goal. More often than not this involves bargaining, followed by reasonable threats, then excessive bargaining before I start to issue threats that some might consider far beyond the reasonable punishment of a 4 year old and entirely unenforceable but I get the job done.  

Their interest in outdoor pursuits is often lacking

Problem Solving and Decision Making

I have read that effective problem solving and decision making “requires outstanding attention to detail and the ability to remain calm under pressure" and I am sure that some of the other candidates may have regaled you with numerous examples of how, having been presented with a critical issue late in the process, they effectively managed to overcome the obstacle and calmly extricate both themselves and the company from the situation with aplomb. However, until they have had to deal with a raging toddler, excessive layers of winter clothing and a liquid excrement expelled at high pressure when armed with only 3 wet wipes and a “can do” attitude, I doubt they are in the same league as I.

Three wet wipes people!

Commercial awareness

I have a strong track record of anticipating the needs and wants of my “clients”. Many is the time I found myself catering to the unvoiced demands of those I serve without prompt, be it procuring the latest episode of “Go Jetters”, enabling (against his audible protestations) the youngest to recharge his batteries by putting him to bed during the day or engaging the eldest in an arts and crafts situation. It is merely fortuitous that this ability to pre-empt my “clients’” needs also serves to provide me with a brief hiatus in the middle of a long day at “work”, which in turn, undoubtedly increases my productivity (on social media).

It's about recognising the specific needs for each "client" where here we see arts and crafts are not effectively engaging the youngest

So, as you can see, we as mothers have many a transferrable skill and should not fear the workplace or question our abilities to thrive there. After all, if I can tame a couple of lawless toddlers who would no more be reasonable than they would perform algebraic equations, then I can definitely hold my own in the corporate world.

Management here I come.

Totes Profesh.

The Nursery Run: Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

I am incredibly lucky. Let us just get that out of the way right now. I realise this, I am blessed. I have a husband who earns enough to allow me to work part time and a mother who is willing to sacrifice both her fine wardrobe and a day each week to reduce our childcare costs, meaning I am only required to do the nursery run on two days of the week.

I age on those days.

I mean, obviously, I age on all days but on those particular days I feel that you can visibly see the permanent shadows cast over my face and the creases deepen around my weary eyes. My children break me on those days.

Broken

On those days, having routinely been up to greet the (by comparison) rather lazy lark, I shall have to coax the offspring from their slumber. Now this is a rather precarious process as I have a limited time frame in which to act but if I rouse them too abruptly then they shall be unsettled; needing both loving, physical reassurance throughout the getting- ready process and a protracted drop off in the nursery room. Frankly, no one has time for that. 

So ease them from their repose I do, with gentle beckons and a loving caress. Their lips curl into a smile, their eyelids begin to flutter and gentle murmurs are uttered. I painfully angle my body across the respective cot/bed railings, contorting my neck and manipulating my body in a way that would make a yoga master proud whilst desperately trying to hear their first words of the morning. Speak to me angel, Mummy is here; Mummy is listening: 

"Daddy?"

Without fail. Every morning.

Damn you Child Whisperer

You would think that at this point, in my jealous rage, I would tear those covers back and expose their little warm bodies to the arctic conditions that is an old house in Edinburgh; like a wife who has come home to discover that her adulterous husband has struck again. Alas, no. On those mornings I must play the long game. I swallow my envy down, dress my face in the warmest of smiles and continue to ease them into the day.

If the gods are smiling on me, the mini dictators  may take me up on the offer of CBeebies, permitting me to throw clothes onto merely mildly uncooperative mannequins but more often than not they shun the mesmerising gogglebox and choose to investigate the box of toys. This is despite the fact that the plethora of playthings have previously gone, at best entirely unnoticed and, at worst, cast a casual disdainful glance. On those days though, the wicker basket is a positive bounty of treasure with riches to please even the most jaded of toddlers.

Plunderers

Having wasted a solid twenty minutes feigning interest in assembling an intricate train route, I try to wrestle the necessary low grade clothing on to the small one while he wriggles with the fury of a ferret trapped in a rabbit hole. Eventually I emerge victorious but battle weary, bruised and with make up half way down my face but still ready to mount the next challenge. This particular opponent requires a different set of skills; a completely new approach. This opponent will not respond to brute strength; this opponent must be fought with reasoning (and failing that, bargaining.)

"Bear, sooner we get there, the sooner we get back!"

"Bear, you don't want to be late for your teacher do you?"

"Bear, mummy will be late for work!"

"Bear, if you get ready now there will be a treat when you get home... No one! ... Oh ok two? ... Fine, three [insert chocolate based treat here]."

So, both dressed, work and nursery bags packed and hanging from my person, we head for the door; this is it, sure we are twenty minutes late (stupid train track) but we are out. Jackets on, shoes buckled, teeth brushed (usually). "Sayonara house, catch you later!" Wait, what's that smell. It's bad. It smells warm and pungent. Can it wait? Yeah, definitely. No, wait; he'll probably want on my shoulders and I have a dry clean only coat on (otherwise I may not be so picky.) Damn it. Right, jacket off, nappy and wipes located, small child rugby tackled to the floor and cleaned up to a chorus of "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, are we going yet? MUMMY, I DONT WANT TO BE LATE!" Should have thought about that during your 3rd bowl of Cheerios Sugar Lump.

Stupid train track

Finally, we make it beyond the threshold and venture into the daylight only to be greeted by the dull, dreich downpour of a spring Scottish morning. We stand side by side in the doorway glowering at the deluge; brothers in arms against the inclement weather. I grab an oversized brolly and foist it upon the eldest who walks along unseeing and struggling under its weight whilst I forsake my own blow dried, work ready hair in favour of mobilising the masses. I force the small one up onto my shoulders (despite the fact that I am laden down with a bag holding my world of work and two nursery bags overflowing with nursery essentials) and venture out into the squall; we are doing this. 

Not so Singin' in the Rain

Mummy Friends: I Ain't Missing You At All

Having spent not an inconsiderable number of weekends at children's birthday parties of late, I have started to notice some chasmic differences between the social skills of toddlers and their parents. I think it is fair to say that they are far better equipped than we are.

"Come on Mummy! It's not that bad!"

At the age of 4, children are invited to a range of parties of various formats by anyone from close family through best friends to mere casual acquaintances and they burst into each new environment with the same relentless enthusiasm. They may cling to your leg for the first five minutes but once they spot an opening, a potential void that they can fill in the social scene, you won't see them for dust. This role can be anything from befriending someone who is playing on their own, making a silly face to the group at the right time or playing it cool and waiting for the others to show interest.

Play it cool Kid, play it cool

Meanwhile, the adults (for the first time that day) are actually loathed to part with their offspring. We hide behind them, using them as a prop in our conversations with the other adults who we are only used to seeing briefly at the nursery door; acknowledging them with a throw away remark or false promises of play dates as we usher our children towards the door.

Mimicking his mother's social skills

Personally, I appear to have reached my fourth year of parenting without having forged any "mum friend" relationships. I, obviously, have friends who are also mums but these alliances are based on shared historical experiences and interactions; they are rooted in a time when sleep was only forsaken for a good time to be had, dry clean only garments were still being regularly worn and my pelvic floor was firmly rooted in my pelvis. Magical times. Our shared experiences of having procreated (not together) and attempts at trying to raise law-abiding citizens merely act to unify us further.

Some people know too much

The truth is, I find it hard to forge new friendships; it really is quite exhausting. I fear that prior to be engaged in conversation, I have a resting facial expression which imparts a stand- offish, cool demeanor (cool being cold and by no means fashionable or trendy; my active wear and terrible taste in music quickly sees to dispelling any misplaced belief that that may be the case) and if someone actually tries to interact with me my nervous attempts at humour can come across as snarky which I will then try to diffuse with a quick reassuring arm touch. As an interesting side point, my husband actually believed me to be in love with him for years prior to my actually loving him as I used to touch his arm after insulting him. Perhaps I should be rethinking this tactic?

Anyway, with my daughter's alternative start to life, I never actually joined any Mummy-Baby groups and I couldn't face NCT for the fear of constant comparisons about weight, milestones, weaning, pooping and likelihood of running the country knowing that mine would likely fall behind in all (being more likely to mount a revolution). My first maternity leave really was quite miserable.

Despite being "showered" with affection

When my son came along, all robust and such, I had a two year old to contend with so all the baby sensory/massage/tai chi groups were no longer an option. When I did manage to go to exercise groups or library rhyme time I would issue smiles and conspiratorial glances at mothers who appeared just on the right side of disorganised for my liking but I never quite managed to make that transition from passing acquaintance to coffee, cake and care free venting about our children.

He does let me vent

From a loneliness perspective, I am by no means lonely as thankfully my friends of old are unshakeable (much like herpes) and ever present but my concern lies in August; for in August the school gates beckon me. 

School Gates: Terrifying parents since the formal education system began

I had better get practising my welcoming smile.

Ice, Ice Baby: The Best Laid Plans...

Things I have learnt since my husband went away for 5 days:

1. 5 days is a long time
2. My husband does a lot of laundry
3. 5 days is a long time
4. Elsa's palace would have been warmer than our house with no central heating
5. 5 days is a really long time.

It was an ominous start when my first night, rather than being spent alone, was spent in the company of my rather willful son. Having taken a late nap with his designated childcare provider that afternoon, his usual bedtime came and went while he furiously pedalled his Scuttle Bug in laps around the room, leaving utter destruction in his wake and pausing only to issue a bark or a roar (with accompanying clawed hands pose) in my general direction. Books were pulled from where they had been neatly stowed for the evening, before being hurled around the room as he took part in his own personal shot-put competition; the noisiest toys were plucked from their hiding places and simultaneously activated creating an almighty cacophony which he then appeared to conduct like a symphony orchestra. It was mayhem.

Hand selected toys for the ultimate cacophony

The Thursday and Friday were to be much as normal with me having my working day sandwiched between nursery drop offs and pick ups leaving me hot, sweaty and disheveled before 9am and stressed, tired and wrangling two highly emotional toddlers after 5:30pm. Just to add an extra layer of excitement to my day, for some ungodly reason, this particular morning my youngest chose to kneel down in a puddle before throwing the muddy rain water above his head like he's Howard Donald in Take That's Back for Good video. I despaired; Gary was always my favourite.

Now, due to me being laden down like a pack mule with my work paraphernalia, the children's nursery "essential" extras and one wiley two year old with a taste for danger upon my shoulders when my four year old fell and grazed her knee on the walk home it was pretty much the worst thing that could have happened. She refused to walk, citing her scraped limb to be unable to bear weight and demanded (through the flood) to be carried home. Despite being able to see my front door from where we stood, it may as well have been light years away. I tried every possible combination; backpack on back, toddler on shoulders, paraphernalia across each arm with preschooler on hip; backpack on back, paraphernalia in hands of errant children and progeny on either hip; backpack on front, preschooler on back, paraphernalia on one arm and toddler like a rugby ball under the other. We were like a geriatric circus troupe trying to re-enact the routines of their youth. We managed to shuffle 20 yards in each position before they began to slip from my grasp with wails of displeasure being only momentarily appeased with promises of previously prohibited treats. Eventually, somehow, we crossed the threshold, a little bit older, a little bit broken and forever just that little bit changed.

So close and yet so far

While previously I had been known to count down the time to Husband's return, I entered the weekend with great optimism with my weekend of solo parenting having been planned with military precision. I genuinely love my children and have the best time when we are all together as a family but there are times when, having been consistently alone with them for an extended period of time, I struggle. I struggle hearing my voice utter the same commands again and again without being heard, I struggle to satisfy all the role play required to appease my eldest, I struggle with not having the freedom to toilet alone never mind exercise and I struggle to keep the fun alive. I want them to have the best time with me (and me them) but when you are lone parenting there is so much life admin to keep up with that there seems so little time for enjoyment.


So a plan was formed for the weekend; Saturday morning would involve a first-time trip to the cinema followed by a visit from the beloved Moomie (grandmother) then Sunday morning would be free play (check me, so relaxed) with a firm promise of a playdate at one of those friends' houses where you can just sit back, drink coffee and watch as the children play beautifully together. Before you ask, no I won't tell you where they live and no I do not wish to share them.

The first part went pretty well; the cinema trip could almost be classed as an unmitigated success. They were only terrified for an hour of the 80 minute film, they spoke at full decibels throughout and ate their bodyweight in E-number infested treats but no one had to leave and no one pooped. I would even go far as to say that I would do it again. It was all they could talk about for the rest of the day. I was a super star parent. I was maintaining the fun despite being on my own. I was winning at life.

The first cinematic experience was an unmitigated success.

Then the boiler broke.


Then it snowed.

Then they couldn't fix the boiler.

Children don't cope well with the cold but they also don't cope well with being told to don extra layers. It's not the best mix when your house is colder than an igloo's icebox. They were miserable; cold and miserable and with the good tradesmen of Edinburgh otherwise occupied for the weekend the countdown for Husband's return was on again.

Huddling for warmth

Grandparents: Heavenly Sent or Hell's Angels?

As per the www.gov.uk website top grandparent facts (who knew) include:

• 1 in 4 working families and 1 in 3 working mothers use grandparents for childcare (that's me)
• 63% of all grandparents with grandchildren under 16 help out with childcare (also me)
• 1 in 5 grandmothers provide at least 10 hours a week of childcare (oh come on!)

I am guilty as charged. I use, abuse and yet am still terrified to lose my mother as my primary childcare giver. I am eternally grateful for the countless journeys she endures traversing Scotland's central belt, for every Tuesday night sleepover and Wednesday of work. I will never be able to convey the relief I feel when leaving my treasured progeny in the care of someone I know, love and trust. Neither will I ever be able to repay the sleepless nights suffered, remove every worry line sustained nor repair every glorious garment blighted by sticky hands. I will forever be in your debt (both emotionally and financially.)

The Mothership taking a turn on the tram

HOWEVER, and here's the thing, I think there is underhanded parental sabotage going on. I suspect someone has been playing the long game, counting the days until they could exact their revenge. Their time is now.

Oh yes, I am on to you mother. 

I know your game. 

The Mother playing the long game

You may have camouflaged your subterfuge in selfless acts, endless affection and the deluge of presents which you rain upon myself and my offspring but don't think me fooled. I can see through your smoke and mirrors. 

Smoke and mirrors

I have charted every misdemeanour and am here to reveal your underhanded ways to the masses:

1. THE RECORDER

My mother bought my daughter, at a mere 14months of age, a recorder. Not a flimsy, disposable, free-with-a-magazine type that only makes noise when you manage to expel air at the speed of light but a robust, school issue type that easily emits a shriek so painful that dogs within a 5mile radius will start bleeding from the ears. 

Shame on you.

Shame. On. You.

2. THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF IMAGINATIVE PLAY
 
Many is the time when I have been summoned to join a conference under the dining room table, where I am instructed to inhabit therole (a la Daniel Day Lewis) of Captain Hook to my preschooler's Wendy and toddler's Peter Pan. When I try to interject citing my sheer size, age and inflexibility as a barrier to joining them, I am duly met with the curt response of "Well [your mother] does it!" And there my argument dies (much like my soul).

Inhabiting her role (which one is unclear)

3. THE BAKING
 
When my daughter is not treading the imaginary boards or sprinkling the world in pink fairy princess dust she likes to bake. I do not bake. My mother bakes. Now, my daughter is not baking with aspirations of being a modern day Mary Berry nor does she find the process particularly soothing. No, my daughter does it so she can lick every utensil, vessel and digit that may come into contact with chocolate based goods and then enjoy the non-fruits of her labour. 

Should you have had to reason with a highly strung and emotional pre-schooler chasing the icing sugar dragon then I know you feel my pain. 

Mother, how could you?

Preparing her "line"

But "why?" I hear you ask. Why would she do such a thing? She is your mother. She loves you and cherishes your children. She was your own protector in infancy and childhood caregiver.  

And there we have it. 

For she has been where I am now. She too, has tried to tame the tyrannical toddler, wrangled with the recalcitrant rebel and valiantly vowed to avenge the vegetable. But where my nemeses are them, I was hers. 

 
I was the one who deprived her of sleep every night, crawling in to her bed under the cover of darkness and wedging myself between my parents like a teacher at a high school dance. I was the one who picked off an unsightly chicken pox scab and left it floating around the bath for her to fish out like the last bran flake in the breakfast bowl. I was the one who was so overcome by rage at the incessant teasing of a prepubescent persecutor that I stabbed him in the back with a compass leaving her to explain my behaviour to my, rather shocked, primary school teacher. 

How could that face be trouble?

Oh yes, she has suffered and she has waited. Her time is now.

So friends, parents and fellow captives, bide your time, stay strong for one day we shall rise!

But can we be sure to make it at a leisurely hour?

Mothers: Working on the Guilt

As a mother, guilt pervades all we do to varying degrees but perhaps the most common focus is that of our employment status; the working versus stay-at-home mother conundrum.

Regardless of path chosen and whether it was done so out of choice or necessity, we self flagellate either publicly on social media, or behind closed doors. We fear having ruined our children by proving to be poor feminist role models if we relinquish the monthly pay check but then lambast ourselves if we return to the workplace; cruelly abandoning our beloved progeny to be raised by people who are paid to care about them.

Then there is the coveted middle ground: the much sought after "part time" work. What could be better? You get the best of both worlds. No need to compromise. Can life get any better? Well, yes. The unspoken truth is that part time work is a mine field. You feel stretched so thinly that where you were once a nice comforting naan bread you would now be more suited to wrapping up the Peking duck. The guilt gnaws away at you as you turn your back on their little doe eyed faces; knowing their gaze is following you across the room, beseeching you to stay just a little longer but then you also feel guilty for leaving your kids.

I think that there is a secret that no one has been telling us. I think that there is a simple truth needing to be acknowledged. I think that there is a fact that once considered can never be denied. There is no right answer. No one  has achieved the holy grail and been entirely liberated from their maternal guilt.

Guilt is as integral to parenting as poo, Mr. Tumble, soft play and bribery. Acknowledge it,  accept it and move on. No one is getting it right all of the time. No one has worked out the perfect balance where they attend every pre-school sports day, are their to kiss away every scraped knee but are also managing to dismantle that ceiling one glass pane at a time. It's time we gave ourselves, and everyone else a break. Guilt is just a side effect of loving them.

I have two friends (I actually have more, but for the purposes of this I shall keep it to my two relevant friends) where one is a full time working mum with multiple children, the other stays at home mum with her toddler. Both are taking over the world and bossing the parenting role in their very own way and I openly admit to envying them both for various reasons.

Let us take Mum A, the worker, she is highly regarded in her profession (and rewarded appropriately). When she discusses her work she exudes competence and capability. She is exceptionally smart in both intelligence and appearance and her children are charming and affectionate; clearly both happy and loved. I want to be like her when I grow up.

Next we have Mum B, the stay at home mum. She is insanely competent in all things homemaking. She can reupholster the couch while her homemade lasagne warms in the oven and her toddler works through an engaging messy play activity set up in her Tuff Tray; which will unwittingly teach her how to sort and reason. This mum makes me want to be a better mum.

These mums are getting it right. Both of them. They probably don't feel like it all of the time but they are. They are both nailing being strong role models and loving mothers. Strong female role models are not just the ones who go to work everyday and being a loving mother and being on the payroll are not mutually exclusive. So whichever path you (or circumstances) have chosen, cut yourself some slack. We are all just muddling through.
 

There Will Be No Miracles Here

This Mum Runs...

I run almost every day. This is not a brag or a challenge to others but merely a statement of fact.

Running has been my go to exercise ever since I was an awkward teenager trying to battle the weight gain that the new found freedom to choose my own lunch had inflicted, but it was always a battle to get myself out the front door and meet the 'three times a week' target that I had imposed upon myself.

However, since having my second child, running has ceased to be a chore and has morphed into something of a love affair. It enables me to take time out of my hectic and all-consuming life (which I love) as a working mother and centre myself. It allows me to reflect on everything that has happened, everything that is currently being endured and everything great that is still to come. It enables me to breathe which is ironic because often I physically cannot. .

I was recently asked by a friend to give my reasons for running in a three word story for the purposes of Instagram and it was something I had never really dwelled upon before but on reflection I think I narrowed it down to the most important three reasons:

1. For me
Since being diagnosed as a type 1 (insulin dependent) diabetic I have struggled with the lack of control that I have over my own health and all the problems that the future may present for both myself and my family. Running has given me both an outlet for my anxious energy and a way to increase my body's sensitivity to insulin thereby reducing the likelihood of damaging high blood sugars. What is not to like?

2. For him
My husband is a natural runner and could easily leave me behind in a competitive race but we regularly book the babysitter and take a few hours to plan the future while we plod our way through a scenic few miles. So many life decisions have been made in our running shoes.

3. For them
Apart from keeping me fit and energised I think that having my children see me being committed to doing something that is hard; something that I am not the best at but something that I love and makes me feel better is good. My daughter can often be found telling her nursery friends to run around more as her "Mummy loves it and it is sooooo good for you!" I sometimes think it is a shame she doesn't recognise that attribute in vegetables, but i'll take it.  

The Ultimate Running Partner (and the toddler) 

The Working Mother... Is It Working?

When I was on maternity leave with my daughter, I lasted seven months before I had to go back to work. I told myself that this was because I had a qualification that needed completed in a timely manner and that I owed it to my daughter to be a strong role model by being a mother with a fulfilling career. To be honest, I had found maternity leave hard and lonely. I couldn’t wait to get back to the adult world where coffee is drunk while it is hot, toileting is an independent activity, conversations are rooted in gossip rather than babble and Makaton signage (thank you Mr Tumble) and lunch is consumed without being at the risk of informal highlights. In my ignorant baby free days I had imagined maternity leave to be a montage of long lunches, cooing, box sets and cake but in reality it turned out to be cheese toasties, screaming, snippets of CBeebies (did we ever meet Topsy and Tim’s younger subling?) and soggy rusks. I will admit that I am not particularly outgoing and really struggled to make any new mummy friends, despite sporting a prize winning smile to all potential chums at the weigh in sessions. So all in all it was quite an isolating time and as devoted as I was to my cherub, her conversational skills were somewhat lacking. At this point work seemed an attractive alternative so an agreement was made and the husband stepped his work down while I returned full time. In for a penny, in for a pound.  

As I got myself showered, dressed (huzzah!) and made my way to the door for the return to adult life I could feel my cape billowing behind me. I adjusted my mask, placed my hands on my hips and stared into the distance. I had this. Charlotte, my darling, it is true, you can have it all.

It didn’t take long to realise that I was miserable. I felt like I was missing everything and as hard as it had been at times during maternity leave, the fear of missing out (as the young ones will tell you) is crippling. With Charlotte having her childcare split between my husband, my mother and a local nursery she started seeking others reassurance in times of trouble and had started interacting with those around her so much more than when I had been at the helm. I believe this is due to developmental stages and not my questionable parenting.

We formed a new plan. The husband would step his work back up and I would take over his childcare duties. My employer allowed me to step down to three days a week (the part-time Holy Grail) and we were off, sailing off into the new normal.

What I hadn’t been prepared for was the guilt. The guilt of forsaking my daughter for the workplace was not a new sensation and I struggle to believe that there is a single working mother out there who has not felt it at some point in time. No, the guilt that I wasn’t prepared for was the one I felt towards my employer. I went from an employee who could be relied upon to pick up the slack, work late into the night and come into the office at weekends, to a part time, nine to fiver who would intermittently call in sick; not because I was unwell but because my child was lurgy filled and banished from nursery (anyone who argues that this is a ‘work from home’ situation has clearly never had a sick child.) They had employed one very capable, focussed person and had them supplanted with a part-timer whose heart was no longer in it.

It wasn’t a new realisation to me that my current job was rather dull and far from my ideal occupation but the original plan had been to use it as a stepping stone into, what would undoubtedly be, a glittering career (based around what, no one was quite sure.) Now I find myself a mother, working part time for an understanding employer albeit in a cripplingly tedious industry. I am no longer an attractive prospect in the job market and yet am not ready to step up to full time working and miss out on my children’s pre-school years. Does this mean that I must accept my fate for the next four years, bide my time and just plod on? For this, I have no answer… yet.