Juggling

 

Last Thursday morning my boss asked how I was. I was exhausted. I'd been up until 3am with a vomiting toddler. The big man had put that toddler into nursery so I could start work early and leave early when the inevitable call came. Putting the little man into nursery was utterly wrong. But I have no cover at work. We can't afford the big man to have another day off. We have no cover at home. So we dosed him up and sent him off. I was weighed down with exhaustion and overwhelming guilt.

I didn't say this. I made light of it: but did say that I wasn't ok. That I'd put a sick child into childcare. That I was hoping to get a few hours work in before having to pick him up.

My boss is a nice man. He has young children that he wants to see more of. He means well. But his work ethics are fucking ridiculous. And damaging: his response, as he went off to an off site leadership day was to ask what my plan for cover was if I had to leave early.

Of course that should have been part of the conversation. I'm committed and professional. But that was the only thing he said. He didn't thank me for breaking nursery rules. He didn't ask how I was. He asked me for a plan that he knew I didn't have. He knew that because his team is chronically under resourced and drowning, and the only solution he can see is to work us harder.

I hadn't realised how relentlessly difficult working part time with caring responsibilities is. I work for a progressive organisation. My colleagues have weird and wonderful work patterns. We have plenty of role models of working parents doing the school run and passionately talking about work life balance.

But it only takes one crappy manager, one period where you step up to handle an emergency, and never manage to step back down, to undermine all that. I left early that day. But I took the work with me. I logged on in the evening. I worried all weekend. 

I'm furious that I'm feeling like this. I'm furious that I'm being told that I should apply for promotion; but there are no jobs that can be worked part time. I'm overworked and I'm angry. The language here matters again. I'm committed to my job; but there's no acknowledgement of the personal cost of that commitment. I send my team home if I see them working too late. When they're devastated at having made a mistake I comfort them. I don't feel I have that support any more. It was all going well; and now it isn't again. This rollercoaster is exhausting and unnecessary. 

Ode to the tired ones

Ode to the tired ones

You, putting your make up on one handed, clinging onto the pole and trying not to poke yourself in the eye. Your skills are amazing. Nobody will be able to see those shadows. You have a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker on your bag. 

You, holding your head up with one hand, scrolling through baby photos with the other. I don't know what causes this compulsion to repeatedly look at our little ones' photos whenever they are absent; but keep going, zoom into those chubby little cheeks. Whoever is looking after them won't be able to resist loving them too. They are in good hands. 

You two, with your passive aggressive conversation about whose turn it is to cook, to clean, how you're going to manage the nursery run. Exhaustion breeds contempt. There's every chance your relationship will be perfectly fine when you finally get a full night's sleep. 

Me, calculating exactly how few hours sleep I got last night. A second coffee will make me feel nauseous. Tired and unable to focus, or on form but a little bit sick? This is just a phase. It's the big man's turn tonight; I will get to sleep again. Last day before the weekend. The little man was still adorable, even at 2am. 

You can do this. I can do this. We are all doing this, every day. 

Welcome, autumn

I've been away for two, long, glorious weeks. This morning it was dark when I got up. First time this Autumn; I am scared of what this lack of light will do. I usually get excited by Autumn. I love the clothes of it, the cosines as the nights draw in, the excitement before Christmas. This year, I can't seem to forget that all roads lead to February. I can't forget that claustrophobic feeling of not being able to do anything, get anywhere without heavy layer upon heavy layer, struggling to see just a few minutes of daylight. 

But today is Autumn. I started the day with a 10 minute sun salutation: I feel strong. 2 weeks away has given me some much needed perspective. I want a promotion. I'm ready for a promotion; I deserve a promotion. I also want more time at home. I am lucky: there is a compromise that I can make to get me both. So today, I will start my search for a job share partner. Somebody newly promoted, or somebody hungry as me. It feels a little like I'm about to start blind dating; who I find will change how the next months and years look, how they feel.

I am luckier than lucky that this is an option. That I have role models and support systems who can help and advise me in how to do this. 

I shouldn't have to feel so lucky. I shouldn't be looking at my the working mothers around me who are drowning. Simply, slowly, visibly, drowning, while their bosses look on, shake their heads and say "I told you so". Big organisations who want to nurture talent are still only paying lip service to family friendly work. The mum blogs are full of lessons of how to break free of the corporate slog, go it alone and be happy. They are less full of how to get this corporate world to belong to us as well. 

So today, I will start making the most of being lucky. I will not think of grey February; I will buy a jewel coloured cosy knit and find my boots. I will start the search for the woman who will accompany me on this next stage of my work journey. She's going to be awesome. 

Opening doors

A colleague and I were chatting about our weekend, and he mentioned having had a rare night free night out with just his wife. My gut reaction was jealousy and "who did you get to babysit?" Then I realised that the last time we'd worked together was when the little man was no more than a tentative concept in a vague future - but my colleague had had two very young children at the time.

A few things struck me. The last time we'd worked together we were doing big, big jobs - his bigger than mine, and he was far more committed. I had nothing going on at home more pressing than a shopping habit and a holiday schedule: his youngest was the same age as the little man is now, and he had another boy, two years older. This makes him an utter hero. And a complete and utter idiot. No wonder he burnt out of the job within a year. 

These past weeks I've been reflecting on who I am. On how having a child has completely changed my own sense of who I am. I existed for 32 years before becoming a mother: if I now had to pick only one wish it would be that I spend the rest of my life with this new title. But some days, my identity is definitely still catching up with this shift.

Back to this conversation. Before having the little man, I thought I "got it". I had close friends and family with young children - I thought I understood what I was in for. I was a fucking idiot. I'm surprised nobody punched me in the face. I wouldn't have understood how a single meal out to a mid-price, local restaurant with the love of your life could feel like utter luxury. I had absolutely no concept of how much your home life could have its tentacles wrapped around every decision you made. 

Sometimes it's easy to focus on what I've lost since the little man changed my life. But it's opened up a whole new group of people that I can start to understand. It's closed the door on some things - I can imagine, but not know, how it feels to be a 30 something, 40 something, 50 something without children, for whatever reason. I can envy and pity in equal measures; I can love my child-free,  single friends; but I cannot know what their life is, any more than they can really know mine. 

I was surprised today because of how much I liked this new knowledge. I'm always affectionate towards the younger, dumber me - she was a bit of a tool at times, but she was very earnest and kind. Today, I felt very affectionate towards the older, wiser, tireder me. And fuck me, she is tired. 

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

It's the end of a long, "If Carlsberg did bank holidays..." weekend. The sun came out again and again. We pottered by the river and taught the little man how to ride his scooter. I went for two jogs, both times running faster than the time before. After a shaky few weeks (months? Maybe months) the big man and I actually talked. And laughed and watched trashy movies and ate cake and ice cream and laughed some more. 

Now I'm on the early morning underground, and I have the back to school blues. I start a new role today, which is making me nervous. And, if I'm being completely honest, a little disappointed - it's a sideways move, when it's about time I looked for an upwards one. I'm not dreading the office though. Grown up conversation that doesn't eventually wind up back about the little man will be refreshing. I have a few coffees with friends booked in, and a new album on my phone.

There are lots of reasons that I went back to work after the little man. Some easy to justify, some so tightly wrapped up in my own sense of self that I don't want to explore them in case something unravels. But if I stripped them all away, if I found a way to overcome all those reasons, what would keep me in the office is the loneliness of motherhood.

I expected maternity leave to be full of leisurely coffees and baby classes; new mum friends and cuddles and giggles. A lot of that happened. But parenting days are so long. So damn long. If you over schedule them, you end up with a fractious baby and debilitating mum guilt. So no matter how many "mum dates" you build in, there are long, long hours staring at this amazing thing you created, and wondering what the hell you're doing. I don't mind being alone; but I long for another adult to be next to me when the little man throws his dinner at the wall. When I run out of steam and halfway through the wheels on the bus can't remember what I'm singing. Or where I am.

So that's what I'm dreading this morning. The big man is going for drinks tonight, so the evening shift is mine alone. And it'll be fine. In parts it'll be lovely - the little man will tell me a hilarious story. And he's free with his great big smacking kisses and strangling  cuddles like never before. But it's just better with somebody else there. 

The logistics that make our days depend on us as individual parents. I left the big man dragging himself out of bed this morning; he will get both himself and the little man ready alone until he hands over to nursery. I will pick him up alone; decide on dinner and baths and stories by myself. It's fine: but the last four days have been much, much better than fine. 

Single parents, I salute you. We don't have access to the village that should raise a child; but it's at least better with two. 

I wanted everything, for a little while

Compromise. 

The secret to lasting relationships. It sounds so civilised. The theory is that I want A. You want C. There's a halfway point, B, that we go for instead. We both get some of what we want. Everybody's happy. 

Except a lot of decisions have no immediate compromise. I want to sleep on the left side of the bed. You want to sleep on the left side of the bed. One of us wins. One loses. Or you tie yourself up in some complicated, but theoretically fair solution: we alternate every time we change the bedding? Or move house (we used to move a lot)?

And even when there is a middle ground, it doesn't feel very middle. I want to spend a long weekend with my family. You don't. We could spend the weekend apart: neither of us want that. We could spend a shorter weekend. That works: but then I resent you for the time that I don't get. And the next time you want us to do a long journey to see friends that I don't like, I make it more difficult. After a few of these, we learn that the best thing is to each be gracious about each other's friends and family, and try vaguely to even out the number.

But compromise essentially means losing as often as you win. And I have never really been ok with losing. 

The big man and I had worked most of it out, at least on the domestic front. The odd meltdown, but for the most part it felt like the balance was there.

And then the little man came along and blew it all out of the water. We had a whole new list of tasks and decisions to battle our way through. But I think we made it. We worked out who was better getting up at night (me - first by default because of the feeding, then I discovered that I had more patience). And that despite the big man being of fuck all use in the mornings, he was better at dragging himself up hours before the crack of dawn to entertain the little man. 

The last few months have felt like I theoretically have it all right. The little man is hilarious. I love spending time with him. It gets easier all the time. And, as long as he's well, he sleeps. My job is going well. I enjoy it; I'm good at it; I like my team. Money is finally looking better. I've lost the last couple of pounds and bought some new clothes. 

But underneath it, now that I'm not actively fighting so hard, I ache. 

You see, I want more. I've always wanted more. That's why I'm a straight A student, why I'm always on talent development schemes. Why I left the North for the big city. I'm comfortable with wanting more. 

Why aren't I comfortable now? Because the more I want is impossible. I want to be at home with the little man more. I don't want to miss any more of his firsts. I want to take him to swimming lessons, to sports clubs. It's only two years until he starts school, and I want to spend all of my time with him. 

I want to work more. Work going well reminds me of how ambitious I am. I am frustrated by not being able to do all those extra hours that would make me stand out. I'm doing fine: but fine isn't enough. I want to be in the big meetings, making the big decisions. 

I want more time for me. I want to take up running again. I want to go on diving holidays. I want to rediscover friends and go out more.

I want to do more with the big man, remember how much he always made me laugh. How he made me better. 

Normally when I want more, I can make a plan. I can work towards a goal, I can see a path. Here, I'm stuck. I can't be at home and at work. I can't have an early night so I have enough energy for work, life, and go out drinking. I've abandoned more time for me altogether; and every time I try to pick it back up, I drown in the guilt.

I've finally come up against the laws of time, and I will not be able to win this battle. I think I've probably got the balance as right as I can: this might actually be as good as it gets. The battle looks like it's one with myself. Coming to terms with what I have to let go of to make it all, just about, work. 

I don't think I'm unusual. I don't think it's just about having children and working - I have a feeling this is what happens in your 30s, when you realise how many vague dreams you have to abandon because you can't have the time to make them all happen.

I know this is normal. I know people must work it all out. I just don't know how I work it out. How do I let go of all of these visions of my life and replace them with a "best of" version? 

I stand divided

Today was busy. I negotiated through my meetings; wrote a briefing for our executive committee; supported my overworked team and started writing my promotion case. I was on top of my game today. Coffee in hand I ruled my little empire, and I ruled it well.

And in the few quiet moments I had, as I filled my water bottle, or re-plaited my hair, I was completely floored by remembering my little man is being looked after by strangers again today. I kept forgetting about his existence in all the noise. Then I had to hold onto a wall for support as I was overcome with longing for his chubby little hand wrapped around my finger. I found a box of raisins in my handbag, and wanted to rush home and hand-feed them to him. 

Maybe all the working parents around me feel like this. Why can't I ask them? I drop stories about the little man into conversation wherever I can. I'm rare: some colleagues smile at me in relief, and join in. But often we just move onto more important things: meeting schedules and corporate behaviour and what colour the new chairs should be. 

It's all going better than ever before. So why is it still not feeling easier? 

What a way to make a living

An office is its own, particular type of hell. We have politics with a small p, politics with a big P. If you don't know what that means, be grateful. Strivers and skivers start their day in tubes full of sweaty strangers, count their hours and their hopes and their dreams, confined within 4 walls with a shared, overflowing fridge and leaking toilets. 

We have to navigate through all these egos to follow instructions. Or set instructions; sometimes we call the shots, except we never have the freedom to really call the shots. We have to be in line with overall strategy, vision, mindful of the needs of our staff and our customers and our stakeholders. We have to build great monuments with sodden spaghetti coated in treacle. Juggle urgent tasks that we all know aren't urgent, while our partners ask us whether there is enough milk in for breakfast, while what is left of a social life alternates between crowding around you demanding attention, and just hanging around on Facebook with posed shots reminding you how pathetic you are, barely managing to drag yourself, alone with the little boy, to the playground in your precious free time.

I read about a lot of impressive women. Talented, driven, brilliant women, changing the world. And I wonder what I'm really good at. On dark days, I'd love to freelance somehow, to still work, but without the commute and the leadership and the performance management system. To get rid of all the admin and endless, pointless meetings. To stand up and say "I do this. I do this on my own. I am an expert". 

But it turns out, what I'm an expert in is navigating this little hell. My commute is a sanctuary; I have music and writing and reading and catching up with people. I am good at negotiating without seeming to. Some days it's shaky, but I'm keeping my distance from the cynicism that I see colleague after colleague drown under. I think I still have integrity: I still believe in what I'm doing. The politics of this country are poisonous, but my small corner is not. 

Nobody celebrates office warriors. There are no poems to people who run good meetings. Awards for completing the correct paperwork and leapfrogging 8 levels of beurocracy while still smiling and looking after a colleague whose home life is disintegrating as quickly as his professional demeanour. It is sometimes difficult to feel pride in something so god dammed grey. 

I'm not an expert in anything. Except in getting things done without losing my mind. Influencing, steering, supporting. Good meetings and making the right phonecall at the right time to calm down the right person. Getting decisions made. Remembering to be nice to secretaries and PAs, who keep all of this going while being kicked or hit on subtly and repeatedly under the desk. 

Today, rather than wishing I was a professional singer, a real economist instead of a former sort of analyst, an author or a mathematician, I will celebrate my task list. I'll do 25 unrelated tasks better than anybody around me could. I'll do another 25 perfectly averagely - but I'll still do them, because somebody relies on them, no matter how much they numb my mind. My little man has learnt long, grammatically suspect sentences this week. I can celebrate this with glee; so I can also celebrate persuading somebody to clear my shoddy gate 1 paperwork despite us missing every deadline. Somebody has to do this. I am a small cog in a very big machine; but I am a good cog. I am the best cog, and I still, despite it all, believe in the machine. 

Democracy and despair

There has been a lot of criticism today of the anger of the remain camp, the despair and derision we've shown towards a group of people demonstrating their democratic right to express a different opinion.

I'd like to say that it's ok to disagree. I know democracy means sometimes accepting a decision that you think is appalling; that democracy only works if people feel safe to make these decisions.

The leave campaign said the short term economic shock would damage us for years. All the world leaders that we could possibly respect pleaded with us not to go. The young people in this country, who will be affected by it the most, told us not to do this. 

Every single expert said that Brexit was a bad idea, and now we all have to sit around patiently, really hoping they're all wrong for an unknown period of time. 

Going against all of this experience and expertise to follow people who do not, and will not ever, have the best interests of the majority of this country at heart, simply feels like lunacy. And pretending that the decision to leave has been driven by anything other than anger and fear with a small side of racism is yet another lie from the leavers.

Consolidation and unity? What the fuck is the point?

Battling for balance

It's been two months since you went back to work, my beautiful friend. You look tired. There was no food in the house when we arrived for the weekend. You abandoned your little man to feed himself to take a call. Your husband makes digs at you as he takes over. He is pulling his weight. But he looks wild eyed and tired and unsure how he got here.  

I recognise it. I reflect it. Less now, a year in, but those early months still echo. Ambition, which used to be a calm pillar on which you climbed and leant, is a weight you drag behind you as you scrabble across quicksand.

That year away from the office ticks in those first days. That clock, ruthlessly judging us, asking if our achievements are enough, ticks. Peers are promoted beyond us; our seniors are younger. We see women without children; men with children; move faster, work harder, do better. We have to leave at 4, so that urgent, high profile task goes elsewhere. Or gets taken home, distracting through the bedtime routine, worked on finally with half-closed eyes and the humming of the baby monitor. 

We were young and promising; then just promising. And now we should have moved to successful, but what is successful enough? In the cold light of day, I am happy with my choices, but when I'm shy in a meeting, when I'm overlooked for a job; the ticking of that clock is suffocating. It drowns out all reason. 

I'm proud of you, my beautiful friend, for how hard you're fighting. I know that the fight will become easier. As you get more confident, you'll be fighting from a position of strength, not scrapping from behind. When you have less to prove, you can delegate and prioritise and let some of this shit just slide. But be scrappy for now. This work/life balance myth has got to be worth battling for. 

Best laid plans

I get completely British when the sun comes out. I must be outside. I must be having fun. I. Must. Make. The. Most. Of. The. Day. 

It sends my pretty laid back husband spare. I think I've started to manage it well though. Hint of a sun on the weather app, and I'm making elaborate plans for how to spend the day. The key is not to tell him. So I pack the bags up, prepare the food, the night before. I surprise him with breakfast, casually mention what we could do now, and before he know it, the three of us are outside by 10am, having some organised fun. With only a minor meltdown if the big man suggests something spontaneous (or moves too slowly).

Today is the first day that the sun has come back out in a while. And the big man's cousin and family are staying with us, so I've bought a mountain of picnic food, a new picnic basket, and I've planned my outfit and where to go, and exactly how and when we will have fun.

Instead of all that, I'm sat in my pyjamas by the cot while everybody else gets ready to go out. The "bed" I made on the floor of the nursery is by my feet, and I'm hoping that I don't spend tonight there as well. The little man is sick. I'm a bit sick. So everybody will go out, and I'm just hoping to get to sit in our yard in the sun in peace for maybe half an hour while the little man sleeps.

We had a great holiday 2 weeks ago. We had a great bank holiday weekend at friends. I am trying very hard to remember that in a child based world you can't rely on any plans; and we've just had a good run of it.

But I'm going to allow myself to be sad for 10 minutes for the day I thought I'd have. And sad for how ill my poor little man is again. And to feel guilty that I don't seem to be able to keep him from the bugs. And to feel worried about how we'll manage work and a sick child again this week. 

The sun is out, and I dream of a laid back life in floaty clothes, with unlimited money and a satisfying career which somehow takes up no time. And, above all, a little man without a raging fever and night terrors. I know that I am so lucky, in so many ways. But today, I'm sad. 

Here comes the sun

To the big man,

We must have had glasses of wine in the sunshine on hundreds of occasions. It must have happened. We holidayed; we travelled; we honeymooned. I have photographs of bottles and sunshine and us.

But I feel such a longing when the sun comes out. And such a lot of regret. I can't help but think of all the times we didn't have that drink. The times we went for a run. Did housework or paperwork. Worried about the weekday hangover. Worried about something.

And now a bundle of joy has stolen our freedom. And every time it gets warm, I long for the days when we could have just dropped everything and sat, a cold glass in hand and a sun-kissed view. I can't remember it happening. Maybe I just can't remember it feeling as incredible as it would now. Maybe it was boring and commonplace. Maybe we drank too much; the first drink would turn into the second bottle. Would turn into the same old fight in the same small flat. Maybe the places were always too crowded. The views blocked. The wine cold. The weight of the world, light as it was, somehow too heavy. 

I long to just stop, and have that drink in the sun. With you. Grin at you, and congratulate ourselves on the life we have built. I long. I long and yearn and long. 

All my love,

Your little lady 

Dear Son: Great Expectations

When we first found out I was pregnant, my sister and I agreed what you would be like. You would be a girl, obviously; none of the noise and dirt of my four nephews for me. You were going to be precocious and quiet, and oh so serious. You would follow me round in your perfectly neat clothes, impressing everybody with your walking, your words, how closely you watched the world. You would somehow have big, dark eyes and hair, despite the blonde and light brown hair and blue eyes of your parents. Self sufficient, self contained. 

When I was a teenager, my best friend and I decided what sort of husband I would have. He would be tall, dark, chisel jawed and oh, so mysterious. Quiet, but when he spoke it would always be important. Intense, devoted to me, even if he wasn't always so nice to me. Unpredictable, a little bit tortured and exciting, I would mould my life around his. 

Your father had other ideas of what would make me happy. Not so tall, not so dark. Not even a little bit quiet. Not always important; but always energetic, and always involved. Devoted to me, but straightforward and not even a little bit complicated. Happy. Happy all the time, to the point where reality sometimes cannot defend itself against that relentless optimism. Easy to love. Easy to want to spend every minute of every day with. 

With such a father, how could I have thought you would turn out as planned? I thought the scans were wrong; that you would still be a girl. But you were ripped out of me as a very definite, very red headed, boy. You have never been quiet. After a miserable first 2 months, where something in that round stomach of yours stopped you settling for more than a few minutes at a time, your personality erupted. 

I would ask your father every night "did you see what he did today? Did I tell you about the smile? Did you see his face light up?" 

I was wrong about the child I wanted. You have always smiled at strangers. By 6 months old you would bury your face in my shoulder, and look up at them coyly through your long lashes. Your father and I cannot flirt like that. You didn't learn it from us. 

You are round and flame haired and funny. You stare people on trains down until they can't stop grinning at you. You stop people in the street to tell them your latest adventures. You never crawled, you walked late, you don't climb. You haven't needed to do any of those things; why bother when everybody jumps to fulfil your every need, simply for one of those smiles? You sing to yourself in your cot. When you learnt to say car you would repeat it to yourself in the night with utter glee and reverence. Your father melted when I woke him to hear it. 

You won't be reserved or shy or self contained. You sit delighted in the middle of noisy groups of children. You delight me every day. I cannot believe we created something so perfect and so full of joy. 

So long, and thanks for all the fish

There's a voice in my head that I've been living with since that first pee on a stick. She used to sob during the night feeds. She giggles at Pretty Little Liars. She makes me feel guilty about that extra slice of cake; she won't let me throw out the jeans that make my c-section scar ache. She whispers to me that I'll find her again one day. 

I think it's time to say goodbye.

But first, thank you. Thank you for having so much fun. Thank you for saying yes to the big man. Thank you for building such amazing friendships. Thank you for the drinking and the dancing and the foolishness. Thank you for the hangovers; their memory makes me miss the dancing less. Thank you for working so hard, for pushing so hard. Thank you for the mistakes you made when I was young enough that they didn't matter. 

I miss you. I will always miss you when I hear Faithless; or Zombie Nation; or Beth Orton. When I see cropped tops, and remember my stomach in the 90s. When I come home tipsy, and alone, because babysitters are too expensive for us both to go out on a school night any more. 

But there is no place for you here. 

You can't survive in this new world. You used to actually panic if you had less than 6 hours of continuous sleep. You couldn't lift heavy weights. A big part of your identity was tied up in being a young, skinny blonde; and the attention it came with it. You're too self conscious to sing in public; you faint at the sight of blood, and gag at foul smells. 

So goodbye. It's been two years: I will stop waiting for you to return. I have stopped grieving for you. You know why? Because the woman who's replaced you is incredible. And hard as fucking nails. She's in it for the long haul. Above all: I finally like her. 

Back in the day

I wrote this in the very early days of becoming a working parent. I keep coming back to it, hoping more would have changed since those early, confused morning commutes. 

I returned to work 3 weeks ago. Or, as my sanity as a newly part time worker demands it, I have just finished my 8th working day in the office.

 
Being back in the office is bloody brilliant. I stay clean for an entire day. Unless I actively seek out another new mum, I can avoid speaking about naps, sleep patterns or which food my little boy is unexpectedly refusing to eat this week. Nobody stands in the corner of the room shrieking at me because he wants the remote control/laptop/drawer of knives that I'm unfairly withholding. My brain is slowly starting to work again. I exist in my own right: half of my new team do not yet even know the name of my little boy, nevermind how his sleep patterns have developed over his first year.

Being back in the office is bloody hard. My little boy howls when I leave him. It's for less and less time each day, but that cry echoes as a baseline for the music I luxuriously and obsessively play in my headphones on my commute. I cannot seem to get anywhere in a week that's shorter, in a day that has to finish at 4. I am insecure: I feel as though there is a flashing light above my head saying "I am no longer competent. I am not a worker who happens to have a child; I am a mother who deludedly believes she can also be something else." I feel as though everybody is waiting for that flashing sign to collapse on my head. 

Being back in the office is bloody lovely. Even on a slow day, I am better at this job than I was at being a full time mother. My husband disagrees with me. My parents tell me I'm doing fine. But I hear my not-yet-speaking son tell me that I'm just not good enough at this. My energy level does not stay high enough. I can't sing lullabies in tune. I will not lovingly cook an organic meal if there is a 50:50 chance it will be thrown at a wall. I am inconsistent in my discipline. If I get my job wrong, nobody cries. I am not solely responsible for the continuing existence of anybody in the building. 

Being back at work is f-ing tough. I flick continuously through photos of my little boy and ache to pick him up. Nobody smells as good as him. I cannot squeeze anybody's chubby thighs in just the right spot so they giggle in delight. I am not the centre of anybody's world. I feel guilt, all encompassing guilt at leaving him. It weighs heavier than the "did you know she's useless?" sign. I have no idea whether it is ok to leave a one year old in nursery. I can never know what the long term impacts will be on my son: he will turn out how he turns out. I do know that it isn't ok for me to be a mum who doesn't work. Staying at home made me bloody miserable. I feel guilty for that misery: but the guilt I feel about making myself happier comes from my mum. My sisters. The daily fucking mail and its hatred of women. Every single mother who says they have never been happier than since they chose to leave the workforce and look after their child. I know they aren't judging my decision any more than I'm judging theirs, but I'd like my own internal judgement to leave me be.

Growing up is full of transitions. From child to adolescent, to teen to young adult. From student to worker to student to scrounger to worker again. Transition implies gradual shift and learning, some things changing and others remaining the same. But the day my little man arrived I became, from one second to the next, a completely new person in a completely new life. I spent a year learning that new life, and now I've uprooted again. But I already have glimpses of this being ok. I pick up a smiling chubby boy from his happy key worker. I tell him about my day and he giggles when I'm not fast enough to catch his yoghurt. I say the right thing in a meeting and remember what self esteem is. This new life is the life to learn how to inhabit. 

Inertia creeps

It crept up on me. 

I thought everything was ok. I thought it might finally be getting better than ok. My new job clearly suited me; the hours were sometimes outrageous, but more often than not perfectly manageable. We had some amazing weekends. The little man slept in longer, we had leisurely mornings with him happily pottering around our feet. Lovely days just the three of us, splashing in puddles and watching Netflix during long, easy naps.

It crept up on me. 

A couple of evenings out with friends were cancelled. I didn't mind; I would rather go home and curl up. I was tired. The little man got a bug...and then another bug...suspected chicken pox and a scarlet fever fear. I cancelled meeting a friend who was pregnant, just in case. I didn't rearrange. I realised absentmindedly that the big man and I hadn't slept more than 6 hours a night for about two weeks. I got a cold. I got over it. I got a sinus infection. I didn't get over it. I still had Netflix and cosiness. Then I didn't: the little man stopped settling in the evenings. We alternated sitting by his cot for the majority of the long, long night. We powered through.

His birthday plans fell apart when we dragged a feverish little man to the local pub, and were then consumed with guilt when we realised what we'd done. My plans of a night out fell apart with exhaustion. 

In the three months since christmas, I've met up with a friend independently of the little or big man once. Once. My freedom, my me-time is the office. That isn't freedom; my little team is getting hungrier as I get better, my days are filled with calls and decisions. 

It crept up on me. 

I couldn't (can't?) leave the house when both little men are there. I don't want to. The guilt consumes me. Isn't it enough that I pursue something so frivolous as a career? We should move somewhere cheaper, where we can afford it if I don't work. I should stay home and disappear into full time worship of my beautiful little man.

It crept up on me. I was overly optimistic. I do not know what the right thing to do is. I do not know what balance is. 

She's in fashion

An unexpected bonus of following all these mum fashion blogs is that I've suspected for a while that this spring and summer, fashion loves me. Since skinny jeans took over, I've had a nagging suspicion that designers hate women. They came in just after the glorious summer of boho: floaty skirts, necklaces, flowers. I thought this happened just a few years ago...turns out that the year Sienna Miller dictated the high street was actually 2005. It's been 11 years since I felt this happy by the shops. 11 years. Fuck, I'm old. I think everybody stops ageing at some point in their head. For me, it was that summer. I'd just moved to London. I was working in Covent Garden at a start-up before start ups became a thing. I had a new, lovely boyfriend, and a fabulous sister staying with me. The sun shone and shone, as we drank and danced and fought and grew up; I don't think I've ever been as happy, or lived as hard. Thank you Sienna.

But this year, there are some good signs. It turns out that we're all going to be dressing like it's the 90s. I bought dungarees on Saturday! Dungarees!!! And I have two pinafore dresses! And I'm eyeing up some off-the-shoulder tops. Most flattering thing ever for small-busted girls worried about the mumtum - you cannot have flab on your shoulders. Sexy without worrying about toning or support wear. White trainers and denim shirts. Mum jeans - I'm a mum! I can totally wear these! I'm going to re-watch Friends, and dress like Rachael. 

Best summer ever. I cleared out my wardrobe (the Life-Changing Magic of tidying up has kind of been changing our house this year) so I have space. 

So thank you, gods of fashion. I know in the winter we will be punished with something even worse than bodycon dresses. But for a few months, I'm going to lunge in my dungarees and feel a bit more like I belong. 

Follow the leader

I have never been one of those people who "got it" when it comes to fashion. Or anything else about trends really. When conversation turns to music, or clothes, or celebrities, I'm the one in the corner laughing a second too late, blindly echoing what somebody else has said, praying nobody asks me for an opinion. I'm sure I'm not alone in this; I think it's probably an element of "imposter syndrome". I also know it isn't important in the big scheme of things (I understand global poverty and the trends in climate change research instead - officially more important), but it makes feeling like I fit in anywhere that bit more difficult.

 I may not be naturally cool, but what I can do is follow instructions. And research. I really am the fucking queen of research - we have amazing holidays, all down to me and Mr Google. There's a lot of criticism of the Internet; but for the socially just slightly awkward, it beats desperately stealing your friends Smash Hits, reading it from cover to cover, and hoping for a conversation about Kriss Kross's view on backward clothes.

So now I read magazines, and I follow fashion blogs. Not scary ones; almost all mum ones. And I just buy anything reasonably priced and not ridiculous that they recommend. It takes out the stress of decision making. And the best ones are enthusiastic, and make me feel like clothes could be fun again, after the frumpiness of pregnancy and breastfeeding and maternity leave financial restrictions. The Spike, the follow on from the life-saving Recipe Rifle. Dresslikeamum (makes me want to lunge in all photos! Why is that so entertaining?!) The Frugality, which despite being all fashion-week focused is surprisingly accessible.

This is all at odds with the recent articles about micro-decisions. The most successful people are starting to talk about wearing the same thing every day. They will have to make so many decisions during the day, that removing that first choice actually does make a difference. Some days I think I'd love to embrace this; days when nothing matches, when the little man is crying and the train won't wait. But I'm not that important yet. And my workwear at least still feels a bit like war-paint. Heels and a blazer: my head is just a little higher in that big scary meeting. It does separate the women out from the men; for the time being, I'm ok with that. If I become important enough to change my mind, then I'm sure I can do enough research to pick the perfect outfit. But not quite yet.

It's all about the money

When the bigger man and I first got together, I'd just started an exciting graduate job in the big city. He was a sales rep in the north, doing a relatively low paid job because he wanted a job that involved a lot of driving and gave him a company car. Oh, and kept him close to his university girlfriend (of whom we should not speak). 

He followed me to the big city, and his salary crept towards mine. I bombed out of consulting into contracting, and once again was earning double what he did. I spent two years fighting my way out, while he quietly watched what I did, and decided he could do it better (and happier). He was right: I took a pay cut into public service, while he sold his soul to the city. We couldn't be happier with our choices: our money is shared, our principles are shared. He likes that I do something worthwhile; I like living somewhere nice and buying shoes with his money. 

Then the little man came along. And I went back to work. And bloody hell, this income disparity matters again. I manage a large team; I run boards; I advise our most senior management. He sits in a corner doing impressive things with databases. If we had to decide who goes to work tomorrow and who stays at home with a sick child, I should always be the one in the office. But we need him to work to pay the heating bills. In some ways it's a burden on him: he can't be sick, can't meltdown and abandon everything in the knowledge that I'll pick up the pieces. If i wanted to quit work, we'd have to make some different life decisions. If he quit, every single aspect of our life would be turned upside down.

We got here consciously. I decided to earn less; I was in a male dominated industry, but I chose to leave. I would have been successful if I'd stayed. I wouldn't instinctively think of this as a feminist issue. Except that we aren't alone in this decision making. Our friendship group is made primarily of intelligent, driven and focussed women, with slightly lazier, or slightly less committed other halves. And yet, in almost all cases, the men earn more. 

I don't know how we got here in the 10 years (ish) since we graduated. Five years it wasn't the case for any of us. All the stories are different: restless men who bounce around jobs until they land in an astonishingly well paid one. Or slow and steady promotions. None of them point to simple discrimination. But they all end up in the same position: the burden of earning naturally falls on the man, so the burden of childcare falls onto the woman. 

If not discrimination then, what is it? I don't think I made any of my choices because I'm a woman. I don't think my friends did either. But I can't think of any overpaid industries that are female dominated. The saying goes that you can't be what you can't see; maybe it should be that you don't want to be what you cannot see. It's well know that we underpay traditionally female roles; cleaners versus binmen for example. 

I don't want to change my choices. The big man would love me to join him in his overpaid and underworked life. I would love to want to join him; but I can still remember how my soul ached every time somebody got hysterical about the speed of their server. There are days when I feel the doors that closed from these choices, the practical compromise that a lower salary brings. Today I left the big man looking after a poorly little man. I need to make today count; if he doesn't make a miraculous recovery, the rest of the week he's mine. That means working in evenings and nap times and falling ever further behind. The sun came out at the weekend. Please let this endless winter end soon. 

Things I didn't know: part two

Before having a child, I joined into conversations about how working mums are so much more productive than anybody else. How having a fixed end to the day really focusses the mind. How much easier it is to prioritise when you've got important priorities out of the office. How you'll be a better manager, as you can't micro-manage, you have to delegate for the times you're away. 

I bought into it. I read articles about it. I came back into the workplace with all guns blazing, ready to pick straight up where I left off. 

An exhausting 10 months later, I call bullshit on my former self. 

It starts with just the maths of it. And I love starting with the maths of it. I work 4 days a week. Each of these days is at least an hour shorter than my pre-pregnancy, energetic days. Unless I was pretty slovenly back then, I can't just concentrate a bit harder and chat a bit less to make up a day and a half each and every week. I might be more productive if you use the proper definition (output divided by time, or money - I'm paid a day less), but I cannot possibly actually produce more. 

Focussing on the important things means that little things get dropped. A lot of these are fine; but the little things matter. That extra 10 minutes to chat to somebody that you later rely on for a favour. Or, more importantly, might have become an actual friend if you spent a bit more time at the tea point with them, or made it to team drinks. Before the little man, if I'd really needed a hug during the day, I could have found one. Now I have to wait until I get home: it's a better hug, but the wait is hard. 

Maybe my team appreciates the extra autonomy some days. I'm sure they can't help but resent it on others. On balance it might work out in all our favour; but on balance means highs and lows that are higher and lower than before. 

So what does this mean? If I'm not as useful as before should I not work? Should my employer not accommodate my demands to make my job fit around my life? 

No. Not even for a second. 

Life will always get in the way of work. It's probably that work gets in the way of life...but either way round, it's important for everybody that we allow people to have lives that are complicated, messy, lively and lovely. The stress involved in stopping this is excruciating, and the talent loss is immeasurable. Particularly as a civil servant, we need a workforce that represents the population that it serves. This population is diverse and interesting and unpredictable at times, and our workforce needs to be too.

So why even mention it? If a manager suggested this in a performance review, I would go apoplectic. If my husband tells me to relax or my mum says I might be less ambitious now, I can recite my feminist monologue without thinking. I don't for a second think my experience applies to every working parent, and I don't think that my experience will always apply to me. 

I think this is a letter to my former self. I need to apologise to her that I'm slowing down. I need to tell her that it's ok. That I mind. I mind enough to swap Netflix for emails some evenings; but I don't mind enough to give up Friday mornings in my pyjamas with a chubby, cuddly boy on my knee. She still lives in my head, this former self, and some days her frustration itches the inner lining of my skull. I need to tell her to chill the fuck out on those days and just leave me be. 

I need to remind her that she used to be kind to distracted colleagues, and ask her to be kind to me. I need her to forgive me for the fact that this isn't how we'd planned it. And I need to forgive her for being so naive. 

Counting my blessings: choice

Blogs that talk about the struggles of motherhood are important. Rhys was six months old when he first slept through the night: 3 days later I was googling "I'm a terrible mother". I thought the exhaustion was stopping me from loving every minute of my day with him; without that excuse I was lost. But I found miraculous support online. Funny, affectionate, brutally honest stories that stopped me feeling so alone. 

Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in those stories. We're all on the "I'm so tired/busy/stressed competition line". And we are those things; but every so often I want to step off, to remind myself of my many, many blessings.

Today's list is about choice. I made so many choices to get here; so many choices that so many others don't have. I am spoilt, and I am grateful.

I chose to have a baby. So many people, for a multiple of heart breaking stories would like to make that choice, but can't. Or, for equally heart breaking reasons, don't want to, but end up with a child. I stopped taking the pill, put on some lacy underwear, saw two blue lines on a test.

I chose to wind down my job when I became unwieldy. My husband and I attended all our antenatal appointments without any hassle from bosses; I recruited my replacement early, increasingly worked from home and was fussed over kindly when I made it in. Had I felt more energetic, I could have powered through until the last possible day with no more than affectionate warnings from colleagues. 

I chose how long to have off work. Our country is more generous than most; the civil service is particularly generous. Fully paid leave, and then the unquestioned right to unpaid leave made a year an easy decision. Not an easy year; but an easy decision. 

My return to work wasn't handled perfectly: but I did have some choice in the role I took. It was a little mis-sold, and my pay went wrong, but at no point was I made to feel that I had no options. I dictated my working hours. I didn't get a lot of help in making sure the job fitted those hours, but, unlike other mums I know, and a dad, I wasn't pushed and pushed and pushed when I returned from leave until the only option left was resignation. 

I choose to work. We would have to change where we live, and how we live, if I didn't want to work, but we could do it. My husband wants me to work; my husband pulls his weight. 

These last few weeks have juggled conference calls around ear infections, mild chicken pox and suspected scarlet fever. I've wondered what on earth I was doing with my life; whether this is balance, whether this is sustainable, whether this is right. I don't know the answer: but I know that if I want to change, I have the tools to change. 

Women fought, and died, to make sure I have the right to complain about having to work late at night. There's been a lot of love in my life that brought me to last Sunday morning, when the little man brought me to tears by saying "Mummy hero" when the big man taught him the word. 

It is tough, but the debt I owe to strangers and friends for allowing me to shape what my life looks like is bigger than anything I can ever repay. I didn't ask to have a home cooked meal thrown at me; but I did decide to sit in front of the lovely little man in the high chair. I didn't ask for the argumentative midnight email; but I did choose to sit in front of that screen. I am lucky. I am grateful. Motherhood and employment sometimes feel like chains; but I chose these chains and I wrapped them around myself. And on more and more days they don't feel like chains. They feel like cuddles and high fives. I am lucky. I am grateful.