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.