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. 

Let it go

I'm spending the journey home from work today googling advice for tonight. "How to be patient when your child throws food at you". "How to keep smiling when your child throws the thermometer in the toilet." "Do the no smacking laws really apply if you've been "accidentally" pinched? Again."

I run to pick up the little man at the end of the day. He shrieks "Mummy!" and dives into my arms, holding up a car and singing at the top of his lungs. For a few, brief, moments, our 2 hours together are too short, and overflowing with promise. But the boy I pick up at 5 is not the same boy I take out of the cot on a Friday morning. He is tired. I am tired. He arches as I put him in the pram, crying out to walk home. But he walks into the street, or closing shops, or sits in puddles, so I force him into the pram in tears. He might be so gracious as to let me gather him up on my knee at home to watch Thomas; he won't eat anything I cook. His only giggle is when he throws yoghurt in my hair, or bath water on the floor. It's not all bad; those giggles make him sound like an evil mastermind disguised as a toddler, and when I laugh, he laughs. But it definitely isn't all good.

What's the answer from the googling? A lot of sites run Wednesday whines or winges. A lot of these come from 5pm to 7pm. It's called the witching hour. Be calm. Be patient. Pour a glass of wine and wait it out.

It always comes back to the most important lesson I've learnt about parenting so far: let it at all go. All expectations are of f-all importance. Just because I haven't seen him all day, doesn't mean the boy isn't going to be a monster. They are all monsters at that time. Most adults are a little bit monstrous before bed. The TV is fine, if it means I get cuddles and can make dinner. Abandon all guilt, all those who do bedtime. Shortening stories is fine, if it means I get through them without wanting to chew off my own arm in boredom (I know everybody loves The Gruffalo, but really, what is the fucking point of that story? Implausible lies stop you getting eaten? FFS). 

Parental sanity balances on picking battles, celebrating those beautiful moments of glory, and letting everything else slide. The train is pulling into the station now, and I'm working on changing my expectations. That moment when he first sees me, and his entire being is just a smile on legs, might be the only highlight of this evening. And, today at least, I will linger on that first cuddle, and remember that just one moment of glory in an evening has to be just fine. 

Dark mornings are still with us

I had forgotten how the world changes for the sleep deprived. Another chest infection for the little man, another run of unsettled nights for us. I sit on the tube in my own little bubble, hyper aware of my loud thoughts and the smallest movements of those around me. There's a middle aged lady opposite me with her eyes closed; a few minutes ago she was frowning at her coffee cup. It clearly let her down. The young and well presented man next to me pulled a tub out of a scruffy plastic bag and moisturised specific areas of his forehead. The big headphones everywhere are starting to freak me out, like the ear version of enormous bug eyes. 

Today will be fuelled by caffeine, worry and sneaked peaks at photos of the boy.