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?