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.