So I’ve been thinking about parenting a LOT over these past weeks, I mean, obviously, it’s all I’ve been doing. It’s just Chris and me doing 100 per cent of everything with the kids, the dog and the cat – and we are shocked at the constant stream of piss or shit coming out of at least one of them at any given time. I mean, what the HELL is happening? It’s almost tempting to not feed anyone for an entire day, just to get a break from it.
I never thought I’d be married with two kids, because I was happily on track to be a single cat lady who wrote books in bed. There is rarely a day that goes by that I am not stunned by the life I appear to be living, but the good news is, I like it very much and find being a mother and a wife a largely riveting experience. Well, that is how I felt before the schools shut and I found myself a full-time stay-at-home mum without much warning.
It’s important that I say at this point how much respect I have for full-time stay-at-home mums. One side effect of feminism that really breaks my heart, is how apologetic a lot of women feel they need to be for being just that. It is, quite simply, one of the hardest, most selfless jobs you can do. There is no ‘clock-in at nine, leave at five’. It’s an all-in, 24/7, every fucking day, SORRY, WHAT IS MY NAME AGAIN kind of job, and if there is any part of you that feels judgement towards a woman who is doing it, abandon those thoughts. Full-time mothers (parents, to be fair to the men who do it, of whom there are plenty) work harder than the rest of us. The point of feminism is to make sure that the women who don’t want to do it have an equal amount of opportunity as the men who don’t. It isn’t there to make stay-at-home mothers feel less than – and if you ever witness that, call it out.
I must add that being a working parent is no joke either. There are rarely breaks. You get home from work after a long day and you begin the ‘second shift’ of giving the kids dinner and putting them to bed. And when you have small children, there is no such thing as a relaxing weekend.
Before lockdown I had pretty much been on a work deadline for the previous eighteen months. I’d get to my desk at 9 a.m. and not leave until 4.45 to collect the kids (on my days), working much later on the days it wasn’t my turn. I’d be so caught up in it as my deadline approached that I’d barely look up to have a conversation. I’d go for turbo wees and eat lunch over my keyboard, to the point all the keys got stuck and I had to get another one. Two days a week Valentine would be downstairs in the day care that my workspace provided. I’d see him doing the music class on Wednesdays and feel awful that I wasn’t down there with him like the other mums, but my workload wouldn’t always allow it.
I’d dream of my writing being done, so I could take a few months off and just be at home with the kids. I craved it. Hoping that just one of my books would smash it out of the park, and that I’d make enough money to only have to write one a year and nothing else. Then I’d spend the rest of the time in a dreamy, homely bubble. Cooking amazing things and picking the kids up early. The reality was, I was in no position to take a few months off. If I stop working, I stop being paid, and it’s taken years and years of writing at this level to get paycheques that actually contribute to our family. So, this was to be my pattern: bursts of intensity with bursts of less intensity. I have friends (men and women) who do jobs where it’s high intensity all the time. We’d all talk about the dream of sabbaticals and breaks longer than a few weeks. We wanted month upon month of nothing but blissful family life.
Careful what you wish for. Hello, Mr Pandemic. (It’s definitely a man.)
Why were there suddenly so many hours in a day? Why do kids aged two and five show such enthusiasm for things they are bored of five minutes later? Why does fifteen minutes feel like two hours? Why is it that everything fun makes loads of mess that is no fun to tidy up? When lockdown began, we didn’t want Art to be sad and miss his friends, so we became his parents, teachers and best friends all in one. By the Friday of that first week, I had learned that the level of activity we were engaging in was completely unsustainable. I was not that woman, and as much as it pained me to admit it, I was not that mother.
It’s a harsh experience to be confronted with the kind of mother you are. Mainly, perhaps, because you are labelling yourself. But we do that, women, don’t we? We feel we have to fit into categories. The most prevalent categories that mothers are put into are ‘good’ or ‘bad’. ‘She’s such a good mum.’ Don’t tell me you haven’t said it about your friends. So, let’s work out which one I am, because on paper I kind of look OK. It’s just a shame I don’t exist only ‘on paper’.
Reasons I am a great mother:
Reasons I am a bad mother:
Now, I realise that my ‘bad mother’ list is a lot shorter. But in the circumstances of lockdown, I realised that being a good player, in particular, is crucial. I know it’s silly to buy into the perfect ‘smug mum’ scene on Instagram, but all I’d see were countless images of mums playing with their kids. Wild and adventurous games that they had invented, dens so extravagant a family of four could live in them, kids so happy they never wanted to see their friends again. And then there was me, out of ideas by Day 4, feeling like I didn’t have the energy to keep two boys entertained, watching how my husband could play and play and play when all I ever seemed to say was ‘in a minute’, ‘when I’ve done this …’, ‘after my wine is gone.’ I do really try, but I get so tired, and that makes me feel so guilty that I internalise it and end up getting all disappointed in myself, so I have to go off and have a big think about life in a cupboard.
I spend a lot of time in cupboards.
I am unnecessarily defensive about childcare. This is because I live in Hollywood and am married to an actor. The media has painted a certain picture of parenting when you are in that situation. Multiple nannies, PAs and housekeepers. In many cases, this is entirely accurate. But not in ours. Before I start, I shall acknowledge the help that we have had.
When Art was five months old, we found Mary. Mary Moo, as I called her, was like an angel from above. A few years younger than me, a glorious mix of Ethiopian and Canadian, loving, fun, a great cook, a great teacher and an absolute breeze to have around. Mary worked full-time for us (average day: nine to five, Monday to Friday). It was like I had a sister-wife; we were both passionate about food and books and all sorts of other lovely things. She was brilliant in a crisis; if she was babysitting at night and one of the kids was sick in their beds, by the time Chris and I got home everything would be washed and the child would be wrapped up on the sofa with a bowl on their lap, somehow smiling, not even asking for us, because Mary was as good as it gets.
When Art was around eighteen months, he started going to a little day care close to our house, and Mary went to work for a friend of mine. A few years later, when I’d had Valentine, she came back to us and we did almost the same thing all over again. Although Valentine, being the second child, started at day care a little earlier. Because, ya know, second child vibes.
Last year Mary moved back to Canada to have a baby of her own. She’d been working for another family here for a year previous to that, and picking our kids up from school on Tuesdays and Thursdays then working through so Chris and I could go out for dinner. But she was still in our lives and the kids adored her so much, as did we. Finding someone to replace Mary has been hard, and I do wonder if it could ever feel the same. Luckily (when the bloody schools are open) we don’t need a full-time person, so it’s all about finding the perfect regular babysitters now (of which we’ve always had some lovely ones). I’m so grateful that we had that experience with her though; those baby years are hard work, especially when both parents are working and you don’t have any family close by. To have someone you know your kids love in that way, makes everything a lot easier. And the way she loved them, urgh, it kills me that she left. There have also, of course, been other sitters and part-time help over the years, many of whom we love deeply. But Mary Moo, she was our Number One.
When I was pregnant with Art, I asked a friend here what advice she had for me, and her advice was ‘hire a night nurse’. Don’t get me wrong, I think night nurses sound amazing, but this made me cross. I wanted advice about how to hold my baby, feed my baby, get my baby to sleep. Not ‘get staff’. It’s not the advice I think people should give to expectant mothers. It doesn’t fill anyone with confidence, it doesn’t make them think they can do it. I tell any friends who are having babies, if they ask, to see how it goes, and then get all the help they feel they need when they need it. I give the same advice for the birth. See how it goes and get the epidural if you need it. I find all of this planning for worst-case scenarios really depressing. There is so much fear instilled into people about having kids. Birth will tear you apart and you’ll never sleep again. It’s true, both of those things might happen, and it could be really terrible and often is. But also, it might not be. Birth might be the best thing you ever did, you might even be able to jump on a trampoline afterwards (I can’t, but you might). And your baby might be a sleepy one, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about. Hope for the best and do what you need to do when and if you need it. That’s my advice, not that anyone asked.
Personally, when I have too much childcare, I start to feel like the nanny when it’s my turn to take care of them. It’s happened a few times when I’ve been on a really intense deadline and Mary and Chris have been doing the lion’s share. By the time Saturday morning comes, I’m all out of kilter with them and it’s really stressful. I think a lot of parents who work long hours would probably say the same thing. The less time you spend with your kids, the harder it can be to spend time with them. However, we both have to work, and that is exactly the shitty ‘guilt’ feeling that people talk about. I swore I’d never feel it when I got pregnant, but I do, I feel it all the time. When we got childcare, I felt guilty that they were in the house with her, while I sat in the office doing my job. IT IS SO STUPID. And it goes on … If for any reason it hasn’t been me who baths them and puts them to bed for say, three nights in a row, I feel awful. If I am not the one organising their meals, I feel guilty. If I have a busy work week and then there is something happening at the weekend which means I needed more help, I feel mean. I know Chris goes through exactly the same thing. His job can often take him away from home for long periods of time, him hopping back at the weekends. He parents harder than ever while he is home to make up for being away, but of course he feels guilty that he is away at all. But hard work affords us a life we all love. I know the kids won’t remember the times he is away, or the nights I have to work late, and they’ll just have the happiest memories of when we are at home. But still, guilty guilty guilty, all the bloody time.
People say parenting is hard and there are so many reasons why that is. The literal, physical effort that it takes to look after small children. The emotional effort of taking care of older ones. The lack of sleep. The financial pressure. The need to reach a compromise with your parenting partner, if there is one. The working, the socialising that you deserve but don’t get to do. Balancing it all can feel impossible at times. Guilt is just a part of it. Whether it’s about the kids, your relationship, or your friends that you never see and can’t be there for. Guilt. All the time. I’ve got so used to it being a part of my day. At some point, before I go to sleep, I will inevitably feel like total shit about something.
That was until lockdown happened. I don’t think I’ll feel guilty about going to work ever again. Also, I want childcare every weekend until they’re eighteen. And I want a night nurse – not for the kids, but for me. Because you know what, fuck it.
Things I know now that I didn’t know before lockdown: