I feel like I want to start a blog, but I’m not sure exactly why. Perhaps I’d just like to start a conversation; have a chat. I know there are so many blogs out there. What would make mine different? Me, I suppose. There’s only one of me.
I recently read an article in the Guardian about mothers who regret becoming mothers: one of the final taboos.
The article quotes Sarah Fischer, who writes, “The reality of motherhood… is incontinence, boredom, weight gain, saggy breasts, depression, the end of romance, lack of sleep, dumbing down, career downturn, loss of sex drive, poverty, exhaustion and lack of fulfilment… [The father] fall[s] in love with an independent career woman who turns into a cook-clean-bake mummy; or suddenly only wants to talk about the children; or becomes depressive; or ignores you.” Whereas, she says, “when a mother is born, the person she used to be is left by the wayside”.
It hurt to read this. I adore being a mother and I absolutely do not regret it. But this does ring true. I was a successful lawyer in the City; now, my husband comes home from work and talks about his day and, when he finishes, I tell him about going to the playground or what my son said or when my daughter rolled over… One day I spoke to him for at least half an hour about an altercation I’d had with a woman who walked in front of me on the pavement and whom I accidentally clipped with my buggy. (I remain completely indignant. She shouted at me and, when I pointed out she had changed direction on the pavement and so walked into my path, she said “what do you think I should do, look behind me when I’m walking?” To which I said, “yes! If you’re changing paths!” Anyway. Let’s hope she doesn’t often drive on the motorway). I could hear how boring I was being. I couldn’t stop. I have nothing more to share. My days are sometimes tedious as I live them; they are almost always tedious in the retelling.
I don’t know how to explain how this isn’t a story of regret. I adore my children. I live for them. I take a hundred photos a day so I can look at them again when they’re sleeping. I share their photos on Instagram, mostly because my family are far away, but also because I want to shout their beauty and wonder to everyone. I am completely besotted.
But I am also pining for old me. I miss my independence. I don’t miss my job (and I especially don’t miss the politics), but I miss having something that was mine and that I was good at. I miss the prestige. I feel like a dick for admitting that but it’s true. Few people value the role of a stay at home mother. (I’m not sure *that* many value the role of a corporate tax lawyer either actually, but more do). People from what feels like a past life look at me oddly (or I think they do) because I’ve stopped working. I was once the woman described by Fischer – determined, independent, fierce and excellent at my job. What am I now? Why does “stay at home mum” not measure up? Is it because you can be a mother *and* those other things? I don’t know how to reclaim my value without sounding like I’m denigrating those who don’t stay at home. I don’t want to pit myself against anyone. But I want to be recognised. I want the world to see my worth.
Ooof. Maybe this was not where I planned to begin a blog. Perhaps this is a post for later on. I might start instead with my post-natal hair loss, my obsession with kids’ clothing (they are so much better dressed than me), the burgeoning of my new career (current status: stalled by new baby), my favourite things to do with my kiddies, my experience of home birthing or “extended” breastfeeding, my terrible attempts at cooking or how we manage with multiple food allergies, my current dilemma about my summer born boy and when he starts school, or my efforts to get fit again after two kids… I don’t know. Should I start a blog at all?
Looks like I have. Bear with me.