So, am feeling somewhat of a failure. Managed six out of my eighteen months of ‘not working’ and being a stay-at-home mum – and am already considering a return to work (albeit temporarily). Sheesh. Does taking time with my offspring terrify me that much?!?! Am I that loathe to bake, craft, entertain, supervise, organise, join or commit for longer than one measly term? Will I don the working girl, ahem, woman attire and be lost once more in a flurry of endless emails, pointless meetings and late night deadlines?
It’s not that my beautiful, crazy, complex children are sending me screaming back to the relative safety of an office with my Starbuck’s clasped to my perfidious chest. Or that the pull of having people actually listen to me without the need for continual repetition or a sugary bribe is just too good to deny. It’s more the fear that I’ve gone too far into playdate overdrive, toddler group obsession, timetabled homework and oh so many committee meetings; thereby catalysing some sort of treacherous about-turn. Worst of all, it seems I’m hopelessly incapable of being two (proper, decent) things at once.
All of which begs the question – am I forever destined to fail at the one thing all chicks pride themselves on? That quality that we think gives us moral and practical superiority over mere men. The sword from the stone. The one ring to rule them all. Yes, I am talking about the Big ‘M’. I mean Multitasking. Or, to be more accurate, multiple role juggling.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually happen to think I’m great at changing a shitty nappy whilst reciting the top ten football stadiums (stadia) and making loom band iguanas at the same time. But if I try to combine that with the demands of a professional role, someone’s gonna get the wrong stinking end of the shitty nappy/frothy cappuccino combo.
Love it or hate it, I’m like a moth to the flame. Work. Paid work. Has its advantages. Just think of all the blimmin’ almond croissants I can peacefully cram in my face without having to hide in a cupboard to avoid sharing. And the meetings I can attend free from the fear of a toddler unleashing a fat stinker in the middle of item 3. Oh, and the days I can sashay lightly from the house with a single, perfectly-packed bag of relevant items for the job (none of which will have been retrieved from the dirty washing pile five minutes earlier and flattened underneath a child eating a bowl of chocolate biscuits for breakfast on the sofa).
Time will tell but I have a horrible suspicion that I am Binary Mum i.e. unable to reconcile the messy, loud, often calamitous seat-of-the-pants type of mothering I favour with my altogether calmer, endlessly patient (who knew?), efficient (that too), shit-free professional alter ego. In my more positive moments I admit to daydreaming how it might play out if I do, by some divine miracle, manage to combine Binary Mum with Shit Hot Professional Chick. Here’s how it goes…
At Work I would…
- allow, nay welcome, a free flow of noisy, odorous bodily functions during meetings
- withhold coffee/lunch/fag breaks until all outstanding actions have been completed
- impose iPad sanctions for those who spend too much time browsing jobs on LinkedIn
- offer rewards of sweeties for playing nicely with colleagues who are being arseholes
- get things done by simply repeating the same instruction again and again and again ad infinitum
At Home I will find myself…
- minuting the heated discussions about who gets the largest choc chip cookie from the tin
- performance managing the toddler during potty training with a three-strikes-or-you’re-out policy
- scheduling weekly progress meetings to review the ‘growing up’ process
- staying up all night to prepare a three-year strategy for getting to school on time, with breakfast
- raiding the sticker/glitter drawer for supplies to use at the office
Actually. Come to think of it, perhaps I’ve hit on something here. Call it happenstance. Call it a weirdly successful cross-pollination of all your worst fears and slummy strategies. Or, call it bollocks. But, think of it. The nippers will detest but be unable to resist the arrival of discipline in the house. Work colleagues will rile against yet respond to stricter (albeit childish) sanctions and policies. And stuff will get done. And I’ll no longer know nor care whether I’m multitasking, role juggling or simply being a fairly shit working mother.