So, I’m heading back to work! Yes, I fell at the first hurdle. Got defeated by dreary common sense. Have been overpowered by, erm, I dunno; being a shit mother? I promised my children that I’d take a good 18 month break from being a fascist, evil-tempered corporate stress head. But I’ve only managed six and am stealing two of the twelve remaining to go finish some unfinished business (oh yes, and stroke my clearly faltering and maniacal ego). Shame on me!
In my defence, I’ve weighed up all the pros and cons (mostly over wine) and made my list of Habits Never To Fall Into Again. And I’ve set some ridiculous terms so that I’ll still be around as much as possible for the nippers. But I know I’m a shit. Not only to my children, but to the new ‘me’ I was becoming.
This shiny new version of my altogether more chilled me was just getting the hang of getting down with the parents in the park after school, baking lemon drizzle cakes for any given occasion and turning up for things (only *slightly* late) with my (clean) pants on the right way round. I was busy throwing myself into committee meetings, book club sessions (with wine – I mean, WINE, not beer, or tequila shots, and therefore without driving the ceramic bus at 1am whilst doling out calpol to unsettled children) and, I can scarce believe it myself, co-running a coffee morning, ahem, toddler group. My former passions were even making a comeback – like reading, and music and (perish the thought) hobbies. Omfg.
All of which has now been thrown to the wind as I prepare to prostitute my yummy mummy progress for filthy lucre, a desk free of sticky paw prints and a swivel chair that doesn’t contain a blissfully dizzy child whooping with delight as the mechanism groans with the youthful exertions of a three-year-old high on Cocopops.
So, the question is this: is it possible to have the best of both worlds? Or will I find myself microwaving frozen pizza and channelling Nicola Horlick on prozac within a fortnight? Am I to find myself forgoing the making of (moderately healthy) packed lunches and the ‘aiding’ of science projects in favour of polishing pointless presentations and preparing short-sighted vision statements until the early hours? Gawd, will my long-suffering children ever forgive the u-turn and the breaking of all my promises to be a stay-at-home mum, or – worse still – will they celebrate the ceasefire of evenings of draconian spelling tests and times tables practice, crossing their fingers and hoping to die that mummy is working late again (again)?
I tell myself it’s only a means to an end. And it’s only eight weeks. And all my plans for gluing, stitching, stirring, storytelling and being simply marvellous will remain unchanged. Our meals will continue to be home cooked (whether they like it or not), our homework (no, not a mistake – it’s most definitely ‘ours’ not ‘theirs’) handed in on time, our music practise assiduously completed (without tears) and every last parents’ evening, open afternoon, school performance, dress rehearsal rehearsal and fundraising effort attended and contributed to. But I know these things, these bright shiny new (for me) things can’t be maintained. Can they?
On the other hand, perhaps ‘me 2.0’ can simply be reprogrammed. Using my fledgling supermum skills to beat my ingrained career fetishism into touch. Perhaps the new me just gets another fresh dimension. One that is enlightened by all that I’ve experienced in the last six months of mummy boot camp and has learned to say crazy alien things like, ‘no’ and ‘that will have to wait until next week’ and ‘you’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?’ One that effortlessly churns out a school newsletter whilst delivering a board presentation and whipping up a batch of fresh mayonnaise. Making space for the mutha of all Jekyll/Hyde co existences.
Who knows, I might even find some happy point of Nirvana where Starbuck’s figures comfortingly on both agendas. With almond croissants. And thus will I be able to have my cake and eat it.