Reinvention

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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.

Binary

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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.