When my children were very small, I filled their days with endless activities in a bid to look ‘capable.’ In hindsight I wish I’d just stayed home and got to grips with my new role quietly – and snuggled them more while we watched TV.
I didn’t really know what to expect from maternity leave when I was pregnant for the first time. I didn’t give it much thought to be honest, because I worked until 39 weeks in a job where I was on my feet most of the day. A lot of the time I didn’t get the chance to have a break, or even consider the baby bulging in front of me making my job moderately more difficult to do.
I’ll break that down a bit. I gave birth in mid-December and was invited to a New Year party scheduled for two weeks later. I wouldn’t have gone, except the friend who organised it seemed to have a slew of friends who’d all given birth at a similar time, and there were going to be lots of other babies present. In her wisdom, my friend thought all the babies could be shut in a room upstairs to ‘sleep’ while we partied like it was 1999.
In reality the babies all needed constant attention and we all ended up in the room set up for the party, feeding/changing/exchanging birth horror stories while shushing our friend every time she attempted to put the music on loud. She looked horrified her party had turned into an antenatal support group. I suspect she was seriously regretting not just getting a ticket for the club in our city centre that throws awesome New year parties – and certainly doesn’t have babies in attendance.
“A chance encounter at a party and the struggle to adapt to not having a job for the time being meant I embarked on one of the worst decisions I ever made – trying to be the busiest of all busy mums.”
Anyhow, at one point during this non New Year party, a woman I vaguely knew looked at me and asked loudly “Have you been getting out and about? I couldn’t possibly stay at home, there’s so much to do. Everyone tells you it’s so difficult to get out in the first few weeks but it’s JUST SO EASY!” The room went fairly quiet and people were looking at me expecting an answer – and I hesitated.
No, I wasn’t getting ‘out and about,’ I was struggling to brush my hair and remember my own name. I’d barely made it to the party in clean clothes, while she looked like she’d come straight from the hairdressers and beauty salon, followed by personal shopper who’d picked out the ultimate outfit. She made me feel even more ‘less than’, and of course I went and said ‘yes, of course we’re out and about! All the time!’ while my husband shoved me in the ribs. She was essentially Amanda from Motherland.
Back at home, I really was missing the structure of my job. Instead of riding it out and finding that in a few weeks, getting up to breastfeed and watch Netflix all day would become a daily joy, I decided I wanted to be ‘the party mum’ and be the capable person who had a brilliant and busy schedule for their baby. Other mums I bumped into kept talking about Party Mum too. “She’s a machine,” they’d say, “I don’t know how she does it.”
I wanted to be a machine. I wanted to be the mum everyone aspired to be. I’d never really felt like I’d been amazing at anything before, and being good at mumming was going to be my big break into finally feeling worthy. So I embarked on a ridiculous daily round of baby massage, baby yoga, baby sensory, music with mummy, baby cinema, buggy fit – anything I could find to keep me out of the house.
I found that my days were often organised similarly to a work day – I was out of the house early to a group and out all morning. Sometimes I’d go home for lunch, but often would meet friends out before going to an afternoon class. Then I’d often go for a walk and not go home until it was time for me to make dinner. I was absolutely exhausted.
“I wanted to be a machine. I wanted to be the mum everyone aspired to be – I’d never really felt like I’d been amazing at anything before.”
Fourteen months later I had another baby. Not only did I then feel an obligation to give him the same ‘schedule’ I’d given his brother, but my existing child was so used to being out all the time, he’d only sleep in the pushchair and didn’t seem to know how to play by himself. He was used to being entertained by the leader and other children at whichever groups we were at. That schedule with one baby was exhausting. With two babies, it was just one of the factors that resulted in my probably inevitable postnatal depression.
When my new baby was four months old, I became incapacitated by a postnatal depression that became a borderline total breakdown. While I recovered, my children had no other choice but to learn to have their naps in their respective sleep spaces. My older child had to adapt to only going on the occasional trip out when I could manage it. And I had an epiphany.
I felt nothing but regret for the way I went about trying to be the best mum. Instead of being kind to myself and adapting my routine to a slower and more unpredictable pace of life. Instead of taking throw away comments made at parties to heart, I should’ve just sat on the sofa, snuggled my babies and done as little or as much as I wanted to do.
Mums are depleted and deserve to surround themselves with cake and feed, read, watch TV, and gently bond with their babies. They need nice food and rest instead of the punishing schedule and concern about ‘getting my body back’ I subjected myself to. And now, at the ages of 10 and 11 my children barely want cuddles anymore – I regret those hours of baby hugs and staring at them I could’ve had.
Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about the best part of maternity leave. “All the TV,” was her immediate answer. She carried on, “I watched so many boxsets and ordered so many takeaways. I wish I could go back and do it again, and this time I’d watch Gossip Girl, Prison Break, and definitely Breaking Bad.” And I wish that for myself, too.
For more from me, find out why my midwife insisted I’d have baby name regret with my second baby, and my subsequent baby name mourning. You can also read about why you’d never find me following a parenting method and why I dislike them intently.
