Postcards From Pramstead

Somewhere in north London, an architect sterilises bottles while a baby cries in its basket and a toddler rams a toy car repeatedly into her ankle; in the Kent countryside, a senior accountant is engaged in a lengthy negotiation with her daughter about when she has to turn off the TV and do something more productive; in Manchester, a doctor is under the dining table picking Cheerios off the floor; and in York, a senior lawyer is trying to write a blog post, do the washing, have a shower and tidy up, all before the baby wakes up from her nap. That’s me, and these are my friends. These are our lives.

Sometimes, when I’m losing a fifteen minute argument with the boy about which socks he should wear today, or as I’m putting the baby’s shoes back on for the umpteenth time, I do wonder. I wonder why I bothered doing a four-year degree followed by an ulcer-inducing law conversion. I wonder why I gritted my teeth through several years’ hard graft at a City law firm, enduring unreasonable outbursts from the partners and everyday sexism, and being expected to look grateful for having to work through the night. In hindsight, I guess this experience of working all hours was some sort of preparation for motherhood (at least I was getting paid for the inconvenience, though, and there was usually champagne at the end of it). But that’s the only transferable skill I can think of.

The selection process for motherhood is pretty straightforward really. No fiddly forms to fill in, no assessment centres, no panel interview. Conceived? You’re in! There’s no getting away from the fact that my qualifications are pretty irrelevant when it comes to bringing up my children. I worked bloody hard to get them, though, and I would rather like to use them again sometime. But at the moment I can’t think when, or how, that’s going to happen. And many of my friends are in exactly the same situation.

It’s the usual story – stop me if you’ve heard it before. After my first baby was born, I went back to work. It was a huge wrench to leave my ten-month-old in nursery, unable to walk or shout after me, ‘Mummy, you cow, pick me up right now and take me home’. It never crossed my mind not to go back to my job. We could manage the nursery fees and there was just enough left over to make it worth doing. I negotiated a four-day week which took the edge off my maternal guilt.

Once I got into the swing of it, I quite enjoyed being a working mum. My job was fun; I liked what I did and who I worked with. There were times when it was stressful, of course. In the first few months, it felt as though I was getting a call from nursery every second day to ask me to come and pick the boy up because they thought he was unwell. I hated having to go to my boss and ask her if I could leave early (although she was very sympathetic), and was resentful at having to make an hour-long trip to nursery only to find that he was perfectly well. Fitting in the cooking and general house admin was a struggle, but it worked well. For a few days a week I felt like a fully-fledged, yoghurt-stain-free professional. And then I became pregnant again and, a month before the baby was due, was made redundant.

It’s now coming up to my baby’s first birthday and I’ve started to think about work again. I’ve been pretty relaxed about it up until now, prioritising the children. I realise that I’m lucky to have had the option. These years go fast – I only need to look at my first baby to realise that – and I don’t want to miss them. Nothing is as precious as those smiles, those first steps, the look of astonishment on their faces as they discover something new they can do. And yet I’m not sure I’m cut out to be at home all the time.

Perhaps if it was just looking after the children I’d feel differently. It’s not them I tire of, it’s the relentless cooking, shopping, tidying and cleaning. There’s no sense of progress with any of the domestic stuff. I tidy all the toys away, and five minutes later they’ve been scattered to the four corners of the living room again; I sort out the dining room, only for it to be coated in grated cheese and Weetabix before the day is out; I wash the baby’s hair and within the hour it’s been conditioned with mashed banana. If I was still working, it would be like spending the morning writing a contract, only for someone to come along and delete it during my lunch hour. I’d spend the afternoon re-writing it, only for someone to delete it again while I go to make a cup of tea.

So I’d like to work but, like my friends, I need to do something that will fit with family life. We’re all desperate to do something to prevent a CBeebies-induced fog from settling permanently inside our heads, but what? Most of us can’t really go back to what we were doing before unless we get full-on full-time childcare. At that point, the cost – both financial and emotional – seems too high. We need something flexible, or it just won’t work. The practical stuff – who will drop off and pick the children up from nursery? What if they’re ill? When will we have time to cook or wash or see each other? – conspires against lots of us going back full time. And yet flexible roles are few and far between. So we muddle on, muttering something about ‘when they’re at school I’ll look for something’, forgetting that school hours are even worse than nursery. And then there’s the holidays. No wonder so many women are trying to forge a career for themselves from home, desperately trying to write that novel/monetise that blog/sell that product idea.

Something’s got to give. It makes me really angry that a whole generation of smart women are being forced to make choices that they aren’t necessarily happy with. Most of us are choosing between working full-time or being at home full-time, when I’m sure that many of us would welcome something in between. But until we find that dream role, it’s back under the table to search for Shreddies.