Stylish and super creative mum-of-two Nicole Young writes an honest but very funny piece on how she sometimes daydreams about not been a mum. This piece is honest and full of love. I resonate with what Nicole has written and I know you will too. Please share this great article with every mum out there.
Enjoy. Yvonne xxx
Okay, so as I’m new here, this is the part where you decide if we’re going to get along or not. I’m just going to put it out there that I often daydream about not being Mummy. Before I go on, I should tell you that I have two beautiful, healthy children. My son is eight, my daughter turns five next month and if I had to tick a box to categorise them, it’d be the one marked “good”, whatever that means. We suffered a loss along the way like so many others, but for the most part, the road to parenthood was pretty smooth for us. I am under no illusions as to how fortunate I have been in this regard.
Furthermore, I had no expectations about the type of mother I would be. And thank God for that. The term “winging it” could not be more appropriate here, so it’s not as though I’ve failed to meet an unrealistic version of myself. My only real hopes have ever been to raise children who are kind, brave, curious and loving, particularly towards each other. And I suppose I should throw polite in there for good measure.
This is also not a discussion about stay-at-home mothers (which I am, but more about that another time perhaps) or go-to-work mothers because actually those conversations slightly get my goat. We’re all mothers, aren’t we? And we’re all juggling far too many balls anyway, aren’t we? And as soon as you start talking about “this” or “that”, then a divide is created and we just don’t need that when we should be supporting each other’s choices, whatever they may be. But, I digress.
Recently, I have simply not enjoyed being Mummy. There, I said it. Now, unlike a position of actual employment, I cannot ask for a promotion or a transfer to the New York office or dare I say it, a discreet shuffle-about of my colleagues. There is one role, with an unwritten job description – and even if there were one, I’d have never signed it in consent if I’d had any idea – no complaints procedure, no morale-boosting bonuses and the only way to know if I’m doing alright is either that the folks at A&E haven’t seen us in a while or that we’ve all got clean clothes for tomorrow. Hip hip to me!
So I do, I sometimes daydream about the life I would have if I was not Mummy. I’m not saying I don’t want to be Mummy because that’s entirely different but hey, I still wouldn’t judge you if you said it. Just imagine it, though. The freedom, the spontaneity that we once had but didn’t know we had until we didn’t have it anymore! Lunch with the girls, followed by a mooch about the shops, because I’d have nothing else to do – what did that feel like anyway? – and I wouldn’t have to be home by 5pm for feeding hours.
I might willingly find myself hungover. I could go to the toilet, on my own. Pop over to Paris on le Eurostar for le weekend, because it’s there, and I could. I’d definitely be fitter, and I’m talking buns of steel from daily 6am Pilates sessions and I would willingly rise that early because I’d be ridiculously motivated. And that’s another thing isn’t it, I’d have disposable income, all to myself, to spend as I choose and I would not choose Shopkins, Wimpy Kid books or anything remotely to do with Minecraft. I might even be more intelligent due to all the high-brow novels I’d devour in earnest, the poetry I’d read and obviously then later recite with impressive results (because I’ve always wanted to be able to do that), the Sunday papers I’d actually read on a Sunday. And do I even have to mention sleep? Or sex? No. I didn’t think so.
Now, frivolous as that all sounds and whether any of it would actually be the case or not, I’m at the point where I need a break from my children. We’ve been spending far too much time with each other lately. Yes, I’m allowed to say that. And yes they’re both at school full-time, I get that. But I’d just like a day or two off. Properly off. To not hear “Mummy” shouted 468 times, and that’s just before dinner. There is no day off, no sick leave, and as much as I love weekends spent with my gorgeous gang, as Mummies, well we’re still all “on call” aren’t we?
We all know that the love we have for our children is unquestioned and knows no bounds, and I don’t think many of us would actually choose a life without them (although, again, no judgement here) but what I think is really important is that we, as women, are honest with ourselves and with each other about the relentlessness that comes with this gig. That we are not machines, that we do break occasionally, that we are still capable of having dreams and ambitions of our own, that actually there is more to us than being someone’s Mummy, whether you subscribe to the notion of it being the most important role in life or not. I, for one, have never felt that my children necessarily completed me, but I will say that being a mother has undoubtedly enriched my life in ways I cannot imagine, had I not had the privilege of having them.
But for all of that, they’re just daydreams. A moment of escape from all the crazy. Yesterday I told my children that I quit as their Mummy. They looked at me as though I was speaking Martian, laughed and resumed their game of Darth Vader vs Unicorn Sparkles. Can I just pause here and tell you that it was my daughter dressed as the former and my son as the latter… because that’s how we roll around here. But as I listened to them shout, squeal, argue and laugh, I fell head over heels back in love with them – not that I ever fell out of love, but you know what I mean. This is my place in life right now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I’ll continue indulging myself with my daydreams thank you very much. Oh, and what’s that? 3 weeks Easter holidays on the horizon? Pass me that light sabre!
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