Επιλέγοντας μεταξύ οικογένειας και καριέρας

Mummy, I don’t recognise you any more,» my daughter said, as we walked home from afterschool childcare one Friday evening. It was a simple statement of fact by a seven-year-old who was seeing her mother less and less. We giggled, agreed that was silly and tried to clasp our hands together but failed because of my stupid suitcase. I thought grimly of the pride I had felt when I bought it – the businesswoman required to travel for work. Now, how I hated the sound of those wheels following me everywhere.

I had arrived full of pride at making it to pick up Bella from childcare for the first time in months. I got there a couple of minutes before it closed, daydreaming of applause at my achievement. Instead, I had to avoid the staff’s pitying looks as I took in the fact that the room was empty and Bella was the last child there. «Oh, I haven’t seen you for a long time,» said the manager. «It’s usually Daddy these days, isn’t it?»

Once home with my husband, Dave – Bella tucked up in bed – I started to cry. It was my new Friday night routine, just worse this time. I wanted us to be the perfect family, the perfect parents and, in particular, I wanted to be the perfect mother. As weekends were the only time we had together, I really put the pressure on during those two days. So I destroyed my second daydream of the day – a romantic meal together with wine and a film. Dave and I were both exhausted from our jobs, but it didn’t stop me.

«We need to spend more time as a family, rather than you playing rugby all Saturday,» I began. «Bella needs to have fun with both her parents, so when are we going to squeeze in going to the park? And I need ‘me time’ to have a run or read a paper.»

The whining was replaced by my long list of all our failings and how we needed to fix them that same weekend. Nothing we did seemed good enough. My husband no longer seemed good enough. I didn’t seem good enough as a mother, and I knew I was being a rubbish wife.

As usual, Dave tried to reason, but eventually gave up, slammed the door, and went off to smoke three cigarettes, one after the other. I joined him, glass of wine in hand, and we hugged. Saturday turned out to be relaxing and calm, probably because we didn’t do anything I had planned. On Sunday, we went for lunch at a close friend’s house but I monopolised the conversation. My friend and I often take turns losing it, crying and babbling. That Sunday, it was my turn – but I was taking my turn far too often these days. At home, I repacked my barely touched suitcase and Dave and I fell into bed as soon as Bella’s lights were out.

The following morning, I felt different as we rushed out of the house at 6am, crossing paths with Bella’s nanny, Anna, who looked after her between 6am and 8am and took her to a preschool breakfast club. (Bella was being looked after by three sets of people before and after school to enable us to work.) That day, I didn’t just feel tiredness or shame over my behaviour on Friday night, I felt anger. Anger at being made to fail at the one thing I wanted to do perfectly. I ran back into the house. Anna told me off for waking up Bella, but I needed to see her look at me and sink into the hug and kiss before another week away.

I had always wanted children. I remember making people laugh when I was Bella’s age, saying that I would have six children and six dogs and live in a big farm with a barn for each. I’d had plenty of time to dream up the kind of mother I would become. I wanted to be there for my child, just like my own mother, who had always been there when we came home from school. But Dave and I also wanted to do it our way. I modelled my own maternal aspirations around the stereotypical American sitcom mum. I would disregard British dry humour and stiff upper-lip, and, instead, horrify my family with hugs, kisses and constant «I love yous». We would have a bond that meant my daughter would talk to me if she were being bullied and, later, would ask me about contraception and drugs. But how could that bond be built if I wasn’t there?

I sat on the 6.58am train, ready to rebel. I was not going to prepare for my presentations, nor the week ahead. I was going to write about how I believed it was impossible to be a good mother and a career woman at the same time. My mother was an active feminist. I had studied her copy of The Female Eunuch at university. But what for? I tapped away on my phone at breakneck speed. I didn’t even want to pause to pull out my laptop. The world had made me believe that, because I had a few brain cells, I could be Kate Adie and also have six children. Hard work and ambition had enabled me to skip through my early adult life. In my 20s, I schmoozed in the dotcom boom in San Francisco, served caviar and champagne care of the venture capitalists. I held a series of great jobs in great companies and also took a break to be a lifeguard and scuba-dive in Australia. Nothing could stop me. That is, until I got married and had a child.

I had finally achieved what I had always wanted – a family. And the first couple of years after Bella’s birth in Sydney were easier. I stayed at home for the first year and we lived frugally on rice and lentils. Then I worked part-time. In Australia, everyone seemed to agree that family came first, and it was fine to start at 7am and leave at 3pm. But back in London, I found it harder and harder to be the mother I wanted to be. The jigsaw puzzle I had built of my life was falling apart. My beliefs of what it was to be a good mother were being smashed, although I wasn’t sure if it was my beliefs that were at fault or my own ability.

I peered at the other women on the train. Their makeup and hair was perfect, they were on conference calls and it wasn’t even 8am. I felt as if society were telling me I had to try to be the perfect worker Monday to Friday, the perfect mother every weekend, and toned, healthy woman all year round. Oh, and, of course, wife, friend, sibling and daughter.

At work, over lunch, I watched my colleague eat his baked potato, bacon and chips, and worried about what Bella was having for lunch and, actually, for dinner. I realised I didn’t know what she was eating for any meal that week, nor did I have any idea how she was coping with her homework. It was at that point that I decided to resign.

Dave and I had made a conscious decision to have a child and we had always wanted to be the ones raising her. We talked about my decision. Financially, it was not a good move (Dave’s pay just covers our rent and bills), but he knew that, emotionally, it was important for our family.

I held off for a few weeks to coincide with my daughter’s last day of term, and then shocked my boss with the news. I stepped into the meeting room with a big smile. «What’s the news,» he asked. He had apparently nicknamed me «the uber-professional» and was expecting me to celebrate a win at work. I said, beaming: «I’m handing in my resignation.»

That final Friday, when I handed over my laptop and phone, and met Bella at school was one of the happiest days in my life. No cobbling childcare together during the holidays. We had seven weeks together, three of them camping with her daddy, our best family holiday in a long time.

Funnily enough, I realise now that my mother wasn’t the perfect feminist mother either. Although a successful historian, she also gave up her career to have children and look after them. And that meant stepping back at a point when she was far more successful than my father. While we have never discussed this, I think that she understands my choice – however irresponsible and unsustainable it is financially.

Now, all the angst and negativity have vanished. I feel happy, stable and strong because I took control of the problem in my life. But it also makes me uncomfortable writing all this because I am of the generation that takes equality for granted. So am I now in agreement with the sexist former colleague who always maintained that women belonged at home, and said «I told you so» when I resigned? No. What am I saying to all my female friends working outside the home? Am I saying they are bad mothers? No. I am saying that if I had stayed in my job and not changed anything, I think I would have been a bad mother.

I believe that women should have the choice, and I envy women who seem to be able to juggle it all – career, family and looking gorgeous at the same time. But I also believe that, just as with our body-image issues, we should stop pretending it is fine and dandy if it’s not, and stop trying to be superwomen at the expense of our families as well as our mental and physical health.

Now I know I will never be that perfect mother. And actually I don’t need to be. I’ve spent the past six months focusing on my family and I realise that my daughter is a very happy child, and was happy when I was working. But now she is happier, and so am I. All my crutches, such as cigarettes and wine, have gone, I can’t remember the last time I bought a takeaway coffee, and I haven’t bought a piece of clothing since I left my job.

I have a gentle part-time job while we put our family jigsaw puzzle back together. Our family is now the big piece in the middle and I am trying to slot my dream work around it. If I fail and the bank account gets too close to empty, I will humbly knock on doors, but at least I will have tried. But for now, Bella and my husband have me back.

Names have been changed

Πηγή: http://motherfirst.wordpress.com/