slightly perturbed but has the good grace to blush.
‘So did you work then, before you had children?’ she asks tentatively, not really wanting to know the answer. And there is a part of me that wants to lie, to tell her that she will have different choices and that everything will be easier.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And then I tried part-time after Sam was born but because Tom was working unpredictable hours I had to find a nanny who was prepared to stay until midnight. Then I got pregnant with Joe.’
‘Were you doing shift work?’ she asks.
‘Something like that,’ I reply, picking bits of pasta out of the sink.
‘What exactly did it involve?’ she persists.
‘I was a producer on
Newsnight
,’ I say.
‘But that’s terrible, that you had to give all that up,’ she says.
‘When you have children, you are never truly free again,’ I say, ‘and that is both a terrible and a wonderful thing. At first, it felt as though the role I had prepared for my entire life had been taken from me, just as the curtain went up and I discovered that far from being the lead part, I was fourth spear bearer. But it was terrible never really seeing Sam. It’s funny, if the thought of time with your children fills you with dread, it is probably a sign that you are seeing too much of them, and if you wake up early on a Saturday morning and get up to pack in a trip to the zoo, a museum and make pancakes for breakfast, you undoubtedly aren’t getting enough time with them.’
‘But surely there must be a happy medium.’
‘Well, a really rich husband helps because then you can buy your way out of a lot of the more tedious tasks,’ I joke. ‘But then you never see him. And there are some jobs that are more compatible with motherhood. Or you could find yourself a house husband.’
‘I think that I will try and have children when I am young and then build a career after that,’ she says thoughtfully.
‘I think that sounds a great idea,’ I lie because there is no point in trying to explain the incompatibility of motherhoodwith all that has preceded it. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry about any of this at the moment, just enjoy yourself. What did your mother do?’
‘She’s a corporate lawyer,’ Polly says. ‘We joke that she’s a mole because we’ve never seen her in daylight hours. I know that I never want that.’
I hear shouting and run upstairs to investigate. Fred is out of bed again and the two elder boys are in the middle of a favourite new game, inspired by an episode of
ER
that Sam watched with us a few months ago. It involves carrying out operations on each other, each more grotesque and bloody than the last. This time it is Fred’s turn to be pinned down on the floor. They have taken tomato ketchup from the kitchen to simulate blood and it is all over the duvet cover. It warrants a row, but the prospect is too exhausting, so I simply pick up the ketchup and give Sam, who as the eldest should show more responsibility, a look that I hope conveys a number of emotions including disappointment, rage and exasperation.
‘We’re doing a brain transplant, Mum,’ says Sam.
‘It’s so he remembers how to count to twenty,’ says Joe.
‘Do you want one too, Mum?’ asks Sam.
I go into our bedroom searching for Tom, catching sight of a lopsided curtain that Fred pulled down during hide-and-seek, to reveal a stain from where the gutter overflowed last year.
The whole house needs painting, I think to myself. But, like the dream of a toy cupboard filled with identical plastic boxes with names stuck on the side to indicate where things will be located, painting the house is not a first-division priority. Then I start to wonder just what is. Finding a new cleaning lady, perhaps? Sorting out Sam’s birthday party, for sure? Having sexwith Tom, definitely? Resolving my ongoing crisis, absolutely?
One thing beyond question is that uncertainty is a breeding ground for more uncertainty. I attempt to chart
‘So did you work then, before you had children?’ she asks tentatively, not really wanting to know the answer. And there is a part of me that wants to lie, to tell her that she will have different choices and that everything will be easier.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And then I tried part-time after Sam was born but because Tom was working unpredictable hours I had to find a nanny who was prepared to stay until midnight. Then I got pregnant with Joe.’
‘Were you doing shift work?’ she asks.
‘Something like that,’ I reply, picking bits of pasta out of the sink.
‘What exactly did it involve?’ she persists.
‘I was a producer on
Newsnight
,’ I say.
‘But that’s terrible, that you had to give all that up,’ she says.
‘When you have children, you are never truly free again,’ I say, ‘and that is both a terrible and a wonderful thing. At first, it felt as though the role I had prepared for my entire life had been taken from me, just as the curtain went up and I discovered that far from being the lead part, I was fourth spear bearer. But it was terrible never really seeing Sam. It’s funny, if the thought of time with your children fills you with dread, it is probably a sign that you are seeing too much of them, and if you wake up early on a Saturday morning and get up to pack in a trip to the zoo, a museum and make pancakes for breakfast, you undoubtedly aren’t getting enough time with them.’
‘But surely there must be a happy medium.’
‘Well, a really rich husband helps because then you can buy your way out of a lot of the more tedious tasks,’ I joke. ‘But then you never see him. And there are some jobs that are more compatible with motherhood. Or you could find yourself a house husband.’
‘I think that I will try and have children when I am young and then build a career after that,’ she says thoughtfully.
‘I think that sounds a great idea,’ I lie because there is no point in trying to explain the incompatibility of motherhoodwith all that has preceded it. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry about any of this at the moment, just enjoy yourself. What did your mother do?’
‘She’s a corporate lawyer,’ Polly says. ‘We joke that she’s a mole because we’ve never seen her in daylight hours. I know that I never want that.’
I hear shouting and run upstairs to investigate. Fred is out of bed again and the two elder boys are in the middle of a favourite new game, inspired by an episode of
ER
that Sam watched with us a few months ago. It involves carrying out operations on each other, each more grotesque and bloody than the last. This time it is Fred’s turn to be pinned down on the floor. They have taken tomato ketchup from the kitchen to simulate blood and it is all over the duvet cover. It warrants a row, but the prospect is too exhausting, so I simply pick up the ketchup and give Sam, who as the eldest should show more responsibility, a look that I hope conveys a number of emotions including disappointment, rage and exasperation.
‘We’re doing a brain transplant, Mum,’ says Sam.
‘It’s so he remembers how to count to twenty,’ says Joe.
‘Do you want one too, Mum?’ asks Sam.
I go into our bedroom searching for Tom, catching sight of a lopsided curtain that Fred pulled down during hide-and-seek, to reveal a stain from where the gutter overflowed last year.
The whole house needs painting, I think to myself. But, like the dream of a toy cupboard filled with identical plastic boxes with names stuck on the side to indicate where things will be located, painting the house is not a first-division priority. Then I start to wonder just what is. Finding a new cleaning lady, perhaps? Sorting out Sam’s birthday party, for sure? Having sexwith Tom, definitely? Resolving my ongoing crisis, absolutely?
One thing beyond question is that uncertainty is a breeding ground for more uncertainty. I attempt to chart
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