Why I’m glad I got parenthood out the way while I was young

There are lots of reasons why I’m glad motherhood happened to me early on, not least that my children, aged 9 and 6 are among my favourite people to spend time with in the world, and that’s not some schmaltzy sentimental claptrap either. I feel proud to have scored a winner in creating people I genuinely like and find entertaining (most of the time). That’s not to say they weren’t, however, immense pains in the backsides when they were younger. All small kids are tiresome, if you spend enough time with them. But now, aged just 34, my children give me all the great conversation over a glass of wine I could possibly want, even while only ever taking a tiny slurp themselves. They can stay up to watch documentaries we all enjoy, laugh at me when I have one too many, and know all the swears without me having to slip into parent mode and tell them off for using them. They’re growing up, and as long as they know not to use them in front of teachers and policeman, we’re pretty much all good on that front as far as I’m concerned. At least I don’t have to watch my godammed mouth all the time. (I’m joking). Hell I don’t even mind having their friends round these days, now they no longer Crayola my walls, they clear their own plates from the table and tell jokes that are actually quite funny, some of the time.

There are a lot of obvious reasons why being a younger parent can pay dividends later on – having more energy, finding it easier to engage with them (I’m not even embarrassed to admit we’re all big Taylor Swift fans in my household) and emerging from the process fairly intact – I don’t even pee when I cough any more. And I never empty a dishwasher on my own any more.

There were, of course, the tough bits too, like having to forge a career alongside raising smalls, having two toddlers in a fairly tiny apartment with four flights to the kitchen, and having to learn on the job how to say no and make the rules, which is hard when you’ve never been in charge of anything more complicated than a hen night before. But, if anything, being a young mum kept me fit and healthy (much less all night drinking, though plenty of all night feeding  – and I don’t fancy that much any more).  And being a mother made me much more capable of being kind to myself (I’m really good with never running a marathon, for example, and those choosing to work late at work for nothing seems down right discriminatory) while helping my children appreciate the value of things given how broke we were in the early days, not to mention my time, given freely while I was cheap, and less so as I got incrementally older and more expensive; by doing it  earlier, we were able to balance the tough times against the good when the kids are old enough to appreciate the difference.

Of course, we’ve got a lot more now thanks to bloody mindedness and sheer hard work, and now we’re not shelling out for nursery and childcare is down to the bare bones. I can even work three days a week during the summer and not feel like my days at home are a chore, as they would have been when the kids were younger; and I still feel like I’ve got more to give them and the wider world – and time enough to do it. My early sacrifices are paying off, and I feel like the kids too have reaped rewards from not having been given the world on a plate when they were smaller.

Economies of scale means it  would be easy enough to dive back in. After all, most of my peers are just about having baby number one. I can’t say there’s not the odd day when I feel a little pull to have a soft downy head in my lap, smelling of possibilities. In fact, I don’t know for sure I won’t go there again, for all the many good reasons not to. The urge to create rather than simply be is strong.

But perhaps that’s the biggest reason not to go back of them all. The act of child creation does feel like a process, a symbiotic art between you and the person you help create. They are a piece of work you’ll be adding finishing touches to for a long time to come, the ultimate work in progress you will never truly leave alone. But there is a lot of simply being to parenthood, and that is here I feel the strongest chafing against the rope that has held me grounded for the past decade (for it is around now ten years ago that I first found out that Jonah was on the way). It frightens me that the tether of their routines will uproot soon enough and I will be unleashed back to a world that I’ve largely absented myself from, in part through choice, but mainly through necessity. But in carving a life out alongside my children, rather than finding a place for them in a life already created, it’s been easier not to give myself up to them entirely, to stay a little bit selfish to save my sanity.

Childhood is about experiences, many of which you, as a parent, create for your child. But having done it already, I feel like a lot of these experiences are not ones I’d wish to repeat, for all the many I would. From potty training to teaching them to read or ride a bike, there’s a lot of admin involved in child rearing, hurdles to cross and battles to be won. I don’t doubt it gets easier each time, the learning curve of your baby’s idiosyncrasies gets shallower with each subsequent child. But it leaves so little time for anything else. And in repeating yourself, it must get also get harder too.

Children are fascinating and stultifying in equal measure. And I feel I need more than just what they can give me, for all they have given me purpose, and all the reason in the world to carry on. But I need to leave my mark on the world. It’s not enough for me to pass on these ephemeral memes and genes without leaving something more concrete behind, and I have so much more to offer the world than just my offspring. And it’s all very well saying it’s possible to do both in this day in age, but something always gives, and it tends to be my dreams I’d rather see crushed than my kids’. So for that reason, I feel glad that the best years of parenting are behind me, and the many years of friendship with my children can begin in earnest, with everyone’s dreams intact. Because I’m keen for them to feel proud of me, and not just anticipate feeling proud of them. So I’m willing to forfeit the stifling possibilities inherent in another potential child to make life happen for myself. And for all the patient hours I’ve expended on the children I have, I’ve earned the right to do something just for me – having sacrificed so much of myself already, the privilege won’t be wasted on me now, as it might have been before I knew how much raising children forces you to give up.