Best of times, worst of times: On the avoidance of regret

I’m in a weird place. I’m perched atop a fence of indecision, unsure which way I’m going to land. It’s not a bad place, more a convenient resting point, where I can take stock, appreciate where I’ve come from, and work out where I’m heading. Half way between youth and age, the possibility of success dangling on the one hand, or going back to uni and starting over on the other, my children half-way through their childhood – should I go back and have another? I just don’t know. Something needs to give.

In January, I was approached by an old friend who happens to be a literary agent, asking me to put together a book proposal, which, becoming a published author a lifelong ambition of mine, I duly did. Currently with six publishers, I don’t know whether my big break may be around the corner, or perhaps, I just keep calm and carry on, and nothing changes, at least for now.

It’s a weird time for me professionally. I’ve finally, now my children are all but tweens, got to the stage where I can just about afford to go part-time. This is fab for the holidays, but it also offers a tantalising opportunity to go back and study something new, something I’ve long thought a slightly decadent pursuit given how likely it is to translate to material success (not very), which has in itself and for so long, been a necessary preoccupation.

It’s exciting, though daunting, to pile on extra pressure and work that I don’t *need* to do, at a steep cost to myself and others. In the meantime, I feel like I’m treading water, with life going so smoothly for once. Too smoothly. I’m getting itchy feet.

Boredom does me no good. I start to consider mischief, and what’s the point of that except to rock the boat. God knows Tom puts up with enough from me without doing anything to make him miserable. Better that I’m kept occupied with something constructive, and if it’s not getting published or making babies, or money, come to that, it might as well be writing essays. It’s not like I have to cook or clean (most of the time).

The problem with going back to uni is I’ll lose my perks – the weekly help who gives the place and my OCD a seeing to. The week in the sun, which has all too recently become a semi-annual reality. It feels too soon to give it all up for a selfish penury which might have negative fallout for everyone else in my family, and likely be no real use to me. In any case, I’m going to be even less use with my children’s homework if I have to cope with my own.

That’s always been the biggest argument against further procreation. The homework. God, it’s painful, teaching my daughter to read, patiently working my way through the reading levels, having managed to get one child reading avid by themselves. Not to mention making sure I give a good rendition of all my favourite books an nauseum in the hope that they might enjoy them too. Having got past The Famous Five and Roald Dahl with Ava, it’ll be all the tougher going back to Dear Zoo. I don’t know whether I can bear to put myself through it again.

For the first time since the kids were little, Tom dug out the videos of Jonah as a toddler, his smallness and cuteness has slipped out of my grasp, forever. As he lisped “more Jonah, more Jonah” talking to himself on the screen, my heart broke just a bit, partly because when that child had existed I’d found him such hard work and just longed for him to get a bit bigger and do more for himself. Now he does so much,I barely see him at all.

As I watched myself give birth to Ava, what was more potent than the memory of the pain was marvelling at how strong I was, how capable, calm, and glorious – in that moment a little part of me longed to do it all again.

As Jonah and I danced round the living on Saturday night, drunk on, sunshine, life and (me) red wine, while Reprobate Kate and Tom looked on in bemusement, I felt like every second leading up to that moment had been worth it. Though Sunday’s tired tantrum and my own pissed-off response forced me to re-evaluate all over again.

It’s okay to dither for a moment. I’ve spent the last ten years going hell-for-leather. I have time on my side to sit on the fence. I am still strong, still capable. If I want to, I can do it all. Now  I’m no longer feeling quite so crap as I have done of late. Now the GAPs is working its magic, and I’m feeling more energetic, and looking younger than I’ve felt in years, I feel like I’ve got a new lease of life.

So, I’m going to enjoy this pregnant pause while I make up my mind, like an aged Britney Spears, no longer a girl, not yet a decrepit hag. I’ll wait patiently to hear about the book, enjoy the summer with the kids and the holidays I’ve got planned. If I get in, I’ll plan to go back to uni part-time. And, if nothing more exciting comes to fruition, and I’m still just little old me in a year, I’ll have other avenues to pursue.

Even after all of that, it won’t be too late (I hope) to reconsider the other thing (the baby thing). Either way, I’ve no doubt there will short-term regret if I do, but if I don’t, the regret may be harder if I don’t will  to live with in the long run.