A year to recover; to rediscover being a mother

And so my year of mothering draws to a close. I’ve delivered one child to school. The next, the eldest, starts his GCSEs tomorrow. The third, well, she’s uttered her first word (hair, if you must know, as she gleeful pulls handfuls with sticky paws from a head that has shed so many this last year it’s a wonder I’ve any left).

There have been downs (tiredness so aching I thought I might collapse, moods so bleak I wanted to; fears about something I did when pregnant and the proof of it, when it came in the form of a malformed tooth, nearly pushing me over the edge).

And ups. New friendships eclipsed old ones which had grown tired. My family- immediate, not extended, who for the greater part were rubbish – pulled together: Tom propping me up like a stalwart, Jonah pulling himself up by the bootstraps to become a truly wonderful sibling to his baby sister, and Ava likewise, who blooms in the company of any small creature to take care of). They rode out dark days with forgiveness, if not quite understanding. Nothing else quite matters in the presence of a baby that’s crying, or laughing for that matter. Everything else is just admin.

And my, there’s been a lot of that. It’s certainly given me little time for introspection when sleep (which now comes much easier) is at a premium. Things that once I cared about (my career, toxic friendships, my love life, my ambitions), paled into the middle distance as I concentrated in the here and now- the routine, the laundry, the bloody dishwasher.

Even holidays became a chore, with three to pack for, the clean up after, feed, nag, entertain. But somehow all was done, and after two false starts (by which I mean holidays that I could have, in hindsight, done without) we ended up having a summer worth remembering, for all it will take months to shed the excess pounds. Food, it seems, is one’s friend when you are thwarted in every other aspect of your ambition.

And it will be our last- my eldest charging off into a life of his own, the middle one more content in her own head than in anyone’s company, and the little one in the charge of a competent childminder, I am back to work. I can’t much say I’ve missed it. But now, with my wallet feeling the strain of a long unpaid summer and my back that of a pre-walking toddler, I’m grateful to have a job to go to, one that has accommodated the the opportunity to pursue my writing ambitions and the flexibility to juggle the demands of family life which I’ve finally found, over the course of this year, to be as fulfilling as I have challenging.