Last year, she watched us bemused as we undid her presents and held up strange objects to her with wide eyes and big smiles. This year, she unceremoniously ripped them open herself, eager to find what was inside. Last year, she cautiously picked up her new toys, waved them round a bit, and then went and found something much more interesting to do, like playing with the pegs. This year, she got the toys out of the box, with a little help, and spent most of the morning playing with them.
So much has changed in a year.
Last year, she was on her feet, but still holding on to the furniture for balance as she inched her way round the room. This year, she jumped round the room in excitement, hands waving in the air like she just didn’t care. Last year, she was communicating with points and expressive grunts. This year, she tells us the very hungry caterpillar ate four strawberries, the teletubbies have dirty knees, and ‘mummy and daddy come on!’. Last year, she was yet to wean and still nursed three times a day. This year, she gobbles down pasta and swigs cows’ milk with all the gusto of a thirsty pirate.
So much has changed in a year.
Last year, I was was still on parental leave, alternating between wonder and boredom, feeling the days yawn before me with little I absolutely had to do. This year, I am back at work three days a week and am increasingly feeling like I don’t have enough time in the day, week and month to do all the things I need to do. Last year, I filled up some of those long hours with creative pursuits, like learning the guitar, writing stories, blogging, making elaborate birthday and Christmas decorations. This year, my most creative output is arranging tomatoes on top of the mac ‘n’ cheese, and I fit in the other things when I can. Last year, I began to feel weighed down by societal expectations of motherhood. This year, I have read, thought and written enough to realise how invisible the work of mothering can be, and how little value is placed on it.
So much has changed in a year.
These are just some of the changes the year from one to two in my baby’s life has brought us. I have to confess that I have enjoyed this year more than the first. While I cherished the first year I spent looking after my baby, it was too marked by physical pain and weakness, the total dependence of a helpless baby, the boredom and isolation of long days, the social invisibility made bearable by fragile alliances with other new mothers, and the financial dependence to be simply enjoyed. This year, as I said to a work colleague before I could stop myself on the second day back, ‘I feel like I’ve got my life back.’
Since I returned to work, I’ve been struck by the number of women who’ve confided a similar feeling to me, often prefaced by the confession ‘I wasn’t a natural mother.’ It’s as if we think we should feel permanently guilty for not only wanting the best for our children, but the best for ourselves too. By comparison, workplace performance appraisals seem a walk in the park.
In all honesty, I think both my baby and I have benefitted from having some time apart: she loves and trusts another adult to care for her and has made fast friends with the other children with whom she spends the day. She thrives in their company, has learnt all manner of new skills, and has few outward signs of distress at being separated from me (hmmm, maybe I should be worried about that?!) I appreciate the days I have her to myself more, and have picked up numerous ideas for activities and bits of advice from her carer. For me, I think returning to work has made me a better mother, and I hope, when she looks back, my baby thinks so too. I know she already enjoys looking through her daybook at the photos, paintings and collages she has done and telling me all about them.
I also acknowledge that what I feel is working for us at the moment, may not necessarily be the right things for another family in different circumstances. If I have learnt nothing else in the last two years, it is that it’s best to feel my way by trusting my instincts. These instincts are not so much innate, as things learnt so well in interactions between me and my baby that they become second nature.
And my baby?
She’s funny and bright, easygoing yet increasingly independent. She likes Thomas and Laa-laa, books, bikes and balls, macaroni and mess. She runs, jumps and climbs, sings, drums, and paints. Her hair is finally starting to grow in, in a mess of fine unruly curls. She has nearly collected a full set of teeth. She is as flexible as an experienced yogi, casually squatting and stretching with an ease we have long since lost. She likes to tip flour and dance, but not at the same time, mostly. She plays pretend birthday parties and offers us cake. She soaks up new experiences like a sponge, neurons firing, synapses connecting, her brain function increasing, it seems, by the day. She's excited each day about all the things there are for her to learn and do, yet she still needs a sleep in the middle of it all to make it through.
So much has changed this year.
I wonder what the next year will bring?
