Loss and Gain

As I stand on the very first metaphorical paver of this whole new decade I can't help but look back on the path that curls out behind me back to the start of this era. The 20 teens. On first glance, it looks like, and often felt like, a decade of loss.

This was the decade that I walked away from my career because it made no sense to go back. The decade that mum died. The decade that my body lost its shape as it puffed into an uncomfortable version of tweedle dee to make two babies and feed them for more than their first year of life apiece. Or more aptly, I probably mean tweedle dum, my brain didn't fare well either throughout this time.

In the last ten years, I have lost my financial independence, my identity and, at points, my marbles.

With the babies came terrible clothes that reflected me precisely not at all; but did allow easy access to my gargantuan boobs for feeding.

Terrible sleep that saw me unable to function well and morph into some kind of hyper-stressed coffee addict finding fault with everything, particularly myself.

Terrible daytime activities that condemned me to dealing with actual human poo and vomit and only venturing out to places that had sticky carpet and were sufficiently trashed to care not at all that the adults frequenting them had small hommus covered demons with no control of their physical or verbal outpourings in tow.

With grief came terrible isolation. The day my mum died and how I feel on that rather macabre subject, being neither a fun, nor in many circles, especially acceptable conversation.

Terrible fear, about what the hell I was supposed to do now the person that I loved most and knew me best was no longer around to help me with all the things.

Terrible guilt about all the stuff I could have, should have and didn't say to her or ask her about. I just, honestly thought we'd have more time.

With my final teaching contact, came terrible anxiety about money. Specifically how the hell I'd now manage to pay for all the clothes and nappies the small people required, let alone the cute Pintrest stuff I felt their nurseries needed. A feeling that was compounded by the decision for Sean to quit his job and spend 4.5 unpaid years at UQ studying medicine.

Terrible self-doubt that had me wondering if I was making a stupid choice. Because, it had turned out that I was a bloody good teacher - despite the fact that I'd applied for the PGCE course purely because I'd get paid for it and was miffed that while there was A LOT of money in Business Banking at Barclays, very little of it was making its way into my own bank account. Plus, maybe I'd kinda miss it and it really was what I was supposed to be...

Terrible loneliness as I realised that I was swapping days surrounded by 30 highly verbal, strongly opinionated nutbags for just a couple who were capable only of noise. And while they certainly had strong opinions too, not only were these about events and activities that I had little interest in - like milk temperature and intestinal gasses - more than half the time, I'd have to not only interpret these terribly expressed opinions, but was expected by both my mini tyrants and society at large to then actually resolve the issue.

It was also the decade in which I lost my freedom. No job, meant no money. No money meant no lunches out, no shopping for clothes, no travel, no fancy pedicures, no redecorating, no movies, no posh wine. Or at least, none of the above without serious planning and a large side of guilt.

I became, between 2010 and 2020, someone who was largely unrecognisable, even to myself.

With two kids under 4 I had very little inclination to travel anywhere that didn't offer soft play and grated cheese sandwich & popper packs for lunch. Which was hugely restricting, even if it was entirely self inflicted, and not at all like the person I knew myself to be. The one who arrived at 2am in Dalaman military airport entirely alone and with no firm onward plans beyond 'adventure'.

Eating out, my second favourite pastime of old after travel, was also a no-go zone of my own making for much of the last decade. On the rare occasions we budgeted to and actually bothered, we were reminded of the reasons we didn't. If you haven't eaten out with a 2yo and a 5yo or smaller of late, let me helpfully remind you and save you some torture...

Reasons to not eat out with small people include (but are not limited to): One child will always need the longest poo ever as soon as any food arrives, thus you will only eat cold food you no longer much feel like eating; There will be arguments about not only what food is presented (yes, the food they have selected they will no longer, 11 minutes later, like) but where said food should be consumed (I don't know why they want to all go under the table in the kind of places that even allow kids, but mark my words, they do and they'll be sticky when you get them out) and what orifices said food should go into (we've all heard of the kid at A&E with a Cheezel lodged in his nostril); And finally, the general child muppetry resulting from being somewhere new will always mean it is easier as the adults to eat in shifts, thus allowing the most hyper child to roam supervised in a divide and conquer move. Overall a better option, than to try and contain two kids in chairs.

None of these things, clearly, are conducive to an enjoyable meal out, so a(nother) self imposed blanket ban seems to have resulted over here.

On the flip-side, entirely oxymoronically for someone lamenting their loss of freedoms as a new mother, I also felt totally lost in the world for a huge chunk of the last decade, having lost my own mum. As Simon Armitage revealed to all those GCSE students I taught back in the UK, those who are our caregivers are, for a lifetime, our anchors. The ones clutching at the string of our kites as we learn to fly. Without that, without mum, freedom wasn't the same thing. It was scarier and bigger and all of it was my own responsibility because now, I was resolutely the grown up. I was the mum. I was the safety net and the voice of reason. The one carrying the tissues and the plasters.

But, with all the loss over the last ten years, came space. Yes, sometimes, lonely or crazy space, but space nonetheless. Which from the universe's perspective allows for 'more'.

And into that space, has come a quieter and different version of myself who is stronger and truer and braver than before.

Even in the gap where the baby between Abe and Bette decided s/he didn't fit, there was gain within the loss too. A deeper understanding of others who had experienced miscarriage, a different appreciation of the children I do have.

And while not necessarily a happy decade on the whole, everything that it has thrown my way has led to a kind of growth. And that is what perhaps, more than loss or gain, defines my last decade.

Between 2010 and 2020, I have grown. I have gone from a fun-loving, financially sound, career focussed person to a confused and poor and frightened and angry mother, to a crazy combination of the two. Someone solid in the knowledge than I can do pretty much fucking anything because I can not only loose my shit if need be, I can find it or clean it up too. Because I am the boss of the tissues and the plasters.

I am the fittest I have ever been and the surest in who I am. I am the most truthful and the most unselfconscious. I am digging deeper into what makes me, me. I am setting real challenges for myself that actually feel important because they way in which I navigate them matters now not only to myself but also to the little people who are watching from behind my skirt they've wiped snot on.

I am more than ready to use all that to take the twenties by the balls and grow in a way I never would have been able to in my own twenties.

So here's to the next decade and all that it gives, takes and teaches...

#Family #Choices #Motherhood #Society #Change #journey #Growth