this jar of pickles

It’s 8.56pm and I’ve just put the baby to sleep.

I am trying to unpick the jumble of thoughts in this brief half an hour where I feel mildly energised. 

We are six months in, almost too quickly. M is trying her hardest to stand, does a bum shuffle, and we are on to the exciting part of food adventures. She has a chill temperament, loves a social situation, but is also happy to hang back and watch the world. And like all parents of their own children – dare I say, that she is the best. 

But here’s the jumble, right? 

In this last six months, I have experienced this incredibly and increasingly expansive internal world in the fullness of love for this child; and yet in the day to day, my external world has shrunk so significantly. The rhythm of feed and sleep, play and walks, meals and dishes, trips to the grocer for a reason to get out of the house, and laundry cycle after laundry cycle after laundry cycle – is a whole lot of mundane. 

Within this rhythm there are, of course, intricate moments of watching this being reveal herself, and an indescribable intimacy and knowing of another person. What a glorious privilege that is!

But fuck, I am bored. 

I am hungry for ideas, for big conversations, for big brain stuff, for creative stimulation, for romance, for surprises, and to be, for a hot second, not needed. 

And then I feel bad for feeling like this. 

But fuck it, I am too tired anyway – for ideas, for big conversations, for big brain stuff, for creative stimulation, for romance, for surprises.

I have head space, but I cannot keep my eyes open. 

But oh, to be not needed. Oh wait, it’s time for a feed, again. 

And she looks up at me full of wonder and awe. And I feel so full, so vast, so rich. 

And I look back at eyes that are like mine, only lighter.

I love her. I love her so so so much. That vastness washes over me again.  And it feels like forever. 

The good kind.

And it feels like forever. Over and over. Never ending over and over.

And herein lies the jumble as I go round and round these feelings as I spend another day where my first adult conversation is with someone at the shops, and even then I struggle to find my words because there is a delayed connection between brain and mouth. 

Over and over.

–

In the duration of parental leave, it is a slippery shift from postpartum recovery to primary carer to stay at home mom.

I am acutely aware of the luxury of being able to take this time away from work as a result of decent policy and to be in a decent financial situation with a working partner.

But I have no desire to be a stay at home mom.

(paused for bed – cannot keep my eyes open any longer)

–

(resumed two evenings later between dinner and bath time where J has taken her for a walk and a catnap)

It’s a kind of loneliness. 

Where – I try to re-emerge into the world, to expand my days a little beyond this space of childcaring, and still – all I seem to (have to) talk about, is her. 

And it’s another kind of imposter syndrome – as I grapple with what it might mean to return to work. That surely – I am more interesting than that? Right? That I know what I am doing? That I am half decent at what I do? 

What is it I do again? 

–

We have started carving out half a day a week, and hopefully increasing that with the support of paid care – so I can ease back into focused time. I am not the first woman to have had to manage child care and returning to work, and many have had to return sooner than what I am doing now. So I know it is do-able. 

And we know it is hard. Now I know, it is truly hard.

The split focus. The mushy brain where I cannot find the words. The tired eyes from the brief screen time. The foggy memory of have I already done that? The list of things and the many false starts. And the need to attend to detail, attend to detail, attend to detail. 

I’m exhausted already and I don’t know what I have completed today. 

–

And round and round we go. 
Such is the rhythm of these times.

–

But here’s the pickle, right?

Underneath my sense of mundane, is a being whose growth is exponential. Every single day, for her, must be a whole explosion of time, of sensory experience after sensory experience. Nothing is mundane at all – how could it be?

What a cognitive dissonance this is for me. 

And whatever is going on with her – is so fucking interesting! How could it not be? 

–

All of this to say:

I am ready – at least in the head space – ready to return to work. No, wait – to practice.

There are logistics, external childcare, and scheduling with J to wrestle with.

But it feels do-able. 

Though I am thinking a lot about what accountability looks like? What sort of responsibilities feel right and fair to take on – for me, for my child, for my partner, for my collaborators and colleagues? And if so – what would the shape of a day, a week, a chunk of work look like? 

But I reckon I got lucky, I scored a good one. Dare I say, the best one.

Having done a couple of solo flights, and even a Vichealth Board planning day with M – this little chiller is pretty ready to be a part of this wrestling. She’s proven to be pretty fun to be around, and mobile to take around. (Check back in when she starts to crawl/walk though – which is not far off I reckon)

–

And for now, I’ll take the one half-day a week.
To retrain these cognitive muscles. 
And find another rhythm and a new pace. 

I’ll take her lead.

(completed two, or was it three nights later?)