Mother Martyr. Mother Matters.
My kids went back to school and I have to figure out self-care without them.
The kids are back at school and the transition has been rocky, but I’ve found myself filling my cup almost as much as I fill theirs and it’s made me wonder if I’m transitioning into the next phase of motherhood.
This is how we got here.
The new year was running smoothly. We’d found a good rhythm despite the humidity-induced apathy of late summer: the house was scattered with artistic projects, books, matchbox cars, and other signifiers of joy, family meals were served around the 100-year-old Jarrah table, and we had settled into that sweet spot of connected time and separate space.
January 28th saw my youngest enter preschool, his first time in childcare, and my eldest transition up to Grade One.
Excitement buzzed as the first day approached; trying on new hats and shoes and practising packing bags. Big smiles and little hands waved us goodbye.
No tears were shed.
No calls received.
“Surely, it won’t be this easy.”
It wasn’t.
That afternoon was spent drying eyes, stroking heads and soothing overstimulated systems.
Whispers at bedtime:
“There were too many kids.”
“There were too many rules.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
Mothering in this season requires a hefty dose of emotional self-regulation, Lego building, and thinking ahead to what’s for dinner because a tired four-year-old has no time for faffing about in the kitchen.
As their vessel of emotional overflow, I’ve watched and felt deeply as our boys adapt to their new normal, where coping-in-the-moment results in utter unravelling once safely back at home.
It’s my job to hold their feelings without losing myself.
To be there for them but keep meeting my own needs.
This isn’t always easy.
Mothers walk a fine line between doing enough and being labelled a martyr in a way that I always found a bit murky.
Whereas a lawyer or Wall Street analyst can be praised for flogging themselves with work, a mother who trades herself for the needs of her young children is often frowned upon.
As if she has a great deal of choice.
We became parents 2,420 miles from our nearest relative. My husband would often travel for work and the circles we moved in at the time were mostly child-free.
In the four years that followed we moved four times, across two countries, had a second baby in the pandemic, and bought an old house on the internet.
There wasn’t stability or community or sometimes even another adult to outsource things when parenting got tough.
When knees were scraped or the dark became scary or a friend was unkind, I was their homing beacon.
What magic that is.
But since becoming a parent I’ve also felt like a second-class adult. I was the one who gave up work, who said “no” to social outings, who could remember the names of 150 Pokemon but not the dates of the American Civil War.
And it’s taken both our kids being out of the house for a few hours, a few days a week, and their ensuing desperation to do things together once they’re home, to cement what I’ve always known:
It was never me sacrificing for them, but them reminding me of who I was.
Having children at home allowed me to spend my days in the happiest of ways, deep in nature, movement, creativity and marvelling at the contentment of the home economy.
It wasn’t about me, but it was for me.
Since that first week back at school, I’ve been analysing how to do this new season.
How do I live in fractured segments?
At first, I tried to lean into adulting by dressing “properly” and sitting at my computer to work for five straight hours but that made me feel more disconnected from myself than ever.
It also showed me how little time there is for the average adult to meet the needs of work, wellness and connection.
The school day is short and, at least at this stage, the after-school emotional demands are high, so I needed to figure out how to best function without relying on carer-induced-adrenalin.
I started by replacing the silk shirt with my favourite outfit – a pair of loose denim shorts from a swap meet paired with a five-year-old t-shirt.
By getting up at 5:30 am and taking a walk in the cool morning air.
By leaving my watercolour palette open for nightly flower doodles and having novels scattered around for pockets of reading.
By organising walks or dinner dates with female friends as my social life relied on play dates that are now postponed.
By communicating with my husband that as I’m holding small hands he needs to keep holding mine.
It’s far from perfect and it will never get there. But perfection is far from the point.
Because funnily enough, the through-line to feeling like a good adult was to be found in what I’d learnt from being with my kids: enjoy nature, movement, creativity, community, and the gift of being present in the messy middle.
Until next time,
Jenn xx
This took me for a ride. We’ve had a somewhat similar experience for the first few years of my youngest two’s life. My heart yearns to keep them home. But I’m only human and I desire space to breathe. I often question if the overstimulation they must deal with at school, and the inevitable come downs at home are worth it. My gut instinct often feels conflicted here. These years are so hard for so many. Solidarity here. You’re doing great.