HELLO. MY NAME is Róisín Ingle. You may remember me from such columns as My Mother-In-Law-In- Waiting Is Unusually Fond of Bleachand I Am Co-Habiting With A Nordy Prod or I Wish I Was Skinnier But I Like Batter Burgers Too Much, Unfortunately.
So where were we? Well, since we last convened I had two baby girls at pretty much the same time. I then spent the guts of a year looking after them, helped in no small part by my Nordy Prod, while following several sets of conflicting parenting advice in books recommended by Amazon. “Róisín,” Amazon would say (in that passive aggressive bullying way it has), “you seem like just the kind of person who needs to be told how to be a parent and is afraid to rely on their own instincts. You’ll be needing this book, and this, and maybe this one and definitely that one,” and so on. The upshot is that we had to have more bookshelves built and I could now give a seminar on a parenting style I like to call Attachment Contented Baby Whispering Nurture Shock.
Now I am back at work. The other kind of work. The kind that doesn’t involve a Masters in poo or the verbatim retelling of the story of Daisy and Pip and their epic game of hide and seek 57 times a day.
In one of my books I learn that at this stage it’s perfectly normal to be consumed by guilt – with a capital G. Twice the guilt for twins, obviously. I am supposed to be sneaking off to the toilet every half hour to retouch my mascara and repair the damage done by a tsunami of tears.
There should be a framed photograph of them on my desk. Their faces (vulnerable, abandoned, impossibly cute) should catch my eye when I am on the phone and my voice should falter. This should make the person at the other end of the phone ask, “Hello, are you still there?” and, struggling to regain my composure, I should say “Yes, yes of course!” in a bright- yet-heartsick voice because, though I feel like the Wicked Witch of the North (Strand), I am a professional and I must go on.
The truth? I am delighted to be back at work. While I am sure the novelty is going to wear off soon (it might have even worn off by the time you read this), for now I can’t tell you how much I am enjoying the simple pleasures of being a Parent Who Works Outside the Home PWWOTH). Take cycling to the office, for example. Never has nearly being knocked over by a bus or taxi been so much fun. I even got my skirt caught in the spokes of the wheel, which gave me a little jolt of nostalgia for the freewheeling person I was before I learned to cook a fortnight’s worth of food for two people in half an hour with one hand, while administering Motilium suppositories with the other.
People come up to my desk as though approaching the recently bereaved and ask: “Are you okay?” At first, I am confused. Then I remember that leaving them is supposed to be tearing me apart inside and, just like that, the guilt arrives, nestling like a piece of gristle somewhere below my breastbone. Oh great. So now I am feeling guilty about not feeling guilty. “Welcome to parenthood,” says my friend (who knows about these things).
Thankfully, it turns out the guilt about not feeling guilty is only guilt with a small g and it melts away at the first unspilled, fully consumed cup of coffee enjoyed by the new PWWOTH. It also feels better to know I am not alone. One colleague confessed that coming back to work was like winning the lottery, if only for the joy of being free to talk rubbish to people by the photocopier. Soon, I am talking rubbish by the photocopier and understanding exactly what she means. I have a conversation with someone in the lift about the weather and I enjoy it so much it scares me.
I love my children – in case you are the kind of person who thinks my enjoying being back at work means I don’t. I love them in a way I could never do justice to here. But my first day back at work felt like getting reacquainted with a person I recognised and hadn’t seen for ages, someone I thought had disappeared. It feels like an achievement that I get into work without sick on my shoulder and tights that I have colour-coordinated with my outfit. Another bonus is that my productivity appears to have increased, having spent a year engaged in extreme multitasking. One experienced mother who, with two 20-something daughters is only now retreating from the frontline of parenthood, texts me in the spirit of working-outside-the-home sisterhood.
“How was the first week back?” she asks.
“I really enjoyed it,” I reply.
“NEVER say that out loud!” she texts back immediately.
Sorry sisterhood – but I really did.
This weekend Róisín will be taking Fiona McCann out for dinner to say thanks for keeping the seat warm for her. She will also continue to resist writing her first tweet because she is afraid that, like her relationship with a certain brand of potato-based snack, once she starts she won’t stop – and anyway, where do people find the time? Apologies to the 221 people following her on Twitter. The guilt.
