I need to confess. Christ, I'm not even a Catholic. But I need to tell someone and it has to be you - because I'm alone, as usual, as I am every night almost, and the kids are finally asleep, and my only company is Sky + and a glass of red.
My heart is heavy. The truth of it all is that whilst I may joke that I am CrummyMummy I feel much worse than that. I don't know where to start. Maybe... maybe back a few weeks ago - when I went to York for a few days alone, to work. Or to work out what I am going to do, now I am a mother of two who still needs to earn. I thought I'd find it incredibly hard being away from the kids. Thought I would miss them dreadfully and yearn to return.
But I didn't. I am ashamed to say I found the whole 2.5 days blissful. I woke naturally at 9am. I went for a run without having to bargain with Husband about how long I'd be. I made coffee and read papers. I surfed the net uninterrupted. I wrote. I felt me again. I was selfish. And I loved it. I came home, of course delighted to see the kids, but it was like some spell had been broken. Instead of the daily chores being just the daily chores they squeezed my throat a little tighter - I felt an odd resentment creeping up on my shoulder. I felt an irrational anger at having to wipe and clean and coo and mother. I just wanted to make it stop. I wanted to be ME again.
I think I am a shit mother. My kids are loved and read to and played with and fed a healthy assortment of foods and they get to go all kinds of activities - and you would never know, you would never see, that behind the tight smile and the 'I will find joy in this if it kills me' I feel miserable. Not all the time. Just some of the time. I think I am odd. I don't LOVE motherhood like other mothers do. It doesn't fulfil me on every level. I miss working, I miss office life, I miss reporting, I miss an edit suite when you nail a report. I miss chatting to writers and making a story work. I miss drinking in Soho until 2am and ending up at a dodgy late night drinking den doing shots. I miss going to screenings at Mr Youngs, or any screen in Golden Sq W1 and then reviewing films on TV shows... I miss so much of my old life that sometimes I wonder how I ended up where I am.
And the fact that I am not as in love with motherhood as other mothers makes me feel so fucking guilty, so acutely aware that I am different that I am defensive and frightened and always watching other Mums to see how I should be - am I making the grade? I don't know why there is a part of me - and you will hate me for saying this - that doesn't understand how anyone could want to be just a mother. Isn't that awful? Just a mother - listen to me, I say it like it is some dead end job. I don't mean it badly. I just worked so hard to get my degree, to be a presenter and then become a script editor, that I hate the fact I have had to give it up. I have no idea how I would ever work and juggle two kids, when Husband works such crazy hours - and I doubt I would earn enough to pay a nanny. I find myself insanely jealous of those who can afford nannies, those who can work. I try to make snide remarks about others bringing up their kids, why have kids blah blah - but I am just being a bitch because I am so green with envy, that they get to work, they get to do something for themselves, that I have to hide it behind a mask of smugness that I am a 'stay at home mother' don'tcha know?
The months roll on and in a matter of weeks my statutory maternity measley £125 a week will end and I will have not a penny. Husband says it is crazy for me to think about finding a job - when there are none, and anyway, they would be full time, and dramas are all filmed outside London nowadays and with the kids I couldn't go, and how would I get into and out of London every day in nursery hours blah blah. And he is right. And I chose all this. I wanted my family. I love them more than anything in my life - I swear to god I do. But why I am then crying as I type? Why do I feel like I have disappeared, that the girl that once was so ambitious, that worked so so hard, is now just a memory?
Now that summer is here and Sproglet is off and I have to find ways to fill his days, and mine and the baby's - I just feel so stressed. There are some cool Mums I know - but they have all gone/are going back to work. I am left talking to folk who think I am interested that their daughter crapped on the carpet today - when inside I want to scream - can't we talk about ANYTHING apart from kids????? The phone hacking scandal, The Murdochs, Norway, Winehouse, Obama and US debt - the news has been overflowing recently with tragedy and intrigue and debate. And I'm talking about potty training....
I am sorry - I shouldn't have blogged. I sound like such an ungrateful, spiteful cow. Husband is back at work, I guess I just see my empty diary, the loneliness bites and the dark thoughts that haunt me at night begin to haunt me in the day. I just want something for myself I guess. Something that involves people. I love people. A friend recently told me she had never known anyone who enjoyed meeting people as much as I do. How can you not? Everyone has a story. Everyone has a secret. Everyone has something to give or share. I miss being a Samaritan. The list of things I miss feels so long, and I feel so selfish for having it. I look around all the time and wonder 'are you like me?' But they aren't. They are better Mothers. They seem to just fit with motherhood, like a glove. It just makes me feel like I failed somewhere down the line - in my career, and now in my home life too.
Ok, enough of my pity party. I'm off to drink some red, watch Sopranos and the final of The Apprentice. Even though I know Tom won. It's Friday night, a girl's gotta get her kicks where she can find 'em.