On Being a Mum in a Pandemic
(Written during the second lockdown in the Netherlands, January 2021)
Towards the end of February 2020, I was sitting in a swanky cafe in Amsterdam with my two-month-old daughter, Aimi. I was surreptitiously and not very successfully trying to breastfeed whilst also attempting to eat an unwanted mezze platter and half-hold a conversation with my sister. At the next table was another new mum sporting perfectly applied red lips and a perfectly pressed white shirt (white!) sipping a cappuccino and chatting to a friend as her baby slept obligingly in its fancy stroller. I was dumbfounded: how on earth did she make it look so easy? And at that moment, Aimi chose to deliver what my partner and I came to refer to as a ‘back poo’ – an outflux so catastrophic that it made it all the way up to her neckline. As I struggled inexpertly to deal with the consequences on an inadequate changing table in the café’s inadequate loo, I thought to myself ‘I WISH I could have a few months just staying at home, without needing to go out and without any visitors coming in.’
And then March 2020 happened. Without claiming that I single-handedly conjured up global lockdown over that changing table, the timing did feel uncanny. And at first, I secretly relished the space and time to get to grips with this whole new person I was supposed to be keeping alive, and with this whole other new person I was supposed to be. This monumental life and identity shift needed my undivided attention, and now I had the opportunity to give it just that. No need to be anywhere at any specific time, no need to tesselate feeds with people ‘popping round’, no need to think of interesting things to say after a sleep-deprived night, or wash my hair, or take my tracksuit trousers off (ever). Finally, time to recover from the trauma of the birth, to start slowly exercising again, to binge on really-bad Netflix and even, occasionally, to sleep. Time to really and truly relish being with Aimi (back-poos and all) and watch her grow and develop every day, with the 24/7 support and encouragement of my working-from-home partner. Time to figure out a rhythm that worked for the three of us and to rejiggle our roles within this bizarre and beautiful new set-up. The cherry blossom was out, the skies were blue, and I started to feel strong, content and newly confident in my own abilities as a mother.
Almost a year has passed since that moment and now, like everyone, I’m utterly exhausted. The ‘slow’ time that felt like a novelty during the first lockdown now feels like ‘stuck time’ as we find ourselves as we find ourselves back in lockdown yet again. And yes, there have been elements that have turned out to be real blessings. There have also been a lot of really, really difficult elements. Quite often I swing between the two outlooks multiple times a day - from ‘this is totally fine, I’ve got this!’ one minute, to ‘this is actually the worst, I can’t, I can’t, I’m giving up!’ the next. Maybe this is the universal experience of being a new mum, just thrown into sharper focus by living through a pandemic. But here are some of the things it’s taught me:
That it’s OK to stay in (but there is a limit)
In my foot-loose and fancy-free days, a ‘quiet’ week meant spending one evening in (and more often than not they would all be ‘out’). I would trek right across London – and later, Amsterdam - to meet a friend for a drink on a Tuesday night, organise multiple dinner dates and jam-pack my weekends with social activities. With hindsight it was mostly a ploy to avoid spending time by myself, and even as it was happening a lot of it felt pointless. The break from socialising enforced by both motherhood and lockdown has been an eye-opener, revealing how much I enjoy staying in and doing nothing in particular (alongside 9pm bedtimes - who knew?!) But, like anything, there is a limit. Now that we’re back in lockdown again, I’m starting to crave going out for a few drinks with friends, having a date-night, getting dressed up, maybe even staying up beyond 10pm. It turns out that the secret is …balance. It only took me 38 years to figure that one out but hey, I’ll take it.
That it’s OK to just survive
Some days I feel I’ve heard enough talk of personal growth, purpose, abundance and constant striving to get to the next level of life. Enough of needing always to be proactive or productive or to thrive. Because while thriving is, of course, an admirable goal, right now it’s a triumph simply to survive on a day-to-day basis. Any additional pressure that I, or social media, or the wider world put on myself to be constantly up-levelling my existence isn’t helpful, it’s just exhausting. I’ve come to realise that if the three of us can get to the end of each day all in one piece, and all still vaguely liking each other, then that really is good enough.
And on the subject of ‘good enough’ - so what if I don’t make organic lentil dhal for Aimi’s tea? (which she’ll shun anyway in favour of yoghurt and banana.) Or if I don’t set up some elaborate sensory play system in the living room and we end up watching Cocomelon while eating raisins off the floor (her, not me. Well, sometimes me.) Or if I don’t squeeze out every last minute of nap time to do yoga or batch cook or clear my emails? And so what if the 100% I used to give to work can no longer be the same as the 100% I give to it during lockdown when there’s an energetic one-year old in the mix? What matters is surviving, and the secret of survival lies in discovering that you can cope even when you feel you really can’t; it means digging into reserves of strength deep inside yourself which you didn’t know were there. And what’s that if not personal growth?
That it’s OK to be lonely
Motherhood is naturally isolating. You’re catapulted from a life where you can give full attention to other people and other situations to a life where you have minimal attention for anyone or anything other than your child. What once felt easy (let’s meet for lunch at 1pm!) suddenly feels challenging (but she has to go down for her nap at 1pm so that won’t work) and then quite simply impossible (oh crap, everything’s shut). Days once filled with social engagements or plans suddenly yawn open into an abyss of aloneness. For expats like myself, living abroad exacerbates the sense of loneliness, and now that travel is banned, the North Sea feels like a vast symbol of separation from home and family. Yes, it feels lonely but yes, it’s normal and no, it won’t last forever. No doubt I will soon be looking back nostalgically on these precious days of babyhood.
That it's OK to feel sad (and sometimes angry)
Before having Aimi, my vision of maternity leave included meeting friends in cafes, trips home to see my family, and long visits from my parents (who would babysit for us). I thought there would be healthcare visitors checking in on us so that I wouldn’t have to spend hours obsessively consulting Google over every little worry (weight / milk / gammy eye / how-much-food-do-I-give-her…) I imagined mother-and-baby groups and soft-play classes that would save me from endlessly trying to conjure up entertainment while covering up plug sockets in our miniscule flat.
On one occasion between lockdowns, I steeled myself to attend a baby music class, only to find that Aimi and I were the sole attendees. That may sound great - like having a personal trainer for my baby - but in reality, it was awful. Like being trapped in a room with a children’s TV presenter on speed. The ultimate low point was having to dance around the room on my own waving some coloured scarves while the Marriage of Figaro blasted out and Aimi looked on in total confusion. I was relieved to make my escape, but also sad – sad to be denied the opportunity to meet new people, to share an hour of fun with my peers or at least to have my embarrassment diluted by the embarrassment of others.
I’m aware, of course, how lucky I am compared with so many people who have been far, far harder hit by the pandemic. But ‘luck’ is relative. While it’s important to remind myself how much I have to be grateful for, and how much to enjoy, I reckon it’s OK to admit that I’m sad about the things Covid had taken away. Sad that Aimi’s grandparents couldn’t be with us to celebrate her first birthday. Sad that we couldn’t travel back to the UK for a proper family Christmas. Sad that I haven’t been able to introduce her to some of my best friends or my brother. Sad that I’ve been cut off from my natural networks of support so that I’ve had to second guess this whole business of new motherhood, without respite or reassurance. I’ve come to really understand the significance of the phrase ‘it takes a village…’ – and yes, I can feel angry with Covid for depriving me of that.
That it’s OK not to look further than Now
When, long ago, I read the ‘Power of Now’, I felt sure it would entirely change my life. But alas, my brain has spent too many years training itself to exist either in the regretful-past or in the catastrophic-future. For all the yoga classes I’ve attended, all the mindfulness training I’ve done, all the books I’ve read, it’s the combination of being a new mum and lockdown which has finally forced me into the Here and Now (at least on occasion) because this turns out to be the only place I can exist without having a mild (or crushing) anxiety attack. Sometimes I steal 30 seconds at the balcony window to watch a cat stalk a mouse. Sometimes I really look at the colour of the leaves on the ground as I walk around the park for the 968th time. Sometimes I really watch how Aimi concentrates as she discovers something new and appealing (and usually inappropriate) to entertain her. Sometimes I can really lean into a really hot shower, or glass of wine, or reading my book in bed. And every day, despite everything, I really, really laugh which is the ultimate presence-grabber. There is only peace in the moment you are in, and this year has taught me that thinking about anything else will risk sending you bonkers.
That it’s OK to feel proud
As apocalyptic and surreal as this past year has been, when I look at my daughter I realise that she has been blissfully unaffected by it all. She’s just busy living her best life, shunning her toys in favour of dangerous household items, rummaging through the recycling bins, getting her face as close to the TV as possible, laughing, crawling, walking, chattering, eating, learning, growing, living….thriving. So on the days which feel like a test of survival and I’m on my knees scraping crusty scrambled egg off her high-chair again, I just have to see the light in her eyes or hear her squeals of laughter to realise that between us we’re doing 100% fine.
Hopefully this crisis won’t even be a distant memory for her, and hopefully the world will be a better, more transparent and more compassionate place for her to grow up once we rebuild our ‘new normal’. But meanwhile, I need to remind myself that I’m doing a good job, even – and especially - on the days I don’t feel that I am. Even on the days when Aimi refuses to nap and her dinner consists of licking peanut butter off a rice cake. Even when I’m exhausted to the bone and everything threatens to reduce me to tears and I get sucked into my phone (and all the nonsense that resides there) or feel cranky with my partner. In spite of it all, I am - we are – managing to keep a small new person alive and cheerful in the midst of a global pandemic.
So yes, it’s OK to feel proud. And whatever confusing, complicated, challenging scenario you find yourself muddling through, I hope there are moments when you can feel proud of yourself too.
Disclaimer: I don’t profess to be any sort of expert on the range of (convoluted and complicated) human emotions that I periodically choose to write about! These are merely personal reflections based on personal experiences.
