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As I write this, I am sitting alone in my house for the first time in eighteen months. I am totally and completely alone, bar the cat. It is quiet, just the sound of birds outside, even the usual drone and thud of construction work in neighbouring fields has halted in honour of the occasion. I can do whatever I want: drink tea which is still hot, read a book and fall asleep with it on my face, leave the house with just my keys and mobile. And what do I actually want to do? Well, other than compulsively tidy the kitchen and my sock draw, I want to bite my nails and fidget and maybe, just maybe, make one tiny call to the childminder, just to make sure that her phone is working and that Squidget isn’t too distraught without me.
Yes, dear reader, I have finally done it. Little Squidget has gone off to her childminders, alias Wonderwoman and Superman, for the morning, for the first time, and I am feeling bereft, like I have sent her away to borstal. Wonderwoman and Superman are the most capable, wonderful people I know, having looked after Goldilocks when I returned to my former life of Career Woman following her birth, some three years ago, so my feelings of dread, guilt and sheer loss are at once rendered ridiculous. But I still feel loss, like part of my body has weirdly evolved and fallen off.
It has been a long road to today, a road pitted with emotional minefields and practical nightmarishness. Who would have imagined that organising enough time to sit and stare gormlessly out of the window could be so complicated? When I gave birth to the Tweenager, I was in my second year at university. I was 22, had just moved to the UK, got married and moved house. My life fell apart when she was born and daycare was the best option. Even as a tiny baby, she was very stoic about the whole thing, bravely heading off to nursery and then school with a rucksack the same size as her on her back, blinking back the tears as she bravely waved goodbye. I never got over the guilt that crippled me every time I left her and went to my lectures. Staying at home was never an option I considered – I was grateful to get through the day without having a tantrum of my own. By the time Goldilocks was born, I was in Cyprus, running a successful business, stronger, healthier, happier, but I had gained that enemy of kids the world over: a Career. I swore I would do better by my second daughter and delegated frantically. Unfortunately, my maternity cover proved to be barking mad and so I returned to work (not altogether unwillingly), baby on hip and often on breast (much to the combined curiosity/shock of anyone within burping distance). A year later, Wonderwoman and Superman entered our lives and Goldilocks found her happy ever after with them for the next two years. The fact that she was and is never fazed by anything, giving any poor soul looking after her a real run for their money, helped assuage any feelings of guilt I might have been harbouring.
Fast forward to today. Before gathering the resolve to ask Wonderwoman and Superman to help out with Squidget (it took me two months to make the call), I read every darn article discussing the pros and cons of early childcare, about separation anxiety and how to handle it. There is a massive amount of information out there on how and why to leave your child but precious little discussion of the emotional impact separation has on the frazzled parent left holding an empty packet of wet wipes. I have always been oddly clingy with all my kids. I’m known for it: well-meaning friends and not-so-friendly others have often joked that I am too attached to them. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting them go, a genuine problem not helped by the fact that it seems to be a medical condition peculiar to Turkish Cypriots to squeeze, stroke and physically grab your baby out of your arms at any given opportunity. If I let them go, what would I do with myself? Knit? Become an estate agent? So I became a Stay At Home Mum extraordinaire. With no life. Enter Wonderwoman and Superman, who I can hear coming up the driveway now. Squidget is smiling in the back seat and all is good with the world. I think I might be able to get used to this.
Nikki is a freelance writer whose work is regularly commissioned by and published in a variety of international magazines and newspapers. As a mother of three young daughters, her writing often focuses on parenting and lifestyle issues but, secretly, Nikki also has a 'proper' job, as an expert writer on overseas real estate investment. She acts as a consultant to agents and developers, identifying and marketing key emerging markets. She is currently collaborating with Property Club International. See more at http://propertyclubinternational.net
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