I’ve been thinking about enjoyment lately. When do we actually enjoy our time? Most of the time I’m tired, stressed out, nervous, and I’d like to be somewhere else. Even if I love my family and my life is the result of my own choices which I would do again if I had the chance. I spent a few days with my family, my parents and my sisters. It hadn’t happened since maybe ten years ago, and it was great to be together. But. But it was a long journey to get there. But L had to come back home for work, and I was on my own in a hotel with the kids at night and early morning, and my parents help a little but not much really. Most of the time I was actively trying to suppress a feeling of bitterness, trying not to judge them for what they did or didn’t do. Asking myself why I couldn’t just enjoy the time there with my family, with all their quirks. I do love them, and I’m happy I didn’t cancel the journey because it was complicated. I’m not that kind of person. But it is complicated.

This “holiday” is only a recent example, there are many other days when I’m not at peace. Then there are minutes of happiness, when I talk with Pallino before bedtime, when LittleOne wakes up from his nap and hugs me tenderly and kisses me clumsily. When I manage to have a conversation with L in the evening and we disagree but then each brings something to the table and eventually we reach a better solution together. When I read a book and I like it. When I play my lovely new keyboard and the music makes sense (I can only play simple pieces, but it’s relaxing). When I sing in my little choir with the elderly ladies.

So why my days are almost always “meh”?


Things get busier and more complicated

I had a busy week, working on an interesting project. I’m not entirely happy about how a few things were managed in that project, including the fact that I was asked to support the team at the last minute and with a very strict deadline, which then appeared to be quite loose (it didn’t really matter if the documents weren’t ready that day)… I don’t like having pressure put on me for no reason, life is hard enough without creating unnecessary stress. Anyway, I did enjoy the work I was doing and the days passed faster. Also, I got my first salary after being on mat leave and that is quite a relief! Will I have work to do next week?

Pallino is having some problem at school. His teacher called me a few times, saying that there have been several episodes when he was rude or aggressive to other children. What is going on? I know he can be difficult, and that happens usually when he’s tired. But he’s sleeping well, and I don’t know what I can do. Especially when L is busy at work and most of the day to day life is on me, for me it’s an achievement if we’re all fed and warm and alive at night. We’re trying to be informed and careful and positive parents. But we’re also busy, alone and under pressure. So, how can I help him? There will be a meeting next week at school, I’m hoping we’ll be able to help each other.



Blue January

I was anxious but also keen to return to work. I didn’t expect there would be nothing for me to do. Yet, this is what I found on my return – and I’m spending my days begging my colleagues to give me something to do. With some result, but mostly very boring tasks that could be done without thinking. And I don’t like that. Not one little bit. Now I’m worried that if things don’t improve, I risk losing my job (again).

On the plus side (my Pollyanna side says) my working hours are working well. I have time to drop off/pick up the kids and work 6 hours without rushing (we pay the after school club and nursery, so I have to pick them up by 6pm). While £1500 fly out of the window to pay for their childcare.

However mornings are not working. I end up being incredibly stressed out every day, because L doesn’t think about what time Pallino has to be at school and is always late. And I end up stepping in and doing most of the work myself even when he’s dropping them off. So, when I get to the office I’ve already worked hard for around 2.5 hours (in case you don’t have children and don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s changing nappies and clothes, making breakfast, make sure everyone has their teeth/face/hands clean including me, preparing everyone’s school bag and put everyone in the car. All the while with a wriggly baby and an active 4yo who don’t want to collaborate because they don’t want to change their clothes, get ready or go out). And when I finish work, if I have to pick them up and put them to bed, that’s around 2.5 hours of work (see above, in reverse order, but with overtired children i.e. even less willing to collaborate). Which makes a total of about 11 hours of work per day, 6 of which spent worrying about losing it, and the remaining 5 forcing someone to do what they don’t want to do. Plus being on call every night. And some people tell me “you’re lucky” when I say that I work “only” 6 hours per day. How hard is to understand that I sacrifice a fifth of my salary because I have to, not because I want to work less. Still, in a way, I’m lucky that my employer allows it.

And just to clarify, what I’m saying applies to every parent/carer, working outside or not – the total working hours don’t change, only the setting, maybe the area of the brain that worries about work. Also, I’m not saying that I don’t like spending those hours with the children, or that it’s always a nightmare. I find ways to make things fun, and we do have good times together. But even playing or finding ways to make it fun requires a conscious effort, physical and mental.

I’m tracking my mood and I’ve recorded quite a few “bad” days, since I started working. My situation at work is a huge contributor, as I know that I feel much better when I’m busy, when I feel useful. I hope that my efforts to speak with my colleagues and make them aware that I’m available to help brings results. In the meantime, let this Blue January go to hell.


A day of change

First day back at work. LittleOne didn’t sleep, and even if I left L to deal with him, I didn’t sleep either. Luckily it’s inset day and Pallino doesn’t have school. L will be home with him after dropping off LittleOne to the nursery. This means I had to look after myself only this morning. I snoozed the alarm clock, I had breakfast comfortably sitting at the table, I had a shower, changed and left without dragging any reluctant child out of the house. If feels weirdly normal and familiar, like nothing happened. Still, today it’s a day of change. I’ve been off work for eleven months and now I’m going back. 


The Piano

It is an upright piano. It’s made of a warm wood, with an inlaid front panel. It looks elegant, and fits well with the furniture. It was bought second hand at a fair, not expensive but it was an effort. Anything for my child, they thought. It was carried six floors up the stairs and placed it there, in the living room, between the door of the balcony and the window, in front of the table. They found an antique lamp and put it on the top, one of those long and narrow ones, in aged golden metal, that can light the music sheet without blinding the pianist. The base was weighted to keep it from falling. It looked stylish, although it covered the top of the piano that had to be lifted to retrieve the music sheet stand, and that was annoying. The piano had a tendency to loose the tuning often, and some of the keys got stuck from time to time. A professional tuner would then be called, and fixed it while blaming the old piano for not being good enough. Something wrong with it, he said, I can only do what I can.

It was played for a couple of years, maybe three, by a girl who didn’t want to practise the exercises between lessons because she thought they were too easy until they weren’t but it was too late, felt embarrassed whenever other people listened to her playing, and wished she disappeared when they asked her to play at birthdays or other family gatherings. Time passed and she started to forget to go to the lessons, left the teacher waiting without even a phone call, until she stopped altogether. She stopped going to the dentist to tighten her braces too. Things were left unfinished, unresolved. In the following years, she had the desire to play from time to time, but felt self-conscious and never did.

Twenty-five years afterwards, the piano is still there, an expensive photo frame holder. It’s seen people leaving, children visiting, couples splitting. A cat has taken it as his throne. The room has been fitted with new flooring, new curtains, new sofas, a new TV.

A woman is sitting in another living room. A cup of tea on her writing table, the children asleep, she is lost in thoughts about her old piano, and that little girl. Can she give herself a second chance?