Becoming a mother turned me into a jealous monster – with one group in my sights

Author, journalist, and commentator whose work explores culture, womanhood, and society I opened my eyes this morning and my six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter were already in a frenzy. Crying, throwing teddies, and ultimately waiting to be fed and watered. Like Groundhog Day, I arose from my fitful and mostly interrupted slumber to get ready for the morning grind. It’s the summer holidays, so there are 14 hours that need to be accounted for and filled before they can go to bed. My parenting journey has been one that began with pure and simple desperation, and a lot of tears over the course of trying and failing to see the two lines on dozens of tests. The moment it finally happened, I remembered maniacally laughing and crying, not believing that it was finally happening. Then, when our son was born, I fell into step with the hundreds of hours of guidance I had watched in preparation, and took to mum groups for what I didn’t know. For all intents and purposes, I didn’t find the task of being a mother all that difficult on the surface but as the years accumulated, and I made the choice to have two under two, some things had to give. Apparently, those things were in relation to me: my hobbies and identity as an individual. Where once I would travel to the cinema on a whim, see my friends at the drop of a hat, and enjoy the luxury of being alone, now I have none of that. Instead, I fill my days with orchestrating the daily routine, which is ultimately dictated by my children’s needs and interests. I’ve no qualms with the fact I chose to have children – it’s what I wanted to do. But increasingly I’ve found myself watching child-free colleagues and friends travel, go to events, pursue creative projects and build exciting careers, all seemingly without a barrier in their way of making those plans. And I’m jealous – jealous that I can’t do those things without having to plan months ahead only for childcare to lapse. Jealous that I’m at home every day, dealing with tantrums and nappies and crying, when I could be laughing in the sun, wine in hand. I find it difficult to even scroll on Instagram without the little green monster’s head rearing its ugly little face. “That could have been you,” it snarks. I’ve struggled with the uncomfortable feeling that everyone else is still moving forward while my own world has become smaller – filled with PTA, school events, and: “I’ll try to find childcare before I commit to it.” I could feel the anxiety in my chest when the children went to bed and I was left with a couple of hours to myself. “What do I do? Can I do anything? Will they wake up?” It was only upon opening up to some of my mum friends that I learned that this isn’t something that’s isolated to me. Many mothers feel ashamed to admit that motherhood is a grief that can accompany a major identity shift. As mothers, we are expected to be grateful, fulfilled and endlessly selfless, yet many women miss the freedom, spontaneity and sense of possibility they once had available to them. Honestly, I can’t even pop to the loo without having to make a game plan for it, so how could I go out for coffee on my own? I’m insanely jealous of people I don’t even know but happen to see online and in my day-to-day. On holiday. At a gallery. At home and enjoying their time alone. The thing is, if you feel like this, you haven’t stopped loving your children – you’ve just started missing yourself. I remember being a woman who enjoyed seeing live music, painting without messy hands all over my canvas, walking without having to run after children who have sprinted in opposite directions, and much more. I used to be a whole person, whose identity was just being herself. Now, it’s being a mother, a wife, and then perhaps, me. While I wouldn’t exchange the life I have now for one without my children, I’ve decided to do something about it. Once a month I’ll go to a city or town where nobody knows me, and I’ll do the things I like to do, on my own, and just be Britt. I’ve been to cafes in London, conferences in Birmingham, walking through the snow in a random town or visiting a Tudor building that looks like it could fall, and on a hill in the middle of nowhere painting on a tiny canvas and nibbling on cheese. I talk to people, and have little chats about superficial stuff where I don’t have to divulge that I’m a parent who doesn’t do much other than parent these days. They are small things, but they fill my cup more than you can imagine. It’s something so simple, and I kick myself for not doing it sooner, but I think eventually it’ll truly help to reconnect me to myself.