Stepping away from something that's so important to you can be a traumatic experience.
A friend confessed to sitting on her sofa and crying for the first three days of her maternity leave. In advance, I wondered whether stepping away from much of how I define myself into something as yet unrealised would prove equally traumatic.
The front of my large shiny card from the office says: ‘You’re leaving (leaving – UGH) to have a baby’. Inside: ‘No ifs, no buts, no might, perhaps or maybe. You’re leaving and we wish you well; now go and have your baby!’ Messages range from the completely illegible to a one-word incitement to ‘PUSH’. Other contributions include ‘you’re too posh to push; ‘my friend says hypno-birthing is crap: stick to drugs’, and, memorably, ‘enjoy your six months holiday’.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be the last to leave the office that day, but after an indulgent cake, tea and speeches and endless sorting I found myself wandering through our deserted floor at 7pm breathing in the details, like you do when you move out of a house. I stared intently at the offices and workstations and wondered what would change while I am away. When I announced my pregnancy, our CEO advised against starting to plan too soon: much can change in six months, he said. Time has proven him right, so the same must also be true for the period until my planned return in another six months.
I sent a text: ‘It feels like the end’.
A reply in seconds: ‘No. It is the beginning’.
I passed through reception with my Lehman-like box of office oddments and was pounced upon by the ebullient Ali, who manages our night security. He was delighted to see me: he’d missed our evening chats as I hadn’t worked late for weeks, and was thrilled to send me off with blessings and enthusiastic well-wishes about the joys of children. He delightedly recounted the birth of his daughter and urged me to relish every moment: ‘They grow up so soon’.
As I tumbled through our front door and unloaded my treasures, I was surprised by how right everything felt. The hormones had done their job: I was happy to let go and move on.
My boss’s wife said that the best weeks of her life were between finishing work and her first baby. I was surprised and delighted to discover she is right. In 15 years I have never had such an abundance of unstructured time to meet people for lunch, tea, walks in the park, have hair appointments, cook vats of lasagne, make new friends, book massages and overdose on yoga. It is wonderful.
It’s only when our NCT group’s ‘Alfie/ Jemima/Sophia has arrived’ emails started flooding in that the enormity of what we were embarking on slammed home. It reminded me that the lovely wriggling thing inside me would soon be a noisy, demanding reality that will change our lives forever. There are moments when it all does seem a bit much. Not helped by Dr Miriam Stoppard (First-time Parents) citing ‘a senior position at work’ first in the list of factors that make you more susceptible to postnatal depression. So, for all the thrill of what is to come, perhaps that sofa weeping is on its way yet.
