On the last day of maternity leave

Stephanie C - 20 Mar 16

I write this sitting next to my work bag. The one with red ink stains all over the inside pocket and crumbs sprinkled across the bottom. The one that I bought myself 6 years ago when I – two months before completing my teacher training course – found out that my first job interview had been successful and I was going to be an actual, real-life secondary English teacher. It was to be my ‘teacher bag.’

This bag has never been more than a bag to me; it doesn’t have any significant meaning in my life, despite the dozens of pieces of homework and potentially life-changing GCSE coursework it’s ferried around over recent years. Nor does it have sentimental value for me even though the last time I used it, just under a year ago, it held flowers, chocolates and cards from colleagues and students alike wishing me good luck in my new role as a mother.

It’s just a bag, merely a vessel in which to hold the many bits and bobs I collect along my days. It’s just a bag – I know it’s just a bag. Yet, as I sit here, on the eve of my first day back at work, this hefty, battered, prettily-patterned collection of cloth next to me, seems to have taken on a new meaning.

I remember the first time after my son’s birth, that I got on a train alone – no pram, no baby. Being a new mum had taken over my life, my thoughts, my identiy and it seemed totally wrong that this enormous, life-changing event had happened to me and nobody – not one person on this train knew. I felt like I needed to carry round the nappy bag or pull out a teething ring so they’d all see and realise “aaah, she’s mother, well that makes sense.”

For some reason, my work bag, silly as it sounds, is making me feel the same way.

Does it realise I’ve changed? That I’m diffeerent now? I can’t be as committed to it and its contents as I once was. Its weight won’t be the only pressure I feel anymore. When I get home from work, I can’t circle it and be drawn to it and worry about the unfinished work inside it anymore.

This bag, I’m realising as I write this, is, in fact, more than a bag. It’s a representation of me; the work me. The work me who has relentlessly squirreled away for years to make sure the young people I teach are ok, that they can survive the uncertainties in education they’ve had to face. It’s symbolic of the long days, the sleepless nights, the cancelled plans, the disappointed friends. This bag has lived through the ups and downs of my career so far. It’s been there for every day I’ve skipped home from work, high on life after a particulary successful lesson, and every day I’ve come home crying and feeling like I just can’t take it anymore. This bag has seen me put everything I had into becoming the Outstanding teacher I was.

I’m not worried about going back to work, exactly. In fact, after such a long time, I’m looking forward to it; craving it, even. What I’m worried about is not coming home from work – about failing to create a manageable work/life balance, one where I leave work at work – something I’ve struggled to do in the past.

But for the sake of my son, this bag will see a new me. One who stays upbeat regardless of how terrible my day has been. One who gets down on the floor and plays despite the marking that has to be done.

I will not become yet another burnt-out teacher. I will not miss bath time for lesson planning. I will not be late for pick-up so I can call someone else’s mum. I will be present, I will be attentive, I will give cuddles and kisses every single night. I’ll be there for the sports days and the sick days, for the Christmas concerts and the school fairs.

This bag will see a new me and it won’t recognise me at all. “She’s slacking off” it will say. “She’s failing her students, she’s letting them down.” This bag will feel differently about me. I’ll probably feel differently about me.

I won’t put in as much at work, I won’t have the successes I’ve enjoyed in my career so far. But that is the choice I have to make and over time, I might be able to accept that I’ve become an average teacher – I could never accept being an average mum.

Stephanie C

Two boy mama, Irish, Londoner, secondary English teacher, runner, occasional climber, pun enthusiast, laugh-out-loud-er, insta-addict Follow me on Instagram: @seppicino Intersted in contributing to my personal blog? www.dearstupidparents.com - all writer's welcome

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