The road not taken

Helen Chandler - 14 Jul 17

There is no milestone or turning point in my life which has transformed me as profoundly as the birth of my first child. The one thing I had been certain of, ever since I can remember, was that I wanted to have children, but nothing had prepared me for the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual maelstrom created by the birth of my eldest daughter, one month after my 28th birthday.

I had expected the physical and practical changes – everyone knows that you have a flabby tummy, sleepless nights and a total lack of freedom – although I hadn’t really taken in just how all-encompassing those changes would actually be. And I hadn’t in any way expected the emotional whirlwind. Everything was more intense. Transcendent, almost hallucinogenic happiness, but the darker side of the same coin was the realisation of the dark depths of pain and despair it would now be possible to feel. Before having a baby I couldn’t have comprehended the scale of either feeling.

At that point I was the first of my existing friends from school, university, workplace, to have a baby. My daughter was an exciting novelty for everyone – swamped by teddies and adorable baby clothes and cuddles. Some of these friends were very understanding of the transition we had undergone, and supported us in the most brilliant practical ways. Two friends took days off work to come and help me out after my husband’s two week paternity leave had come to an end (I had had a c-section, so still need quite a but of support two weeks postpartum), and another friend arrived for a visit, took one look at my exhausted face, and sent me off to bed, entertaining my voraciously boob-seeking newborn with heaven knows what inspired witchcraft while I got a blissful three hours sleep.

Despite all this kindness, I still felt as though an enormous gulf separated me from them, and that I couldn’t explain, nor them understand, that although I might look more or less the same (give or take a jelly tummy and some impressive eye bags), inside I was completely different.

This was where the friends I made in my NCT Post-Natal Group were such a lifesaver. Every Tuesday morning for a year (and very often other days as well) we met, and our babies slept and fed and cried together, eventually progressing to rolling, sitting and finally toddling together. These women were not only happy to spend hours analysing the texture and colour of poos (even as a besotted brand new mum I don’t think I inflicted this conversation on other friends), they also understood the subtext, that the emotional context of our entire lives had undergone a seismic shift.

In the last eight years the majority of my school and uni have now gone on to have babies of their own. I know now that they get it too. One friend admitted that when he visited us and I insisted he washed his hands before he touched anything in the house, let alone the baby (to be fair to me, it was at the height of the swine flu scare), he privately thought I was totally neurotic. Three years later his own daughter was born and he suddenly got it. Very possibly I was (and still am) neurotic, but then he understood exactly why.

Now, as a stay-at-home mum I am very firmly ensconced in this new world. I think probably every new friend I have made in the last eight years is a parent, and usually we have met through our children (baby group, playground, school gates etc). This network has been the most unbelievable source of support, warmth, laughter and prosecco-drinking on a Friday afternoon playdate. But somewhere along the line, I have totally lost sight of who I was before children, and who I might be now if I hadn’t had them. The number of friends my own age who haven’t had children has now dwindled to a handful, and I panic that I have no idea how to relate to them any more. I have no concept of what a mid-thirties life is like that doesn’t revolve around school-runs and tantrums and child-menus in Pizza Express. I now refer to 7am as a lie-in. I barely engage with news media, not just because I don’t have time, but because I am so hyper-sensitive to the problems and cruelties of the world I have brought my precious girls into, that I just find I can’t.

When I was 28 or 29, I knew what my life was like as a twenty-something non-parent because I’d been living it until very recently. Most of my friends were still living that life. I could still relate to it. Now, I know that even if I hadn’t had children, nearly a decade later my life would be different anyway. But I don’t know how it would be. I don’t know what I would be like or who I would be or what I would care about.

I can’t imagine a life of lazy breakfasts in bed with the papers, long boozy Sunday lunches in the pub, spontaneous visits to the theatre. Is that what you’re doing if you’re thirty-six and child-free? Or am I seeing it through rose-coloured spectacles, and actually you’re catching up on work emails or painting the spare room?

Having children has changed me so much that the person I was before feels like someone I once knew, not someone I once was. Maybe this feeling is particularly acute because I quit my job to be a stay-at-home mum after my eldest was born, eventually going on to begin a new career as a writer. Both decisions I am more than happy with, but which perhaps enhance the massive sense of disconnect I feel between my two selves. If I’d gone back to work 7 years ago, and therefore had daily conversations with people of all ages, parents and non-parents, perhaps it would all feel very different.

Is this just me? Do other parents experience this massive gulf between their former and current selves, and find that parenthood has become so integral to their sense of self that they can’t really remember or relate to any other life?

Helen Chandler

I'm author of novels 'Two For Joy' and 'To Have and to Hold' and mum to two daughters aged twelve and six. As well as writing, and my children, I love reading, cooking, eating and exploring London (and further afield when I get the chance). I was born and brought up in Liverpool, studied English at Oxford University, and now live in East London with my husband, daughters and cat.

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