A Day In The Life Of A New Mum Over 40

People often say being a mother is a full-time job. I’m inclined to agree, although I’d argue that being a working mum over 40 feels more like holding down two-and-a-half jobs, with an unpaid admin position thrown in for good measure.

Before having Cyrus at 40, I thought I was reasonably organised. I worked in PR, managed deadlines, dealt with journalists and could keep several projects moving without too much trouble. I knew how to prioritise, or at least I thought I did. Then I had a baby and discovered that no amount of professional experience prepares you for negotiating with a toddler who has decided that wearing shoes is an unreasonable request.

My days are now divided between work, nursery, household jobs and the endless business of remembering things. Nappies, packed lunches, appointments, birthday cards, shopping lists and the occasional missing teddy. There is always something that needs doing, usually just as I’m about to sit down.

Even weekends have their own timetable. The only time I can reasonably call my own amounts to around two-and-a-half hours a week, most of which I spend at the gym. Some women might choose a massage or a leisurely lunch. I prefer exercise, loud music and an hour when nobody asks me where their socks are.

With International Women’s Day approaching when I first wrote this, I decided to take stock of what an ordinary day actually involves. Not the carefully arranged version of motherhood we sometimes see online, but the one with cold coffee, nursery tears and a handbag full of things that don’t belong to me.

The office has opening hours. The mental list of things to remember doesn’t.

My alarm goes off after roughly six hours of interrupted sleep. Cyrus has usually made some contribution to the night’s proceedings, although he appears remarkably refreshed by morning. I can’t say the same for myself.

Before getting out of bed, I’m already checking the news. Feedly, Twitter and LinkedIn are my first ports of call, followed by Google Alerts. Working in PR means keeping an eye on what’s happening, who’s saying what and whether something has appeared overnight that might affect a client or become a story worth pursuing.

It’s probably not the healthiest way to start the morning, but old habits are difficult to shake. My brain is already working through headlines while the rest of me is still trying to wake up.

I briefly consider straightening my hair. Then I remember that I have a toddler downstairs, a nursery run ahead and approximately twelve minutes to make myself presentable. The straighteners remain untouched. A quick wash, some makeup and my hair scraped back will have to do. I’ve reached the stage of motherhood where looking awake is more important than looking glamorous.

Cyrus is two-and-a-half and, like most toddlers, has developed a personality considerably larger than his physical size. Waking him requires a gentle approach because a badly timed nudge can set the tone for the entire morning.

I lay his clothes out the night before, which gives me the comforting illusion that I’m in control. In reality, getting him downstairs involves gathering a teddy, two bunnies, three nappies and an empty bottle while carrying a sleepy child wrapped in his blanket. I’m never entirely sure how I manage it without dropping something. Occasionally, I do.

There is mental arithmetic involved in getting a small child ready for nursery. You calculate how long everything should take, add another ten minutes for unexpected objections and then discover that your toddler has decided he doesn’t like the socks he wore quite happily yesterday.

I used to think mornings were stressful because I had to get myself ready for work. Those were innocent times.

Breakfast is rarely a leisurely affair. Crumpets, an apple, milk and a handful of mixed nuts usually make an appearance while Mr Tumble provides some much-needed assistance from the television.

I use the distraction to sort packed lunches, vitamins and everything else that needs to leave the house with us. There are things for Cyrus, things for H and things for me, although mine are usually the easiest to forget.

I make myself a coffee, put it down somewhere and return to it when it’s cold. This happens so frequently that I’m beginning to wonder whether I actually prefer it that way.

Meanwhile, Cyrus needs dressing. Socks are negotiated, shoes are located and I spend several minutes persuading him that leaving the house without trousers is not an option. H leaves for work before me, which means the final stretch of the morning belongs to Cyrus and me.

By the time we’re ready to go, I feel as though I’ve already completed a respectable day’s work. Unfortunately, it’s only seven o’clock.

Once Postman Pat has finished his deliveries, it’s our turn to leave. Walking to nursery gives us some fresh air and gives me the opportunity to buy another coffee. I tell myself the walk is good exercise, although carrying bags and occasionally coaxing a reluctant toddler along probably deserves its own fitness category.

Nursery drop-off can go either way. Some mornings Cyrus runs in happily without so much as a backward glance. On others, there are tears, negotiations and a sudden desire to remain permanently attached to my leg.

It’s difficult walking away when he’s upset, even though I know he’ll usually settle once I’ve gone. I can be thinking about work deadlines one moment and wondering whether he’s stopped crying the next.

Then it’s onto the bus, where my working day begins properly. I check emails, scroll through LinkedIn, send tweets and catch up on anything I’ve missed. Sometimes I even manage to touch up my eyebrows, although doing so on a moving bus is not something I’d recommend.

There are people who use their commute to read novels or simply look out of the window. I rather envy them. My journey has become an extension of the office, just with fewer chairs and more sudden braking.

By nine, I’m at my desk with a four-shot latte and a list of things that need doing. I check Buffer for social media performance, TweetDeck for mentions and the latest activity across client accounts. Press releases need reviewing, journalists need contacting and stories need following up. Somewhere among all this, the weekly scrum meeting appears on the calendar.

Working in PR is often misunderstood. People imagine glamorous events, networking lunches and perhaps the occasional glass of something fizzy. The reality involves considerably more writing, research, spreadsheets and trying to get hold of journalists who are understandably busy doing their own jobs.

A typical morning might involve drafting a feature, editing a press release, responding to client feedback and speaking to reporters. On a busy week, I can be working across three press releases while keeping several other projects moving.

I enjoy the work. I like finding a story, shaping it and seeing it appear in print or online. But it requires concentration, and concentration can be difficult when you’ve been awake since six and spent the first hour of your day debating footwear with a toddler.

By lunchtime, I’ve usually consumed enough caffeine to make a pharmacist raise an eyebrow.

The afternoon brings another round of emails, revisions and meetings. Feedback arrives on something I thought I’d finished, another deadline moves and an idea I’ve been meaning to explore gets pushed further down the list.

This is also when nursery occasionally calls. There’s something about seeing the nursery number appear on your phone that makes your stomach tighten before you’ve even answered. Sometimes Cyrus has bumped his head. Sometimes there’s chickenpox in the class. Occasionally, it’s something relatively minor, but for a few seconds I find myself wondering whether I’ll need to abandon everything and head straight over.

Then I return to the work in front of me. It’s this constant switching between professional responsibilities and parenting that I find particularly tiring. I’m physically at my desk, concentrating on clients and deadlines, but another part of my brain is remembering that Cyrus needs more nappies or that I’ve forgotten to reply to a birthday invitation.

Nobody has asked me to keep all these things in my head. They simply live there, taking up space.

By five o’clock, I’ve reorganised my Wunderlist, set reminders and made a mental note of everything I haven’t managed to finish. I leave the office knowing there will be more waiting tomorrow. The bus journey home gives me a chance to catch up on messages, although by this point I’d quite like to sit quietly and look out of the window like a normal person.

Walking through the front door is usually the nicest part of my day. Cyrus comes to greet me with a smile and a hug, and for a few moments I forget about the emails, deadlines and nursery logistics. There’s something rather wonderful about being welcomed home by a small person who is genuinely pleased to see you.

Then I remember we need dinner. The evening moves quickly. There’s food to prepare, washing-up to tackle and the usual domestic jobs that seem to multiply while nobody is looking. We might squeeze in a Skype call with family, which matters when relatives live thousands of miles away.

Cyrus has his bath, and somewhere along the way we negotiate bedtime. There are stories, cuddles and occasionally requests for another episode of Peppa Pig, despite my increasingly desperate insistence that the television has finished for the night.

I love these evenings with him. I also find them exhausting, and I don’t think the two feelings contradict each other. Motherhood has made me appreciate small things I once took for granted, including eating a meal while it’s still hot and going to the bathroom without an audience.

By nine, the house is finally beginning to settle. I look around and notice the dishes that still need putting away, the shopping list I haven’t finished and the clothes waiting to be sorted for tomorrow. There are always things I could be doing. Sometimes I do them. Other evenings, I decide they can wait.

If I’m lucky, I manage a bath, a little Netflix and some dark chocolate. Twenty minutes of peace feels surprisingly luxurious when you’ve spent the day answering questions, making decisions and trying to remember what you’ve forgotten.

I used to imagine that having a baby later in life might make me a calmer, more organised mother. After all, I’d had years to establish a career, learn a few lessons and become reasonably competent at adulthood. What I hadn’t appreciated was that experience doesn’t give you extra hours in the day. Nor does being over 40 make you immune to tiredness, frustration or the occasional desire to hide in the bathroom with a cup of coffee.

Some evenings, I feel pleased with everything I’ve managed. On others, I wonder whether I’ve given enough attention to Cyrus, whether I’ve done my best at work and why I still haven’t ordered those birthday presents.

Then I remind myself that tomorrow is another day, although I’d be grateful if it didn’t start quite so early.

Looking back at this routine, what strikes me isn’t how much I managed to squeeze into a day. It’s how little time I allowed myself to stop.

I was proud of being a working mother, and I still am. I wanted to maintain my career, contribute financially and show Cyrus that women have ambitions and interests beyond the home. But I also wanted to be there for the nursery pick-ups, the bedtime stories and all the little moments that make childhood what it is.

I don’t regret becoming a mother at 40. Far from it. Having Cyrus has brought a kind of happiness I couldn’t have imagined before he arrived. But I do think we sometimes make working motherhood harder by treating exhaustion as evidence that we’re doing a good job.

I don’t particularly want a medal for managing the nursery run, getting to work on time or remembering everyone’s vitamins. I’d rather have a little more breathing room, a coffee I can finish while it’s hot and perhaps an evening when I don’t feel obliged to be productive.

The gym remains my escape. Those two-and-a-half hours each week might not sound like much, but they’re mine. For a short while, I’m not someone’s mother, wife or PR contact. I’m simply myself, listening to music, exercising and enjoying the fact that nobody needs anything from me.

And perhaps that’s what I wish I’d understood earlier. Being a good mother doesn’t have to mean being available to everyone all the time.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.