When I got home from school drop-off, I closed the door and heard the fridge humming. After three weeks of holidays with Louise, my five-year-old daughter, I had almost forgotten that sound. Nobody was asking me to look at a snail, open an applesauce pouch or check whether it was still morning.
I took off my shoes with a long sigh. I was relieved school had started again. Then I felt guilty about being so pleased.
Louise had walked into her classroom without looking back. We had enjoyed our holidays, with dens under the table and a collection of pebbles that had travelled in every one of my bags. Why did the silence feel so good?
Feeling guilty about the relief
I opened our last holiday photo on my phone. Louise was laughing, her knees covered in sand. I wondered whether a mother who really loved those moments ought to wish they would last longer.
Yet there was something the photo didn’t show: to take it, I had interrupted my conversation, found the hat and negotiated our departure from the beach. It was still a happy memory. It had also taken energy.
At home, I could start something without keeping one ear free. Even starting nothing for a few minutes felt rather nice. Thinking about it, I mostly wanted to finish one thing without answering another request.
There was nothing for the snack to fix
Then I searched for a cake recipe for after school. Next I thought of the park she liked, a little far away but reachable by bus.
The morning had barely begun and I was already planning ways to make up for enjoying it.
I closed the recipe. We still had bread and chocolate. The park could wait for a day when I actually wanted to go, rather than a day when I thought I owed her something.
If the guilt returns tomorrow, I can start with a more specific question:
The noise, the interruptions, the meals to plan? Naming what feels tiring helps me more than deciding whether I’m happy enough about being a mother. And I can let this free time exist without immediately finding a use for it.
At pick-up, Louise handed me a sheet of paper folded into quarters. She wanted to show me her drawing before she even put on her coat. I crouched beside her.
I was glad to see her again. The bread and chocolate were waiting for us.
