Britt Jones
Author, journalist, and commentator whose work explores culture, womanhood, and society
I opened my eyes this morning and my six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter were already in a frenzy. Crying, throwing teddies, and ultimately waiting to be fed and watered. Like Groundhog Day, I arose from my fitful and mostly interrupted slumber to get ready for the morning grind. It’s the summer holidays, so there are 14 hours that need to be accounted for and filled before they can go to bed.
My parenting journey has been one that began with pure and simple desperation, and a lot of tears over the course of trying and failing to see the two lines on dozens of tests. The moment it finally happened, I remembered maniacally laughing and crying, not believing that it was finally happening. Then, when our son was born, I fell into step with the hundreds of hours of guidance I had watched in preparation, and took to mum groups for what I didn’t know.
For all intents and purposes, I didn’t find the task of being a mother all that difficult on the surface but as the years accumulated, and I made the choice to have two under two, some things had to give. Apparently, those things were in relation to me: my hobbies and identity as an individual.
