My family diary: Mama’s first night away

** This blog is part of a series called The Chaos Train, a record of daily life when you have a career and pre-school children **

It’s 2pm on a Saturday and I’m eating a tiny cake in north-west London on my own. That’s right – on my own. I’m never on my own. The whole experience is so magical that I don’t even mind when the cafe-owner charges me £4 for a chic morsel of sponge. 

This is my first night away from my children, aged 3.5yrs and 1.5yrs. My husband is flying solo with them and I’ve come down to London, where I plan to check out an exhibition, then head to a dinner party, and then have an unbroken night’s sleep.

The first night away is a big moment for anyone with young kids – and for me it’s happening far later than I thought it would. One reason is that, as with all families, the Covid pandemic obliterated any rhythms that we might otherwise have followed. In the end, I basically spent three years at home: 2019 on maternity leave with my daughter, 2020 in lockdowns, and 2021 on maternity leave again with my son.

The other reason is that I’m a much more “attached” parent than I would have predicted. I always thought I’d get bored on maternity leave and clamour to go back to work. Instead, I took a whole year off for each of my children and now work part-time. My kids hang out in the bathroom while I shower, sit on my lap when I’m on the loo, and take it in turns to sleep in our bed. (Like I said, I’m never alone.)

In the lead-up to my night away, I felt shaky about whether I’d miss my children and whether they’d miss me. My daughter cried when I told her about my trip and I considered cancelling. I chose a quiet dinner party with close friends in case I was emotional. If you’d told Pre-child Me that I’d ever act this way, I’d have been appalled.

Neon sculptures and Nando’s

But, in the event, everyone is just fine. I find that I easily slip back into the mode of Pre-Child Me – and in fact it’s a relief to know that she still exists. I potter around some neon sculptures at Whitechapel Gallery with a friend. I make burritos with another friend. I enjoy drifting, travelling alone from one social meet-up to the next.

My husband and the cubs do just fine too – he’s looked after them on his own during the day before, although this will be his first solo bedtime and overnight shift. He orders a Nando’s for dinner, which is a sure-fire winner, and texts me at 830pm to say that both kids are asleep, which is good going in our house.

Many working parents say that being at work is their “me time”. But I don’t buy it. I think we tell ourselves that because true “me time” is so hard to come by. “Me time” means enjoying rambling and uninterrupted thoughts, just for yourself, and not having to deal with anyone else’s needs. I bet you’re not doing that at work – and, if you are, I bet you’re not too popular at the office.

Er, what time are you back?

When I wake up on Sunday, things are starting to unravel at home. “Everyone slept until 4am, went downhill from there,” says a 7am text from my husband. 

An hour later I get a text that just says: “What time are you back?”. Which, as we all know, is parent-speak for: “Help I’m drowning”. A while later he texts again to say that he forgot his keys and now they’re locked out until I get back.

I receive these messages while sitting in my child-free friend’s sunny kitchen, drinking tea and talking about Kendrick Lamar. It’s a different planet. But it’s time to head back to Earth.

Three hours later, as soon as I get off the train, I pull out my phone to call my husband so I can go meet them. I hear someone screaming, just at my feet, and I look down to see my daughter right there. A few steps away, my husband is there too with my son in the sling. My very own frazzled welcome party, here on the platform. It feels good to be back.

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