A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling proud of the cardboard sword I’d helped my son, Dash, construct for a fancy-dress party. I’ve never been the kind of mother who relishes crafting, but I couldn’t help feeling a warm glow of pride when I saw Dash’s reaction to the wobbly outline I’d cut from a pizza box we’d covered in silver foil.
Dash adores making costumes, often driving me mad in the rush before school by covering the kitchen table in a tangle of scissors and tape and lidless felt tips, just as I’m begging him to find his shoes. Almost every morning is the same, as I chivvy him and his siblings to hurry up, but lately, I’ve been reminding myself to slow down. Dash is 10 years old; I don’t know much longer he’ll want me to make cardboard swords with him.
Time flies, but it never moves faster than when you’re staring into the faces of your children, witnessing the years racing past. One of the things I keep relearning as a mother is the skill of holding on to the gorgeous, if chaotic, moments I share with my kids, but not holding on so tight I lose my mind in the process.
I should know, since this delicate balancing act, between embracing chaos while holding on to a sometimes-tenuous sense of self, is something I’ve been doing since I was 24, when my eldest son, Jimmy, now 24, was born. He’s just graduated from university and seeing him stand before me, a grown-up on the cusp of adult life, I’m reminded again how fleeting the chaos, the colour, the demands and delights of parenthood really are.
I have five children, because Jimmy was followed by Dolly, now 21, then later by Evangeline, Dash, 10, and Lester, my youngest, who is 8. Squint at the future and I’ll be almost 60 by the time Lester’s leaving school. Being their mum is the biggest privilege of my life, but parenting is also the hardest job I’ve ever done.
I didn’t know this as a much younger woman, but instead was driven by a certainty, unusual among my friends at university, that I wanted kids before I wanted anything. Jimmy was born a couple of years after graduating, but just after Dolly was born two years later, I was a single mother. My first marriage was chaotic, and by 27, I was bringing up two kids entirely alone, while establishing myself as a writer at the same time.
It was a threadbare, beautiful time. Sometimes, looking back, I sometimes wonder if I was the best version of myself as a single mother in my 20s. Our income was precarious, but back then, it seemed to matter less than it does now. Jimmy and Dolly lived in hand-me-downs and fun was always home-made.
And, of course, since it was the mid-2000s, there was no social media. I think this was liberating, with no mommy influencers with sleep schedules or high-tech prams to envy, or pop psychologists in the palm of my hand with gentle parenting tips to get tied up in.
Instead, I bundled through it, sleep-deprived, skint and delighted by the extraordinary privilege of spending my life with two funny, demanding and charming children. Providing for them motivated me. Rather than an enemy of creativity, the literal pram in the hall motivated me.
My three younger children arrived after I met my second husband in my early 30s. I loved being pregnant, loved giving birth and was besotted with the early weeks with each new baby. I loved the raw physicality of being a mother. And I was driven by that special feeling each child brought with them that, while the stresses on the home and marriage had increased – in the form of less money, less time, less sex, less ease – the magnitude of love their lives represented brought with it a kind of radiance far beyond measure. I think that that desire to love my children is what’s motivated me as a mother, more than anything.
If this sounds romantic, it’s because it was. But I also want to be boldly realistic about how hard motherhood is. It’s really, really hard. I’ve had haunting post-natal depression, not once, but twice and, when Lester was born, Jimmy crashed into adolescence, challenging me at every angle, as adolescents will. Nursing cracked nipples and a baby with colic while Jimmy was being expelled from school was a wild, sometimes lawless ride. I often felt we were clinging on by our fingertips, although I also know, now, that Jimmy’s adolescence wasn’t that abnormal but instead was a necessary part of him growing up.
And this is the thing: there’s no break from being a mum. It’s full-time, every day, with no holidays or sick leave. And in between cooking pasta for the millionth time and sitting in my car outside a chilly community centre waiting for another child to finish a dance class, I’ve also fought to hold on to my own identity, to assert myself as their mum, yes, but also as a woman in my own right, with an income, certainly, but also a creative, spiritual and intellectual life separate from my children.
I’ve found ways to do this through my creativity, more than anything, and in my writing career. I passionately believe that we should love our children with every fibre in our being, but that having an identity separate to our children is also crucial to staying sane and even, dare I say it, being happy. More than anything, it’s that sense of self that has carried me through the good days, as well as the bad, and it makes me a better mother in the process, too.
My advice to other parents
- Believe in your children and let them know you believe in them. Even when they’re messing up, or, as you see it, at least, making the wrong choices, let them know you’re on their side.
- Buy as many of the big pieces of kit you can, such as a buggy, high-chair and play equipment, secondhand, ideally from a charity shop or charity. New baby equipment might seem beguiling before the baby arrives, but it will get covered in more spilt juice, mashed banana and unidentified fluids than you can probably imagine and once it’s outgrown, you won’t be able to get rid of it fast enough to create more space at home. Spend the money you save on something to treat yourself, such as a massage or a special treat, when your baby is a few months old and you are clinging on with exhaustion and need to feel cared for.
- Look after you. Becoming a mother is a beautiful, profound, funny and wild experience. It’s also a strangely devastating experience, which will make you cry in ways you’ve never anticipated. Allow yourself to feel it all, as these feelings of change are natural parts of motherhood.
- Make time to keep hold of who you are. Motherhood is hard. Don’t judge yourself. You’ll get it wrong, often, many, many, many times, but most of us are doing our very best, so don’t let the internal – and external – voices shatter your confidence.
- Keep loving your children and communicating that love to them through your actions as well as your words. Nothing else really matters.
My Wild and Sleepless Nights: A Mother’s Story by Clover Stroud is out now. Follow Clover on Instagram or subscribe to her Substack.
