Regretting motherhood: What have I done to my life?

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Regretting motherhood: What have I done to my life?



I love my kids fiercely. But, if I’m being totally honest, there are times when I catch myself dreaming about the life I might have if I weren’t chained to three young kids, a husband and a mortgage.

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I have a childless friend who writes bestselling chick-lit novels and runs a media empire. I follow her compulsively on Instagram; while my jealousy grows with every unfiltered photo, I can’t stop scrolling. She’s still as skinny as she was when we were at university, and hot damn she looks good in leather pants. I’m just happy if the sweats I bought at the grocery store are clean enough to get me through another day. While she’s sipping sparkling wine as she jets from London to New York, I’m downing tepid coffee as I drive my kids to ballet and swimming lessons.

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There are times, like when I look at her life and then at my own, that I find myself regretting motherhood. And that makes me feel like a very shitty person indeed.

But before someone ties me to a stake and sets me aflame, I need to make that necessary qualifying statement we must all use when complaining about our lot: I love my children. The deep, burning love I feel for them eclipses everything I have ever felt for anyone, and the love they give back makes me incredibly happy.

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In other words, I am not a monster. In fact, I think I’m a kick-arse mom. But what I’m struggling with is that it feels like their amazing life comes at the expense of my own.

By the time I get them into bed, I’m exhausted, but then there’s laundry to do and lunches to pack. I’ll maybe watch half an hour of TV before stumbling into bed, only to be woken at 4 a.m. by the baby—and the slog starts all over again.

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I know I’m not alone. But admitting that parenting is hard, or that there are parts of it we don’t like, is still something of a taboo. When we do complain, we do it in the most socially acceptable way, through memes declaring “the struggle is real” or by talking about how much wine we need to get through this. We joke, but it doesn’t feel very funny. It feels like bits of me, the fun bits, mostly, are dying from a lack of attention.

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When I ask my parent friends if they dream of running away, every single one of them says yes. They might laugh when they reply, but dig deeper, and they’ll talk longingly about the things they miss—newspapers in bed on a Sunday morning; patio drinks that spill into raucous nights out; long, leisurely lovemaking sessions with their husbands—and all the opportunities they’ve passed up by having kids.

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I know I need to take the occasional break from my family and stop feeling guilty about taking some time for myself. I’m lucky my job requires the odd trip away, and now that my youngest is 15 months old, and I’ve stopped nursing, I can travel solo again. Being away is incredible, and I savour each small pleasure (uninterrupted sleep in crisp sheets, a long bath, finishing a novel, dinner after 5 p.m., someone serving me—I could go on and on).

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