no. 37. am I up to the job?

five things I’d like to write about if I had more time

Just as I vowed I would start writing these more regularly, life had other ideas. Babies get sick, childminders take holidays, driving lessons are long and families are only ever five minutes away from a crisis - or is that just me? Anyway, I’m currently sitting in the library surrounded by 16-year-olds revising for their GCSEs and feeling ever so grateful that I never have to read a Chemistry textbook again. But I’m also envious - envious of all they’ve got to come: the firsts, the thrills, the excitement, leaving home (maybe not in this economy), deciding who they want to be. The dreams are unspoilt, the possibilities are endless, and it’s all waiting for them. Or have I romanticised it all? Would you go back and do it all again? 

In other news, rumours are that Subtack is trying to turn itself into a social media platform but I will be here as long as you are, and as long as I’m allowed to send words out into the universe. In the meantime, any support is so gratefully received. You can buy me coffee on Ko-fi, pledge support or simply suggest a friend might be interested in receiving these emails. 

On with the show.  

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Here are five things I’d like to write about if I had more time: 

1.
Someone said the word ‘expectations’ to me in a meeting and the sound of a giant power volt went off in my head, like a scene in a movie. “Find the lights!”, and behold, an airport hanger full of missing treasures. In this case, the revelation was the inside of my brain discovering the endless ways in which I am a slave to expectations; to be a brilliant mother, to be successful, to be robust and resilient, to be functioning, to be okay, to be presentable, to be polite and on time, to be exceptional in some way if only I could figure out how. I’d like to know who those expectations belonged to before they were mine. I’d like to know what the opposite of expectation is: failure or acceptance.

2.
A sandpit on a grey day at the end of March is a great place to make a friend. As you watch little people fall over their feet and steal spades from one another, as you sit on a thin blanket clutching lukewarm coffees, you will find words arriving out of your mouth like the first drops of rain. And then comes the downpour. Your honesty will surprise you. You don’t know this person. But you do know this person. She’s a lot like you. She’s tired and a bit scared and wondering if her choices are the right ones and getting on with the job of it all. She’s trying to find her way. You instantly fall in love with her unapologetic belief in creativity and living freely. You tell her you’re impressed she’s wearing white jeans. She tells you her long jumper is hiding a period stain. More words pitter and patter, washing over us, a relief to get them out, although we’re getting damp and cold with the truth of it all. It’s time to go now, I say to A. 

3.
Abortion in the US is in the headlines over here because Arizona has announced a 6-week ban after the Supreme Court decided it could resurrect a law from the 1860s in the wake of Roe’s demise. Arizona is one of a handful of states that could decide what looks like to be a very close rematch between two very old men. Since Roe has been overturned, voters have shown up for abortion rights in midterm and local elections, even in the reddest of states, a refreshing two fingers up to lawmakers who think they can control a woman’s body. Now Trump is claiming he wouldn’t sign a national ban as President because Trump, more than anything, likes to win, and he’s realised that extreme abortion bans aren’t a winning formula. Trump is also a liar. I would be lying if I said American politics do not enthral me. The subject is probably 90% of my podcast listening and an almost nightly conversation with E. The Biden and Trump rematch, which will be close, is something I will endlessly consume. However, in all of this, where are the women? A question, that despite traveling seven states to talk to women on the frontline of abortion care in the most restrictive parts of the country, I need reminding of. Women in America are being denied reproductive healthcare and justice because they’ve been political pawns for the last 40 years. Now, even when their plight is becoming increasingly severe, they are being overshadowed by the theatre of politics, by the sparring of two old men, something I too have become distracted by. Of course, the two are intrinsically linked; a Trump Presidency will make life harder for women, and even if things change in November, until then thousands of women will be forced to carry an unwanted pregnancy to term unless they can find the funds and the childcare to go out of state (Some states are trying to ban out of state travel for abortion access). My question for the 2024 election: Where are the women?

4.
I passed my driving test! It was my second attempt. The first time I mounted the curb and the examiner actually got out of the car to check I hadn’t caused any damage. On my second test, I only got one minor. Now I have P plates and apologise to A for taking at least 10 minutes to reverse park into our drive - the only way to park on the narrow streets by our house. I feel immense pride driving my son somewhere. I'm sure most people don’t give it a second thought. But I’ve thought about it a lot, reaching 38 without a licence. I’ve longed to pass for all the obvious reasons - the freedom, the independence, the adventures. But now I’ve passed, it's something else. It’s doing the thing that for so long seemed impossible. Until one day you're doing it. And you can’t quite believe that it’s you in the driving seat and there’s no dual control and it’s your son in the backseat. And this is the texture and the fabric of life, this is what you brush your hand along to check it’s real, that feels as grounding and essential as soil under fingernails, this is the every day that is quietly extraordinary. 

5.
Sometimes, the enormity of what we’ve done catches me off guard. Am I up to the job? Can I be someone’s universe? Sometimes I can’t believe he’s there. A small boy is running out of the kitchen shrieking, a fast-moving ET with a face from heaven that breaks my heart if I look too long because these moments are fleeting. And it’s as if he’s just arrived, beamed down from an unknown location. I’m still not used to the sight of him. I can’t believe he’s mine. I look for something to hold onto. I take E’s hand. I take deep breaths. And then one night bad news arrives on my phone. I’m restless and exhausted. I do yoga at the foot of the bed in my pajamas but it doesn’t help. A few hours later A wakes and screams into the night. He’s not going to settle. I lay cushions next to his cot and he grabs my fingers tightly through the wooden poles. His little body, distressed, and full of cold, curls up to find sleep. He clings to my hand with all his might. But it is me who is clinging to him. In the darkness, save for the red glow of the monitor, his small folded body radiates such overwhelming comfort, a precious stone imbued with pulsing, magic powers, I feel like am the child, safe by his side. I’m here, I whisper to him. You’re here, I whisper to myself. We fall asleep with fingers entwined, and nothing feels more real than this, his little limbs, in this moment, somehow as sturdy as the roots of an ancient tree. At this moment the enormity doesn’t overwhelm me, it saves me. He will get me through the long night, and all those to come.  

One really great thing

The Equivalents: A Story of Art, Friendship and Liberation in the 1960s by Maggie Doherty. I adored this book. A group biography of the writers, poets and artists who were the first intake to attend the Radcliffe Institute. Part of Harvard’s sister college and a “messy experiment” launched in 1961, the institute aimed to give exceptionally talented wives and mothers, PhD level or equivalent, an entry back into practising and developing their skills - instead of disappearing into domestic drudgery. Places were limited, thousands applied, and competition was fierce. They had two years of teaching, a healthy grant and space and time to work. On the eve of the women’s lib movement, but still caught in the trappings of post-war expectations, these women - and the experiment itself - were pushing feminist ideas into a world that still expected them to put their duties to their families first. And they also happen to be truly brilliant. The intake included Anne Sexton, Tilly Olsen and later on, Alice Walker. The book also examines the friendships between these women. East Coast, middle-class white women were meant to be most loyal to their husbands. But in this space, female friendships - or sisterhood, a woman’s liberation stable that had yet to be articulated - flourished. But more than flourishing, it proved vital to their shared success, their faith that they could excel and granting themselves  permission to, and even to the creative process itself. The image of Anne Sexton and Maxine Kumin, sitting on the edge of Sexton’s pool watching their kids play with typewriters on their laps as they workshopped each other’s poems is a whole world to me. Will be desperately waiting for the Netflix adaptation. 

As ever, thank you for reading

M