More is less, or the motherhood trap

We have a visitor in our home this week, a Tibetan refugee staying with us as part of a cultural exchange and English teaching program. Despite being worried about how we would connect without a shared language or culture, we integrated seamlessly into each other's lives. Weaving her way into the fabric as we weave our way into hers: clasping our palms together in blessings before meals, learning to knead and flatten dough with patience, the rituals of sunset watching, in sipping hot black tea in silence, in doing only one thing at a time.

Doing one thing at a time is not a new concept for me. I do yoga. I have meditation apps on my phone. I flirted with being Buddhist for a brief period in my 20’s. I even wrote a thesis on mindfulness. But I rarely practice it. Doing more is a mantra that I ascribe to, a state that I find comfort in. After all, I’m not just a mum. I’m also a writer. A counsellor. A yoga teacher. A friend, a lover and a daughter. I want to do it all, and all at the same time.

Every now and then I’ll make a concerted effort to overhaul my “doing” to focus more on “being”, but it never seems to stick. Sooner or later I’ll lapse into old habits: checking my email while out for brunch with a friend, juggling multiple writing projects unnecessarily. My mind will wander when playing with my daughter to thoughts about dinner and the TV show we watch when she's asleep.

The problem, I think, is my concept of time. It feels so limited, like there is never enough of it. We say that we are too busy or we don’t have the time, as if our allotment is less than anyone else’s. We wage war on time as if we have any control over it, as if we can cheat it. Apps and machines that boost productivity. Companies that deliver pre-packaged, pre-cut and pre-prepared foods.

Time takes on a new dimension when you become a parent. It suddenly becomes more precious because there is so little of it. Children grow oh so quickly. “It’s over before you know it,” you are told. “You will never get this time back,” you hear. Over and over. Wait until they start walking. Start talking. Start arguing with you. Start sneaking out at night. As if time somehow becomes less precious as they grow up and away from you.

Treasure this time.

Make the most of it.

But what happens when you don’t?

When you haven’t slept or showered or brushed your hair or had a conversation with an adult about anything other than baby poo and naptime schedules? When you’re sore and your head hurts and you’re mad and sad and not even sure who you are any more because everything is different now, because you are different? When you are - above all - overwhelmingly, bone achingly, soul crushingly exhausted?

This morning I dropped my daughter off for her first day of daycare. The warm and caring nature of the young girl who gently lifted her from my arms should have put me at ease, but instead I felt a pang of jealousy. She is the person taking care of my child today, as I sit and write in a cacaphonous and light-strewn cafe, write about my child. As I wistfully gaze at the laptop desktop image of my child instead of actually writing. This is parenting: wanting them to go to sleep so you can have a break, but missing them when they do actually sleep.

The value of time fluctuates depending on what you exchange for it. And right now, in this moment, I feel the deep ache of longing that comes from my daughter’s absence, from the absence of someone that still feels a part of me. It is both the sudden absence of her physically, no longer in my arms, but also the slow and inevitable separation of her and I, necessary as she moves further into this world and becomes a separate being with thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears all of her own. Time, for me, in this moment, has never been more precious.

But I take solace in something else our new Tibetan friend has taught us. Within moments of meeting us, she embraced my daughter, folding her in her arms as if she were a long lost friend. She gazes at her with unabashed adoration, revelling at her babbles and joyful at her laughter. She helps feed and dress her, gently ingratiating herself into the folds of childcare. In Tibet, she tells me, houses are shared by several generations. Adults raise the children together. Everyone shares.

This is something we can learn, in our frenetically-paced, individualistic society. It is true that we don’t have a lot of time with our children. We don’t have a lot of time in general. We live in a society that values productivity above all else. We travel to a bucket list. Collect electronic friendships and tick off catch-ups in diaries. Endlessly overschedule our children. And then, of course, complain about not having enough time.

But we don’t have to do all of it by ourselves. We’re not supposed to. And by trying to cram more into less, we are actually sabotaging our health, happiness and wellbeing.

Our worthiness isn't defined by how much we achieve, and neither is lasting peace gained by finishing the To-Do list.

We are already worthy. It's who we are. What we do with our time is just the background noise we fixate on because it's messy and loud and tends to hijack our attention. But if we gather silence around us, and welcome the gifts of giving and receiving from others, then we can hear the whisper of worthiness, and the reminder to come home to who we truly are.