Me, Myself and Isolation.

I will allow myself this time. This is my time. 

I chant silently in my close to vacant mind. That’s a good mantra Dee, because it’s aiming for the impossible…well selected. My brain instantly separates in two and while high-fiving itself, it forms a debate. Oooh, perhaps it should be something about There Is No Such Thing As Impossible instead, so as to encompass my Motherhood and whatnot. Is that allowed? I wonder what that chick’s mantra is over there….’ 

From the front of the dimmed room, the voice of my Yoga Meditation instructor calmly reminds us that it is time to turn off. 

Sorry thoughts, she says you have to leave. My mind says to itself. ‘Tis after all, my time. 

I visualise a fly swat shooing the gathering List’o’Worries through into the next room and resolve into breaths.

Once you have children, it is a rare and mesmerising occurrence to find yourself alone and cocooned in an activity that solely benefits yourself.

The dimensions of my entire existence changed gears the second that little blue line seeped onto the test stick. With a new title, the dynamics of all my relationships had changed.  I saw my parents differently, I felt the urge to work for the friendships that were once conveyed with such ease, and most notably, my husband was instantly demoted. 

What had grown to become a Partnership throughout our childless days, had been relegated to more of a CEO – Vice President establishment. “Look, I’d love to let this one slide but the boss is really riding me on this one…you simply must clean your room,” he would whisper to Miss Boo behind closed company doors, climaxing in the appearance of Mummy Boss lady sweeping in and putting my foot down on the deadline.

The Devil wears pink Ugg’s. 

Where he became a guy who happened to also be a Daddy now (and to his credit, a marvellous one), I ceased to be just a girl and turned into Mummy. A title that actively spilled out onto every persona I had acquired in my twenty something years.

Bridget Jones suddenly went from being a representation of a woman seeking love and children and started to look more like a romantic holiday. She did, in spite of everything, have the opportunity to listen to music in her pyjama’s and dance about while eating chocolate and drinking heavily. 

Post children, the idea of Mr Darcy wasn’t nearly as appealing. Unless, of course, he could vacuum whilst simultaneously lactating. Watching him emerge in a soaking wet shirt due to forgetting to wear breast pads etc. 

The person I had become was almost jealous and angered by Soccer Hubby’s ability to keep calm and carry on. ‘Go on then, pop out to training without a second thought. Enjoy the maintained friendships and the presence of your stomach muscles.’ 

Outings for me were hardly that tangible considering that I would need to leave my breasts, or indeed their contents, in order to gain a mere three hours of separation.

(In a time when testosterone pulsates through the veins of Olympic athletes globally, has no one ever considered poking men with a little oestrogen in the hope that tenderness and night feeds can become a shared event? Not that I don’t adore breastfeeding, but placed at the end of 23 waking hours it would be soothingly uplifting to sub in and sit on the bench for a bit.)

Each and every time Soccer Hubby laid beside me snoring in oblivious thunder, he ran the dangerous risk of me using his nostrils as target practise.

(Don’t worry about offending him, he wouldn’t read anything that didn’t include sport scores and in the off chance he did stumble across this, we would have lost him at the words ‘Bridget Jones’.)

‘Can’t I just wash the dishes in the morning? I’ve been working all day and I’m a bit tired,’ Soccer Hubby would protest as he returned from work to a clean house, hot shower and dinner.

The crack in the relationship snapped into view.

‘What’s it like?’ Said I.

‘What’s that?’ Said Soccer Hubby.

‘Being able to come home from work? I’ve been a chef, cleaner, nurse, PA, entertainer, teacher, bodyguard and personal shopper going on three years now and it must be glorious to have a break…but go ahead, use the last of the hot water and I’ll ask myself how my day was.’

Harsh, but an unconscious reaction of which I had no control over.

Through this gritted resentment and surges jealous tutting, I found that it was not actually my relationship with Soccer Hubby that was fractured. It was my relationship with me.

This bitter version of myself was just spitting insecurity as she wept mournfully for herself. It was almost like the two were separate entities, one me in the present and one Soccer Hubby’s first wife, whom we didn’t speak of.

As pedantically prepared as I was for relationships lulls, I had never imagined that I would, at any point, be divorcing myself.

I had walked out on myself and not even noticed.

‘But you love cake decorating, that’s a you thing isn’t it?’ Said Soccer Hubby upon this discovery.

‘When was the last time I made myself a cake?’ Said I.

Each and every minute I had now was dedicated to the benefit of others. Regardless of what activity it was, the final outcome was undoubtedly ridden with the mothering needs of those around me.

And as a collective group, most Mother’s did the same.

To test such a theory amongst maternal girlfriends, one needs only to sneeze loudly and watch the abundance of tissues magically appear from pockets. To test further, alert them to a blister and watch in awe as they produce colour coded band-aids as if from thin air.

The path splits and we bid farewell to the girl who had time to spare, transforming into beings of robotic abilities that embody Go-Go-Gaget reflexes.

But I couldn’t bow out, I had to fight. The girl I had once been owed me. It was, after all, her actions that had gotten me all married and pregnant in the first place.

Before this separation was to be final, the determined mother in me would be fighting for one last attempt to reunite. “Remember Yoga and Meditation? We loved Yoga and Meditation. Can we not rekindle that and just see where it leads?”

I agreed to give it one last shot, and off I had skipped to find myself.

Nevertheless, drawing towards the Yoga arena my body cramped in the familiar twist of Mum Guilt. I’m a Mummy now, why should I be allowed to take time off? I knew the deal, how dare I repress that title for a chance to flirt with my previous existence.  I should just be continuing Mum’s and Bub’s Yoga to benefit my children. Maybe I should take Soccer Hubby to classes to better his soccer injuries? 

“No. No. No.” Said the ghost of my former self. “Making excuses was where you lost me before. We need this. Your whole family needs this.”

I may be a mother, but if my relationship with others was to progress and flourish, my relationship with myself must be mutually reconciled. 

So here I sit, cleansing my soul of its plague of shadows. For this next 10 minutes I will be blissfully rewarded with vacant silence. 

Meditation is not just the practise of removing myself from mental clutter, it is the practise of a conscious awareness of everything I’m presented with.

Clarity, in its most pure form reminds me that I cannot control the world, I can only control my reaction to it.

I cannot control the fact that my relationship has altered, but I can make a conscious choice to view that in a positive light.

I cannot control the time that slips silkily through my grasp, but I can allow myself to savour the moments I have.

As Mothers, the tasks we face have the potential to be personal rewards as much as they are personal requests; The innocent wisdom that tumbles from Miss Boo’s thoughts as we read together, how tiny their hands feel when encapsulated within my own, the delicious smell of Miss Moo’s hair when I cradle her in the frosty hours of darkness…

…The refreshing post-yoga positive glow that allows Soccer Hubby’s snoring to continue without violent intervention.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if I allow it to be, all of this can be for me.

Yes, we hold the title of Mummy. But at no point in the manual does it state we’re not allowed to take ten minutes to hold the title of ‘Me’.

Our families don’t just need us, they need the best, composed, version we can be.

So close your eyes and repeat this mantra; 

I may be titled, but that does not mean I’m not entitled.