Not another guilty mother

So. Now that we're through the acute phase I'm finally ready to talk about Miss I's adjustment to being the child of working parents. This is a significant development. Until recently, neither of her parents were engaged in the workforce. Now we both are, and, as a result, so is she. In a way.

For four of her seven days, there's no longer time for lounging in her cot, leisurely enjoying a long breakfast or having the luxury of time to select an outfit for the day. No. There's no room for spontaneity in our house on school day mornings. Our routine is precise, almost-military like and completely foreign.

The night before is my new best friend. I lay clothes out for me and Miss I before bed. Our coats hang on the front door, where her backpack and my handbag sit ready to be scooped up as we scoot out the door. Lunch is ready in the fridge.

If it were at all feasible I'd feed us both breakfast, dress Miss I and apply my makeup the night before too. Because every detail that is finalised the evening before saves us precious minutes getting out the door, each morning. Which, in turns, saves us precious minutes waiting in traffic, on the bus. Which in turn, saves my precious sanity and that of my fellow passengers and the bus driver. (Too long cooped up in a stationary bus tends to bring out the worst in Miss I). So being organised is practically a health and safety measure.

At the end of our bus ride I walk Miss I to her daycare. These days this particular aspect of the routine is a piece of cake. But for the first week or so it left me needing cake. Which before 8am is pretty dire. And hard to come by.

Before Miss I started I was adamant that I was not going to feel guilty about working or her going to daycare. I am fortunate to have a job I love, I found not having a job for a long period of time quite difficult and financially having a job is essential. So, really, I decided, there is no room or need for guilt. After many long internal dialogues I concluded it would be sensible to devote my emotional time and energy into my daughter herself, instead of feeding any feelings of guilt.

Which was all good and well until it was time for me to leave. At which point her tiny face crumpled, she gripped onto my leg and sobbed. And then the guilt I was meant to subdue, engulfed me. It wasn't intellectual. It was primal, emotional and impossible to ignore. My heart didn't seem to care for the broader logical imperatives for me going to work. All it saw was me leaving my darling girl - the bundle of life that bewilders me every day - in tears. This time she was bewildered by me. By the fact that I would leave her. And, it hurt. I felt cruel and selfish and mean.

They* say the best thing to do in this situation is to just eat cake and drink gin say goodbye and walk away. The longer you stay, the more confused and shocked the little person will be, when you do finally leave. So for a few days I would wave goodbye, walk out and make a beeline for the office where I would quiz my colleagues on how on earth they coped and survived this treacherous ritual. And then I'd spend a good part of my day wondering whether working is the single most evil thing a parent can do.

I am happy to report it's probably not. (Surely stealing their toys and flying across the world is worse?) Our morning farewell is no longer loaded. It's now a matter of picking out a toy or someone else's breakfast and Miss I happily plays as I say goodbye. Which is excellent because had it proceeded much longer, I suspect I would now be unemployed, overweight from cake consumption and racked with guilt.

*'They' being the holders of all baby wisdom – authors, friends, strangers, childcare workers, taxi drivers and anyone else who would listen.