Someone once told me that, however bad you’re feeling, simply smiling will make you feel happier. It’s to do with the physical action of moving your face muscles triggering neural pathways involved in emotion. Or something. I don’t know whether it’s scientifically proven, anecdotal, or just bullshit.
Anyway, I wonder if the same can be said of looking like you’re in control? Coping. On top of things. If I behave every day – on the school run, at work, in all Benjamin’s appointments, when I’m changing shitty nappies, when I’m frantically suctioning his airway until he can breathe – as if this is all a walk in the park, then is it? If I keep putting one foot in front of the other and holding one tiny person by each hand instead of rolling on the floor and screaming like a toddler am I doing just fine? Or am I just kidding myself? Am I actually kidding anyone else?
I sure want to look like I’m coping. I want to be smart, svelte, smiling and on time, with matching socks and freshly brushed children like everyone else. Why? Because I’m proud (too proud). I’m not about to prove right those I overheard saying, “I don’t know how she’ll cope with three children so close together.” I’m not about to live up to their prediction that, “The eldest will be neglected.” I will bust a gut to show them that I am not only coping with my three children but that all of them are completely loved, cared for, listened to, engaged with, taught, and nurtured.
And because, actually, coping has always been something that gives me a little buzz. At school I loved to be the responsible one – the pupil the teachers could trust to run errands not just reliably but well. I like being the colleague that people can call upon to take on an extra task and know that it will be done excellently and on time. The more things I volunteer for, the more I can kid myself that I am useful, my life is meaningful and valuable, and that I am in control of what I do rather than simply responding to each demand as it arises.
And, because I have to. If I don’t keep on top of the childrens’ calendar and my work commitments and the shopping and the laundry and feeding the guinea pigs and mowing the lawn and making sure the church magazine is out on time who’s going to do it?
Yes, we are very lucky to have a ‘village’ that would do their best to step in in a crisis (and we probably wouldn’t have to cook for a month!) and yes, we have a social worker and six hours agency care a week, and yes, we can afford to pay for some day-care for the girls when we need it, but in the end the buck stops with me to organise and coordinate everything – to carry the ‘mental load.’ With school and nursery and reading practice and homework and swimming and music and ballet and a house and a car and all Benjamin’s appointments and prescriptions and equipment and a little bit of campaigning and a little bit of work and everybody outgrowing their shoes all the time, there are just so many balls to drop!
Are they starting to fall? How long have I got before people realise it’s all a façade? Where the professionals once said, “You’ve done so well with Benjamin!” Will they start realising that I should do so much more? Where friends once said, “You’re always on top of things!” Will they start noticing that my to-do list is so long things are dropping off the bottom? That the girls have been promised new curtains since I got my sewing machine, the Christmas before last… That I told a colleague I’d write a ‘topical’ paper two summers ago… Do my family notice that I’m less patient, my sense of humour has shrunk, I drink more wine, and we’re always out of salt and vinegar crisps?
Now that two out of the three children are mobile and talking but only one of them has any sense of danger or ability to understand reason, I am seriously outnumbered. Not to mention the fact that none of them sleep through the night… When I’m home alone with them I’m a nervous wreck: planning, imagining worst case scenarios, trying to second guess which one will need me next, how to keep the other two happy at the same time, and when it’s safe to go for a pee. And out of the house is worse.
Some weeks I feel like I’ve embarrassed myself, let everyone down, like I can’t do this at all; others I feel I have totally got this. Bizarrely, the latter is usually when things are busiest, Benjamin is poorliest, and I am most overstretched. It’s when we’re whiling away a sunny afternoon at the park because we don’t have to be anywhere particular that things seem to go properly tits-up. Perhaps I really do thrive under pressure? Or do I only realise what a car-crash my life is when I have time to think? And am I the only one? Is everyone else doing better? Or are they too just winging it, firefighting one crisis after another and relying on chocolate and a good mascara to face the world? Are we all swans, swimming serenly past one another as we paddle frantically under the surface to stay afloat? And if I keep faking being in control will it one day actually come true?