Working with Children

I always thought I could have it all, that it would be easy, that parenthood and work would go hand in hand; that I could go to work, come home, spend some time with the kids, take them to bed, rinse and repeat. Ok, I wasn’t that naïve. I expected the interrupted nights, I expected that I’d go to work tired on occasion, and that I’d get the odd call from the wife; stressed when the baby (now babies) had been particularly difficult. In reality, though, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Like in numerous other facets of my life, things have cropped up in my working life that I, quite simply, did not expect.

It was hard enough when it was only my little girl. Just getting out of the house in a morning seemed like an impossible task, with many further obstacles in my way. The days she would stay asleep were fine, of course, but if she'd woke up, I’d feel obliged to help out, which only gave me less time to make myself beautiful. I would often find myself running for a bus or tram, thinking that I’d need it to transform into a rocket to get me to work on time (although sometimes lazy mornings were to blame for this). Ok, I’m exaggerating, but the rush was always on, and as she cried when I left the house, it would always take a little time to shake off.

Then there was the getting home, when I simply couldn’t switch off, no matter how hard work had been. After a day of it, the Mrs would usually head into the kitchen to cook some dinner and take a little time for herself, so it was up to me to look after the little one, if only for a small time. Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing her after work, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t finish me off all the same. Then when my wife went back to work after maternity leave, more headaches arose. Who was going to look after the child Monday to Friday? Nursery was off the table for all five days due to cost; and we felt that it was too early besides. We figured it out, of course, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t any head-scratching conversations beforehand.

At times I’d joke, somewhat seriously, that work was almost like a holiday; that it was easier to go to work than to look after my daughter. Of course, spending time with her is special, and with my littlest girl when one became two, although my head always felt heavier after such a day; and I’ve always gotten to sleep better (not that the youngest has allowed me to stay asleep half the time!). In a similar way to work, it would be going quite nicely when suddenly disaster would strike – I might use the wrong colour when drawing with the eldest or my youngest might fall off the chair she’s climbed on – and throw the day off-kilter. Play time, be it with the older or younger sister, often results in a mini-migraine; and don’t get me started on their TV programs.

Working from home takes it to another level. There’s no travel involved and I walk ten steps from my bedroom to my office to get to work, so it must be easier, right? More stress-free, right? Wrong. Getting the elder sister ready for school as I stop the youngest from being a maniac, on a time limit, is enough to have me pulling my hair out; and I still find myself racing around the house to get onto my computer in time. Then there is all the noise outside the room, which engender a range of reactions from myself. Sometimes I smile, sometimes I laugh, some of it frustrates me and, at times I feel compelled to intervene before my wife kills one or both of them (usually the big one). Either way, I try to block it out (although that’s not easy when they march or crawl into my office), but that is often impossible.

Having children has really opened my eyes when it comes to my work life. It’s both made me want to work less to spend time with them, and more to show them a good work ethic and to give them a better life. It’s inspired me to work on my writing, on children’s writing (hopefully more on that to come soon) and on my novels, to be as successful as I can be. Most of all, it allows me to appreciate work a bit more, if only to give you a break from the madness, if only for a few hours.

By Calum Dewsbury