Don't steal my time

'Tis the season for giving

Welcome to Mother’s Gonna Work it Out – a newsletter not just for mothers with children, but for everyone who cares for anyone. All previous posts are here.

I rushed back home the other morning, after skidding a recalcitrant toddler to childcare in the snow, to be at my computer for a Zoom call. I tied up my unwashed hair and, dead on time, joined the call to interview this person for a piece I’d been commissioned to write. And waited. Ten minutes in, the guy I was supposed to be talking to emailed me saying he was running late and would be there in ten minutes. He never turned up. 

I sat there, staring at myself staring back at me, wondering if I’d be as annoyed if I didn’t also have a child to manage along with the rest of the jigsaw puzzle that is a freelance career. Probably. But, considering my morning, this no-show particularly irked. 

A yoga teacher once introduced me to the concept of Asteya, which is one of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali – a set of observations to help guide your practice. Asteya is Sanskrit for non-stealing, and I remember her describing how this isn’t just about physical things. It’s about time, too. I was really taken with this concept, and endeavoured never to be late for a class again. And if I was, to come in quietly so as not to steal someone else’s repose.

Everyone’s time is precious. It doesn’t matter who you are. I saw a friend recently who doesn’t have children, and she talked about having to cover for her boss while he went to his kid’s nativity play, and for other colleagues while they did the school run. She felt she was doing more that she needed to, just because she didn’t have children. I appreciated her frustration, but I did impress on her the intricate workings out in the margin it takes to keep both paid and unpaid work (childcare) afloat, and if someone who had more flexibility steps in to share a work responsibility, then the gesture is likely hugely appreciated.

If anything, I told her, I tend to over overcompensate now I’m a parent. I’m mostly early for meetings these days and move heaven and earth to make social engagements happen, even if things have gone wonky at home. At times, it can feel like I’m operating my family life in the shadows; a dirty little secret kept quiet in order not to inconvenience.

But I’m not just me, anymore. These days, I come as a package.

Later on that week, another interviewee left me hanging after we’d arranged to speak at a particular time, and after many delays from her side. When rearranging, I felt to spell out to her precisely why I had allocated a specific window of my time, and how I couldn’t just make myself available at some point that afternoon or evening for her to call me when it suited her. She was quiet for a moment, and then apologised. We agreed a time that suited us both.

Of course she was late – she’d already proved herself a consummate time stealer, so I smashed through the interview, and cut her short so I could go and say goodnight to Dexter. I told her as much, too.

‘Mummy?’ Dexter asked when I went into his room.

‘Yes?’

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, and nestled his head under my chin, his hair a tousle of spun gold.

It was a moment worth stealing back.

When the next potential paid job materialised, a longer-term contract with a lot of responsibility attached, I decided to be exceptionally clear about the shape of my life right from the start of our conversations. I explained that I love the paid work that I do, and this particular job would be brilliant, but that Dexter is my priority. So immutable were my terms that I anticipated they’d choose someone else to work with.

To my surprise, my contact apologised for the fact that I felt I needed to be so explicit. She has a young daughter, and talked me through the flexibility of her week. ‘It’s family first, here,’ she assured me.

I start in the new year, with the hope that clear boundaries will gift everyone a touch more time.