Perspectives

Yummy Mummy works for a bank. Banks are not, in the present climate, very happy places. Although the bank I work for has not had the largest write downs in the market, that is reserved for the large Yank tank that is Citi, we are the next best. Although I work for part of the bank that is still doing very well, it was inevitable that Yummy Mummy would get hit in some way by the navel gazing and restructuring.

So, this week I found out that my unit and job may be changing, or it may not. The problem being decisions have been made on high but the ramifications have not yet been worked out. People are worried about their jobs, what they will be doing and as always in these situations looking for new ones. A year ago this would have been me.

However, as I sat at home in shorts and t-shirt listening to the announcements that my world is about to change, possibly, or not, I found myself not really worrying at all. Aside from the practicalities that it is highly unlikely I would be booted out and, even if I was, jobs in my specialism are easy to come by, the real reason I didn't care that much is because things just look different now. Where there was once the ambitious career girl, there is now someone who loves her job and loves having it but I now find that my life is much more than that and no longer is the job defining who or what I am and will achieve in my life.

That role now falls to Eve.

So, while my colleagues were scurrying around in a panic, I shut down my laptop at 7, played with Eve, read her a story and opened a nice bottle of red once she was asleep.

Worry wort

I am now convinced that the whole process of having a child, and bringing it up, is one long worry.

When I was first pregnant, only 8 weeks or so, I ended up on a business trip to Australia. At the time something looked a bit odd on my first scan so things were still up in the air as to whether something could turn out to be a problem. The business trip itself was awful. I had horrible morning sickness, worked some very long days, and it was a very stressful and political project. This, combined with all of the worry and two long flights in 5 days had left me in a bit of a state by the time I went to see our friends, K and R in Sydney. K is a top girl, a rower, and now mum to two delightful little girls. She was just what I needed at the time - someone very matter of fact, supportive, and amusing about the whole experience. She set my mind at ease and gave me possibly the best advice of anyone. I asked her when I would stop worrying about my child, she looked thoughtful, and replied "in about 18 years time, and probably not even then, you just get used to it".

What I hadn’t realised is how right she is and, even now, how much of my time I spend worrying. I worry about the health of the little one, to the extent that I have convinced myself something will be wrong. I worry about the labour (not helped by my friend, J, last night telling me her daughter was born not breathing and sort of pinky purple). After reading over the Boy's shoulder at breakfast this morning that up to 80% of women get some form of the "blues" after they give birth, I am now worried I will get depressed and end up being committed. I am worried that my stomach will look like a deflated tyre for the rest of my life, I will never fit normal bras again - and I can forget about ones that look nice, and my lovely, lovely size 10 Stella McCartney suit will never go over my bum. And this is just the tip of the iceberg.

I am not by nature a worrier, but sometimes the enormity of what is happening and how I will cope with it scares the hell out of me. But then I think about it sensibly, and realise that women have done this for eons, it is really not a big deal, and if it takes me 6 months or even a year to squeeze back into Stella then I will be fine.

So I take a deep breath, eat some more chocolate (well, if I'm not going to fit the suit anytime soon then a bit more choccie won't hurt!), and think about all the things that could go right.