Charlotte Philby's Parental Leave: "I have become that perpetually flustered and over-compensating parent"
A mother's weekly dispatch from the pre-school frontline
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference."I know I'm not a boy but maybe when I'm older...?" my daughter asks hopefully as we weave through the playground gates. It's 9.04am and I find myself dodging a raging tide of umbrella spokes and micro-scooters.
For the fourth morning this week, we are late. I have become that parent, perpetually flustered and overcompensating, with an enormous grin and lipstick on my teeth. "Don't worry," the nearly-four-year-old's key worker nods as we fall through the door, her eyes a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.
Outside, my phone rings. "Hi darling," I answer, briskly marching towards the playground gates before doing a U-turn to collect the baby and buggy from where I have left them at the nursery door. Aware of the teacher staring at me from behind the glass, I turn and flash more teeth. "I'M WATCHING YOU," her eyes scream out.
With a shiver, I turn, my ears attuning to my husband's silence at the end of the phone. "How do the kids seem to you?" I ask. Fine, he says. "That's because you're a man," I say. "There's something playing on her mind. Can you have a word when you get home?"
Eight hours later, my husband emerges from the bathroom, ashen-faced. "How did it go?" She's fine, he grins. "What did she say?" Nothing, he says, slinking into the bedroom. The nearly-four-year-old pokes her head from behind the bathroom door: "Mummy, I really want a willy. You never let me have a willy but one day I will have my own willy because soon it will be Christmas."
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments