I HATE BEING A MUM

One woman, 55, reveals why she resents all of the sacrifices she made to be a mother

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One weekend, back in the summer, the temperature was nudging 25 degrees but, yet again, I was stuck in the car for hours. My sons, aged 20 and 19, needed a lift to a tennis tournament; my eldest daughter, 17, had to be dropped at her Saturday job, and the other, who’s 16, wanted to go to her friend’s house.

It took all morning to taxi each of them – in tourist-season traffic – to various points on the outskirts of our Lake District village. I was hot, bored and cross. Meanwhile, my husband Tim* had left early to play a round of golf.

When I was finally back home, I had chores to do – menu planning for the week ahead, a tidy-round of the children’s rooms, subs to pay for cricket, kit sorting for a camping trip… Instead of getting stuck in to the day’s tasks, I sat at the kitchen table in quiet despair. Not for the first time, I found myself staring with clear, angry eyes at a very uncomfortable fact: I hate being a mother.

At 55, I’ve begun to realise just how short life is. You take stock at this mid-point. Regrets begin to crystallise and you can’t just automatically push them away. It’s only now that I can fully articulate to myself quite how unhappy I am, but the truth is, I’ve had niggles of doubt for at least the past decade. I feel it most at times like this when my whole life is subsumed by their needs yet again.

I find myself daydreaming about what kind of life I could have created for myself if I had never had children. Would I have soared to great career heights? Perhaps written a novel? Or left my husband for someone more exciting?

I feel quite guilty for even thinking it. Whenever I half-admit my regret to other mums, hoping for some sisterly support or even agreement, they close it down before I’ve expressed even a fraction of what I really feel.