Yesterday, somewhere in-between leaving the house and sitting in a cafe drinking a weak latte and aiming spoonfuls of yoghurt at the boy, I realised something: I don't feel guilty.
That feeling I've had for (too) many years now that I should really be working on my thesis. I should be reading an article or a dozen. I should have completed so-and-so many words by now. *POOF!* Gone. I was just enjoying a coffee (in that nervous I-hope-he-stays-calm-until-we're-all-done-here- sort of a way I'm sure all parents of babies will be familiar with).
But wait, there's more!
I also don't feel guilty when I do work on my thesis, feeling that I really should be playing with my child. I am not consumed by doubt over my parenting abilities as he spends his Fridays in day care while I inch towards completion, and enjoy a coffee with friends (in that not-nervous way I'm sure all grown-ups with reasonable social skills will be familiar with).
As it turns out, I am (drumroll, please)... content.
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