Fulfilling. I die.

As someone who is far too addicted to the clogs of social media and fast content, I was scrolling like the best of them. In between feeds, in between yelps. Aka in between the only space my brain has for a consistent train of thought. And coming from someone with moderate ADHD, that’s saying a lot about the frequency and noise of parenting. 

UK artists Charlotte Warne Thomas’s work: “Mummy’s always on her phone.”

All that said, I came across the work of Charlotte Warne Thomas with the series Mummy’s Always On Her Phone featuring: “An artist who is learning breastfeed, is not making art.” And that’s the truth.

When I’m bracing for rudimentary basics of feeding, holding, nose-wiping, de-escalating, I am not making art. 

I’m not even an artist. So it’s very unlikely I’d ever be art creating. But I certainly am not having a deep conversation on the phone with a friend, understanding what’s going on in my partner’s mind from the day, or thinking about political or communications theory. 

And that sounds fine, but I’m also doing this core bones of life with two children for, what often feels to be, 38 hours a day. Babies and young children certainly aren’t doing it for themselves, and when your feeding one from your body, someone’s sick, or you too can’t work out whether to have a shower or just get dressed that day - then time for ‘art’ is, conservatively put, somewhat reduced. 

The rant in this: outsourcing house management, parenting, or feeding to someone else - too takes administration.

Which is fine if you’re an organised Type A person, but if you’re anything like me, who’s been known to buy new underwear rather than wash the existing, this is can be the death of you.

Unpaid care invoices, changing schedules, unanswered texts, endless gratitude of thanks, lost shoes, and lunchboxes left behind in someone else’s car. 

And yes, I work to keep the banks happy, my earning capacity in-tack (lol), and loan us what we wanted for housing security and housing nurturing (note my lord, very lucky us) - but let’s just imagine, go wild, that this paid work isn’t in fact the same as your artistic and deep soulful expression, then the time carved out to make those two days of work possible - again, leaves the paint brush down, waiting for another year to be raised again. 

Meanwhile, it fills your quota of time away from m/othering before landing on borrowed time. Fulfilling? I actually die. Relentless, and as my partner expresses yesterday, “My amygdala has failed with the incisive talk of unicorns.” 

He scrapes to the end of the day only to realise he now needs to learn to braid hair as well. For gender comment purposes: we have different ratios and feeding roles (which is huge and interjects misunderstanding - lol resentment), but he too isn’t picking up the paint brush. 

Don’t get me wrong. The most human (mammal), alive, and at utter peace for me (and I suspect, him in fact) has come through the experiences of birthing and m/othering. It’s salt and vinegar and flavour to the max. Music loud, and sound up. Safe to say, addicted. 

But cliche, it is relentless, and continues well into your reserves, below capacity. And in a nuclear model, insert sociology, anthropology research here - because I can’t be bothered - the worst. Thanks patriarchy, a shared kitchen and some wide footpaths is the least you could do. 

Yes, there are plenty of interventions that our society (government) should put in place - to better structurally support and accomodate people with m/othering labour to run the marathon, and be afforded the breaks that they need.

And as Sophie Brock rightly points out somewhere in her work, that’s not just a pamper sesh on borrowed time. Though, I bloody wish it was - as that’s something I can, and do excel at. 

Beyond that though, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a way to also better see and value this rudimentary work - for myself.

Yes, give voice to its frustrations, which is very important, and notably in vogue among mothering discourse right now). It’s not the paintbrush. I’m not doing art. But can someone (can I) measure the work and creativity involved in what I am doing 38 hours a day.

The art of putting shoes on and getting to preschool fed and dressed. Keeping stones out of the mouth. Not losing it with another meltdown. Measuring and seeing this, and not getting to the end of the day to recite “I only got one thing done today.” 

Perhaps time for a whole new language and framework to understand productivity, and have this bare bones care work seen by myself - and somewhere in there let go of the internalised intensive m/othering narrative, or disregarded framing from second wave feminism.

It’s a messy matrix in in there. But something like this. 

Sending love from a disheveled head and bed. And make sure to check out Charlotte Warne Thomas’s work. Other M/other artists you have? I want to know.

Emma x