Mosey Jones - The Mumpreneur Diaries: Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year

To Tomos and Joshua, without whom the world would be a much quieter, but infinitely less entertaining place

Many of the people I have written about in this book did not ask to be included so I have changed their names and in some cases other minor details to preserve their anonymity. Naturally others asked, pleaded, begged even, to be included, but I said, No, Dylan Jones of Twyford, Berkshire, you remain anonymous like everyone else. Equally, memory is a fickle mistress, particularly that of a woman with baby brain twice over, but Ive tried to write conversations as closely as possible to how they happened. Certainly in the reporting the grammar may have improved, the swearing excised and the drivel paraphrased. Finally, the timeline may have been adjusted in places to help the overall true story make sense. In many respects I wish someone had fiddled with the calendar at the time. Then I might not have been perpetually late for everything.

Another day, another commute from hell. This morning I am trapped somewhere between Regents Park and Oxford Circus, my nose jammed in a damp armpit belonging to a very large man, inhaling lungfuls of deliciously ripe BO. This is made even more heavenly by the fact that:

1. it is rush hour
2. we are underground on the Bakerloo (or baking loo) Line
3. weve been stuck in the tunnel for half an hour
4. I am 8 months pregnant thus invisible to everyone in a seat.

I cant wait for maternity leave to start. I dont care if I never see the office again. Samuel Johnson said: If youre tired of London, youre tired of life. If thats the case, Sammy boy, Im exhausted. I bloody hate London.

To achieve what is laughably called a work/life balance, the Husband and I share dropping off/picking up childcare duties. He therefore leaves home before the sun rises so he can get back in time to collect Boy One at 6 pm. I do the opposite, leaving for work at a leisurely 9.30 am, only to return home long after the sun has set.

On the way home I call the Husband from the train to see how bedtime is getting on. Sounding out of breath, apparently he and Boy One have been playing horseys round the living room. At 8.30 pm. As usual I assume the role of grown-up, telling him off for unsuitable parenting behaviour. But despite reading the Riot Act, I am secretly disappointed. It sounds like they are having heaps of fun without me.

I can see why I would spend four hours a day being transported in worse conditions than a veal calf if I was producing groundbreaking work. Somehow, whiling away the hours fiddling about on Facebook doesnt quite measure up. Im particularly puzzled by applications that allow you to buy your friends a virtual gin and tonic the point of which is what, precisely?

Boredom drives me to poke old friends, the online equivalent of drunk dialling and a similarly bad idea. Most cant fathom why youve chosen now to get in touch, and very few are genuinely pleased to hear from you. I instantly discover that the class geek from school has a varied and thrilling life doing something in security in Africa and several of the lumpier girls are now go-getting businesswomen with expensively highlighted hair and apple-cheeked kids, dressed courtesy of Mini Boden. My offspring isnt so much apple-cheeked as banana-haired since most of his breakfast this morning wound up on his head.

Finding one of my old classmates on Friends Reunited, I decide I should refer to her as SuperScot. She is one of those people who seem effortlessly successful. I count myself lucky that I only get to see her once every ten years at school reunions. Shes the one you fret about seeing because the fabulous media career youve been so proud of moments before seems kind of hollow and futile now as she radiates home-spun contentment and you look about as deep as a puddle.

She has already popped out three children and now makes bijou, one-off childrens clothes for a local retailer. Her picture on Friends Reunited (looking at these is another exercise in self-flagellation should you ever need to cement your feelings of inadequacy) shows a relaxed, smiling woman, obviously in control of her life, her kids and her career. At home in her own skin. I often feel like a distant cousin whos overstayed her welcome in mine.

So I poke and then stare at the office calendar in the same way a schoolkid gazes at the clock willing 3 pm or, in my case, 16 November to come.

Boy One comes tripping downstairs for breakfast and shouts: Lisa, can I have raisins? I am not Lisa. She is the Very Capable Childminder. He has taken to calling me by Very Capable Childminders name, which tells you something about the amount of quality time we spend together.

He has already started calling her his second mummy. Im beginning to suspect, on the basis of last years showing (home-made card, complete failure on behalf of the Husband to pamper, spoil or generally remember the event he swore blind in the labour ward never, ever to forget), she gets the better deal on Mothers Day too. Of course I am genuinely, hugely glad and pathetically grateful to the fates that I chose such a lovely person to look after my son, one who makes him feel so at home when Im at work, but I would infinitely prefer to be the one doing the home-feeling-making, at least once in a while.

Feelings of inadequacy arent helped about 15 minutes later when I make Boy One cry in the rush to get out of the door to catch trains, win bread, etc. I may be overreacting a tad. Following the carrot/stick parenting philosophy, I tell him: If you dont get a move on right now Ill smack you so hard your teethll rattle. This is a little more stick than carrot. That and the lack of oxygen from the massive baby pressing on my lungs leaves me more than a little tetchy. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that this wouldnt happen if the office Nazis let me work from home.

At this juncture I would like to point out to social services that the most he ever gets is a tap on the hand and any rattling of teeth is the sound of them falling out after sweetie bribery. Im a model of modern parenting, me.

My boss, the Editrix, takes me aside today and announces that shes proudly secured me a pay rise. Perhaps the daily grind isnt so bad, maybe that commute is bearable after all.

Five hundred quid a year. A raise of five hundred poxy quid for someone, and I quote, with your level of experience and longevity in the job. They say that when you have an epiphany, there really is a blinding flash of light. Well, I have one of those right now. Either that or its a migraine brought on by the sheer, gobsmacking tight-fistedness of it all. Admittedly its not her fault the budget on our magazine is tighter than a gnats wotsit but being blameless still doesnt get Mr Waitrose paid.

Its just not worth it. When people mutter that its not worth it, theyre usually having a bit of a bad week. Nothing a few pints and a lie-in cant fix. But for me it really, really isnt worth it. My travel and childcare costs have together gone up by more than 500 in the last year alone. It is getting perilously close to the point where Im paying the company for the pleasure of seeing my son two days a week.

Enoughs enough. Ive decided that when I go on maternity leave next week it will be the last time I darken their doors. Ill have my baby, spend a few months floating about in a postnatal glow (Im not thinking about the extra 2 stone of baby weight and leaking bosoms at this point) and then set up a modest little enterprise from the kitchen table, children playing at my feet. We arent exactly rich but the Husbands salary can just about stretch to providing the serious money for the boring bills such as mortgage and gas. My little bit on the side could cover the Ocado orders, Boden binges and a (very frugal) trip to the Alps once a year. At least, thats the plan.