Laura Jane Williams - Kidding: Childlike Solutions to Bullsh*t Adult Problems

In the spring of 2016 I was on the verge of the career Id always dreamed of. For ten years Id worked toward the publication of my first book, and finally it was happening. The dead-end filler jobs Id had in order to make rent while stealing minutes and hours to put pen to paper, the parties missed and nos Id issued and relationships thoughtlessly squanderedeverything Id sacrificed to achieve the thing that so many people talk about but so few actually dowere paying off. Words had been proofed and front covers designed and there, on the spine of a hardback, was my name. I did it! I had national newspapers asking me to write things for them, my photograph was in fancy magazines, and important people said my name. There was a big party to celebrate, where everyone came for me, and I had a living room of more lily bouquets than Elton John. It was the moment of my life. The pinnacle of so much. Id made it.

Im sure it wouldve all been incredibly exciting, were it not for the fact that I was dead inside.

Id burned out. I didnt know I was burnt out, because by its very definition its a sort of slow fizzle. Nobody wakes up one day to find creativity packed up her paint box and left with the kids, Playfulness, Giggles, and Fun, poof! Just like that. No. Burnout is clever. Burnout goes slowly. Burnout blurs the edges, at first, by telling you to work harder, for longer, and suggesting that maybe sleep isnt that important after all. Burnout tells you nothing could be as important as work. Success. Burnout dismantles the house bit by bit so that from the outside everything looks the same, but inside, the furniture has been moved in a way that doesnt feel like you, somehow, and the curtains have been drawn so its all a bit dark. The music has stopped. Its all very serious.

I didnt know Id stopped feeling the warmth of April sunshine on my face, or that Id ceased to find things funny, or that I no longer did things simply for the pleasure of doing them, until a medical professional asked me the right questions. I hadnt noticed I sighed a lot. Got cross frequently. That everything had to have a reason. A purpose. That it all had to be for something. I didnt know I was miserable until my doctor told me so.

I thought I was simply an adult.

The doc explained that no, it is not normal to be exhausted and teary and work sixteen-hour days. I wasnt, she intoned, making a fuss out of nothing. What Id done, she said, is work so hard that Id used up all the serotoninthe happy hormonein my body, and Id continue to feel pretty shitty if I didnt drastically reconsider how kindly I treated myself. Its ironic, really, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see the issue of a monthly magazine that I was featured in, cited for my bravery and daringness in living a life that went balls-to-the-wall. I was sitting opposite a kind GP and telling her I couldnt properly taste food anymore, that I was a fraud. There was nothing bold or daring about me. Not right now. Id forgotten how to just be happy how, in fact, to just beand Id hidden that behind the foolhardy notion that thats what being a grown-up is. Hard work. Relentless, miserable, hard work.

Thats not what being a grown-up is.

What happened next is a bit out there, but when I saw a posting on GumTree (a classifieds site in the UK) for a part-time nanny for a local family, I applied for it. I dont even know why I was on GumTree looking at nannying jobs. As I said, I wasnt paying much attention to anything in those months. I met the kids, they werent awfulthey were, in fact, more clever than me and funny and very polite to bootand so I told their mum and dad that Id love nothing more than to make packed lunches for three under-elevens every morning. Sure, I said, a 7 a.m. start is fine! Great! I smiled, $15 an hour is perfect! No worries, I nodded, it takes three buses and an hour to deliver everyone to their individual schools? Im looking forward to it! I had a bonkers nine-month period after that, in which I spent twenty-five hours a week braiding hair and playing dolls and going to the park with somebody elses children, before heading off to the BBC for radio interviews or writing a column for a national magazine. Then Id take these children who didnt belong to me to swimming class or gymnastics. I dont think their parents ever truly understood why a writer who sometimes gets recognized at the bus stop was loading their dishwasherbecause it was cash-in-hand, maybe?but as it all worked out so well for everybody involved they didnt push the issue. I dont know what I wouldve said if they had. It was weird to me, too. I just knew that being around kids would help. And that Ive always been good at it. I used to run a childrens language school in Rome and do summer camps while on break from school. Kids have always been my natural refuge.

Anyway. Im not saying that if youre knackered or a bit sad or overworked, you, too, should go and insert yourself as a hired help into somebody elses familyand for less money per hour than you normally spend on an average lunch, toobut I am saying: holy shit! The change in me was almost immediate. From that very first day after school when the six-year-old slipped her hand into mine and said, Laura, will you come on the swings with me? I started to come home to myself. I was forced to clear my mind to focus on this new, massive responsibility that had nothing to do with me and my words and my typing and my self-editing and my career, and by the end of week one was able to marvel, for the first time in a long time: So this is what it is like to play, huh?

Every day Id find something to laugh about with them. They were hilarious, and difficult, and stubborn, willful, opinionated children who asked questions and told me when they were upset. They fought and loved and fell over and got back up and talked shit about each other but snuggled up in a pack on the sofa when it was movie time.