Travelling for work is something that I have to do,. I sort of, kind of, really like it. Ordinarily it would give you prestige. The fact that you are so important you have to go to places for face to face meetings. I roughly travelled 7 -9 days a month to completely different timezones. You may gasp in disbelief—how can a woman with two children under the age of 16 travel for work and still be a good mum at the same time?
I think I am. I mean, I have bad days and good days, but on the whole, I’d say the balance is ever so slightly in my favour. I get to take time out from the kids, and most importantly, they get to take time out from me. It gives us space to appreciate each other more. I don’t know if I am typing that to make myself feel better or if this is something I wholeheartedly believe. There have been plenty times that i’ve felt like a shit mum. My daughter once told me she finds it hard to sleep when i am away. as I am her home. It was a hard one, at the time I was packing for yet another trip.
Me travelling for work has completely tipped everything on its head. This is not how the dynamic should be, especially for an Indian relationship. Indian women stay at home, they do ‘nice’ jobs and they are homely girls. A man traveling is adored by everyone, held in esteem. Oh he must be exhausted, poor him. The woman need to ensure the everything is in order and seamless for his return. When a woman travels, the first question is always: Who’s going to look after the kids?
There have been many times I’ve wanted to say, Wolves. Who the fuck do you think is looking after my children? The father. I mean, does a dad ever get asked that? No—never, ever. If he turns at the school gate to pick up his children after catching the red-eye from New York, the mums (and teachers) are creaming their pants. You are such a present dad – a hero. A mum is a different story. I was the only mum at both of my children’s school who traveled so extensively. To be honest most of them looked a bit misty eyed when I told them how many nights I had spent away from my family!
I was in Brazil when the school called me to say my daughter wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could pick her up. I reminded them that the first point of contact is not actually—it’s my husband. I asked them if they had tried calling him? They seemed confused and asked again when I could collect her. I had to then step out of my meeting to calmly explain that my flight alone would be about 13 hours, so they were better off contacting my husband as per the priority list.
Out of curiosity, I asked if they had already tried contacting him?
Silence.
So I asked again. The receptionist then confirmed that the school’s policy is to contact the mum first.
I put the phone down took a breathe and stepped back into my meeting.
At the school my husband gets put on a pedestal as the unsung hero of the year. You’re so lucky that your husband looks after your kids when you’re away! I always see him at drop off and pick up, he says your off on your travels again! Meanwhile, I know a mum whose husband is constantly travelling. She has three children, six pets, and no one says a word. Nothing. Her husband is never questioned, and she is never celebrated. More commonly than not she is told she looks tired – well duh! She is! And the worst part? This comes from other women. Women supporting women? Nope. I find some of them to be my harshest critics. Or maybe its because I care about what they think about me the most.
I was once accosted by the mums’ committee for a summer fair. They asked if I could MAN a stall at the upcoming summer fair. I explained that I might not be able to make it, as my flight was landing at 6:30 AM that Sunday morning from Brazil.
Her reply? Okay then, I’ll put you on an early shift so you can rest up in the afternoon.
So, at 7.45 AM—I got home from the airport. I was showered, stuck a wash on and in a car on the way to the school 9.30am. We got to the school at 10am in time to MAN the coconut shy. I told my husband I was tired, could he maybe cover the shift for me? His reply? No, you put your name down for it not me, I’ll buy you a Pimms and you’ll be fine. During my shift he stood on the sidelines and watched. Telling everyone that I had only got back from Brazil that morning, and he was knackered after looking after the kids for two weeks. They all murmured noises of support.
Anyway, you do what you have to. And there’s no better motivator than parental guilt. Or mummy guilt, to be specific—because my husband definitely doesn’t suffer from mum guilt.
Something to learn from?
The worst part of travelling is definitely the catastrophising I do beforehand. Worrying that someone will happen; someone getting ill or that my mum might die. Before I leave, I always hold my mums tight, smell her hair, and touch her face, making sure I memorise everything about her… just in case. Then I go to her cupboard and steal an item of her clothes for her smell. The worry will extends to my children. Encouraging me to put all my financial affairs in order.The build up anxiety is intense. In the beginning i would get ill, my hair started falling out and I lost allot of weight. Once I am on the plane the anxiety would crescendo and then dissipate. By the time the welcome drink was served with some nuts, my brain moved to acceptance.
I know my choices aren’t traditional. I know I don’t fit the mould of the ‘perfect’ desi mum/women, the ‘homely’ wife, the woman who always puts herself last. And I’m fine with that. I don’t think i should be put last.
More importantly, I want my daughter and my nieces to know that they don’t have to fit into a mold either. That they can chase ambition and love their family. That they can break the rules and still belong. I never want them to apologise for taking up space.
I travel for work, I push against expectations, and sometimes, yes, I carry the guilt. But if that means the girls watching me grow up knowing they can do the same—without apology—then it’s worth every long-haul flight.
Be the change you want to see – it’ll cost you but I think it’s worth the price.
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