At school, I was the girl who wanted to dissect sheep lungs. I had a lack of horror around gore, I’m not squeamish at all, which was helpful when it came to all those needles for IVF. I thought about being a surgeon. I also thought it would be interesting to become a fishmonger. I’m fascinated by fish – I don’t know why.
As an only child, radio was my companion. I had a little battery-operated radio at the table next to my cereal bowl.
I broadly exist on six hours sleep. After Today, I’ve got about half an hour of chat left in me before I need to be silent.
The goal in every interview, the absolute dream, is fresh snow. You’re walking somewhere no one has gone before.
I wasn’t a rude child, but I was certainly inquisitive. I have a curiosity. Sometimes, in conversation, people say, is that the radio you or the real you? Radio me is me.
I routinely work through bone-grinding pain. Work is my salvation from endometriosis. It fills my brain.
Being a parent teaches you how to not be the main character in your own life, to play a different role in your own existence. When you’re forced to learn that, you’re also forced to relearn what made your life enjoyable before, and how to access that.
I was left with two kids when my husband returned to work. I decided to survive the week by writing down everything I felt – a portrait of maternity leave. I hadn’t expected to have a daughter and thought it would be a great map for her should she ever go down this road.
On radio, you need to think of someone to talk to, so I think of my Auntie Jean, always a crafty fag on the go, on the white wine by 6pm, maybe a champagne cocktail depending on the night. I thought of her the first time I did Question Time, the first time I did Woman’s Hour and the first time I stepped out seven months ago and did Today. She meant so much to me, and that has helped me in moments of doing something new.
There are parallels between maternity leave and lockdown: only being able to get out once a day to your local park, knowing your area better than you ever have before, there being limited things you can do, wondering who you are, having an existential crisis.
The thing I find hard is toggling between work and parenting. The jaggedness comes in the gear changes between my different roles. It’s almost like relearning a dance step every time.
Remember that those who matter don’t mind and those who do mind don’t matter. I have a job where I can get judged on a moment in time, and it amazes me how judgments can be formed without the full picture – but that’s the world we’re living in. You’ve got to back facts, you’ve got to back yourself, you’ve got to have people around you that you trust.
Maternity Service: A Love Letter to Mothers from the Frontline of Maternity Leave by Emma Barnett is published by Fig Tree at £12.99. Buy a copy from guardianbookshop.com at £11.69
