what started me thinking was scrolling right back to the first photo of 2020. Like most of us, I couldn’t help but gasp at how available it all seemed back then. The world was wide open, the opportunities for activity were endless. The first picture was an image of myself and my daughter packing our bags to head to New York. It was a three-day work trip in the city that never sleeps, and she would be back in time to start school. It should have been perfect but, outside of the excitement, I also remember feeling very nervous. The reason? I was leaving my almost two-year-old son with his almost 34-year-old dad.
My husband is very much the opposite of the popular stereotype of the hapless dad who just can’t seem to get anything right. I can trust him with the homework, hoovering and ham-sandwich-making but, if I’m honest, I only ever truly felt comfortable if I was within earshot, just in case the homework became like a university dissertation, the hoover blew up or we were out of bread. At least I would be there to pick up the pieces. Also, I was working from home while he spent long hours on the road in his sales job, so when it came to parenting I naturally carried the bulk of the load. When he was home, he was all-in. But he was never quite free of my ever-looming presence – which was always waiting for something to go wrong.
I can’t help it. I am a fatalist, always thinking of the worst-case scenario. This time it was no different. What if he had a heart attack and my toddler couldn’t alert anyone? What if they were in a car wreck and both me and my daughter were halfway across the globe? What if we were burgled?
The next day, exhausted by my terror- themed theatrics, he pushed me out of the door towards our taxi. ‘Listen, we will be fine. And even if we’re not, we will figure it out.’ I sighed and half-smiled with us both not yet knowing how his words were like a crystal ball, giving us a preview into how we would navigate the rest of the year.
He and my son were fine – more than fine, in fact – and I returned home feeling it was time to let him step up. Not only was he capable of doing all the parenting I do, but in some cases he was far better.
I had no idea then, of course, that Covid-19 would force me to learn how to relinquish control expeditiously. A decade earlier my father had died of complications from influenza. The regular flu that most people recover from had decimated him. Tapping into the side of myself that is only ever able to imagine the worst, I was now consumed with the belief that Covid-19 was going to kill our entire household. On top of that, like families across the globe we were now tasked with home-schooling our two young children, while simultaneously working and maintaining a home, the only burst of energy coming after our allotted one-hour walk. Combine this with the fact that I was on the precipice of publishing my first book. As I watched my book tour dates and promotional activities evaporate or become digital versions, I began to panic.
This led to me becoming short-tempered and more controlling than ever. I would oversee my daughter’s Zoom lessons while having a book promo call on mute. I would take my son for a spin on his toddler bike while writing emails. The day my son and our puppy took off after I failed to notice the back gate was ajar, I knew something had to give. Because it’s not like the help wasn’t available, I just wasn’t taking it.
After a few bumpy weeks my husband and I found our rhythm, taking it in turns to home-school, keep the now two-year-old entertained and walk the dog. Six months in, and this exchange of workloads and chores meant that after years of me trying to get him to quit his 9-5 and join me in building a media empire, he relented – and in this most turbulent of years. ‘Wow, what a time to pull this off,’ he laughed as we clinked champagne flutes once he’d handed in his resignation. We were already in unprecedented times; we might as well push the boat out.
While the entire outside world seemed as if it would fall off its axis at any moment, finally how we ran the household made sense. This year has reminded me that my attempts to control anything, least of all everything, were desperately futile. The only way to move forward was to let others in.
Candice is a Grazia contributing editor and author of ‘I Am Not Your Baby Mother.'