I’m back. Thanks for bearing with me while I took a much needed break. You might remember that my deadline for Ultra Processed Women was the end of July, so in early July I paused subscriptions on this substack to allow me to completely focus on the seemingly impossible task of getting tens of thousands of well-researched words over the line in time. July was…intense. As well as the usual chaos of three kids and their social whirl of a summer term drawing to a close, I was at my laptop from dawn til dusk, seven days a week, in a state of terrible panic. My imposter syndrome was full throttle; I was tired and overwhelmed, my head swimming with a mix of information and doubt in my own abilities. If only I could go back and tell myself that I was going to make it. Only just - and there is still work to be done - but I made it. In hindsight, I should have known I would - I always do.
August, once the manuscript was filed, turned out to be filled with further lessons in hindsight. We took a family holiday - I was determined we would as I had been dreaming of warm crystal clear waters the whole time I’d been sat at my desk, wrapped in a duvet, writing, panicking, writing. Our flight was at 6.30am from London, no mean feat as we live about 3 hours from the airport. But - we left on time, in the dead of night, all tired but excited, and then…we only went and bloody missed the plane? Have you ever missed a plane? If you want to feel your heart falling all the way down through your stomach, into your boots and then watch it running around the departure lounge, screaming like a toddler whilst you stand, open-mouthed, all the blood drained from your face, trying not to cry because you’re a grown up, I highly recommend it. It’s quite unique in the oh-my-god-you-are-joking-this-can’t-be-happening stakes.
After the sound of splattering shit hitting the fan in your brain has subsided, the next wave takes the form of hindsight as clear as those crystal waters you were supposed to be heading for, but now may never see. In painful slow motion over the next few hours, days - and particularly during your 3am menopause crisis meetings with yourself - you will endlessly replay the trip to the airport and your progress through each queue and security check and be able to see with perfect focus why you and only you are the world’s biggest dumbass. Of course, you will also remember that you weren’t helped by the family in the baggage check area who caused quite a hold-up by packing several jars of chutney and a ceremonial sword in their hand luggage. But you will realise that you can’t really blame them, because it’s ALL YOUR FAULT. In hindsight, you should have left half an hour earlier.
In fact, just ten minutes earlier would have done the trick. Who knew that when they said they shut the departure gate 30 minutes before departure they really mean business? That even though your bags are on the plane and you and your entire family are all there in the departure lounge and there is still half an hour til take off, they have hearts as hard as rocks and zero zilcho sympathy? That when they say, ‘wait there and we will escort you’, they don’t mean they will escort you to the plane, maybe on one of those whizzy golf carts. They mean they will escort you ‘out of the airport’. Who knew? I didn’t know. Now I do. This information will be of no future use to me of course because from now on I will sit, wide eyed and deranged, in the airport Costa for several days before any future flights. Such is the futile magic of hindsight.
In the end, we did make it to the warm glassy sea. It cost a lot of extra money for 5 replacement flights later that day and then replacement transfers at the other end, but it was worth it just to see the kids absolute joy at their own pool (they’d never stayed in a villa before), and for me to get my fix of Mediterranean heat before returning to my life as a duvet-wrapped word-monkey. The rest of the holiday passed largely without incident apart from a slight prang to the hire car (if only the rear view mirror had been fully put to use) and we returned, sun-kissed and happy, if a good deal lighter of purse. That’s me all spent out for the rest of the year, I thought to myself (still replaying the automated baggage drop every night at 3am), no more crap thanks Universe! And then my phone went in the river.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have leant it to two enthusiastic kids who wanted to take photos of their summer evening attempts to catch a fish with a home-made rod. The 14 year old put it in her front dungaree pocket, a rookie error that no adult would make (we’re too busy sending begging letters to the Gatwick complaints department). She leant over the bridge, and…plop. Out it slipped and she got to have the same face-draining-of-all-signs-of-life, oh-shit-I’ve-really-cocked-this-one-up experience that I’d enjoyed so much in Departures. In spite of my partner nobly entering the river in his boxers, the phone was nowhere to be found. 14 year old has cried many tears and said sorry a few hundred times. I have told her again and again not to worry, shit happens, or ‘shit goes down’ as my Canadian dad used to put it. Shit goes down. It sinks to the bottom like phones and stupid time-locked decisions and is irretrievable. That’s that.
This time of year always makes me feel sad, perhaps because I adore my kids and I adore summer and I hate that another one is over, or perhaps because my generation of parents has been bombarded with ‘mortality memes’ ever since our first pregnancy scan. “Cherish every moment”. “Remember you only have 18 summers with your kids!” “Is this the last time they will ever hold your hand?” and so on.
Tempting as it is to tell Jessica to fuck off and get a life, it’s also true of course, that time is slipping out of our front pockets and falling irretrievably into the river. The menopause years - which I’m thwack in the middle of - are often compared to Autumn, but rather than being a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, they tend to be a time of existential angst, sucky hindsight, and regret. They are WHY DIDN’T I LEAVE FOR THE AIRPORT EARLIER on steroids. Suddenly it’s all clear: we should have done a different degree, we should have married him / not married him / divorced him sooner (delete as appropriate), we should have taken that job abroad, we should have travelled more, we should have focused more / less on friendships / career / kids / money. We should have got a pension / got on the property ladder / whatevs. Whatever we did we shouldn’t have done it and whatever we didn’t do we should have. Now they’ve shut the gates and are refusing to bring the golf buggy rescue team. Bollocks.
On one of the last days of summer I hugged my youngest - who just turned 11 but is still, for now, baby soft and fluffy - and told him I wished I could freeze time and make the summer last forever, and I meant it. Now each morning I watch the 16 year old walk down the road to catch the bus to her new college and try not to start singing ‘Slipping through my fingers’, Meryl Streep style on my doorstep (now that really would be something I lived to regret doing). It’s Autumn, I’m going to be 50 next year, and quite a few of the leaves in my Motherhood season seem to be falling off the trees, too. I really don’t think that the panic, anxiety and rage that most women my age experience is just down to ‘hormones’. It’s a pretty terrifying time if you’re not too scared to admit it. Phones, flights, tail-lights - they can all be replaced. But you can’t get those summers back.
And this is why it’s definitely time for a puppy. Well, we’re thinking about it. It may be a rash decision but in my experience getting a dog is never something that keeps you awake at 3am (unless they’re lying on your legs). Watch this space. Here I am on the beach with a beer. I regret not having a cocktail. Cheers.
Back next week: all your regular posts from me at The Mule, including The Word is Woman each Friday, and The Nosebag on Sundays. Plus news of my book as it develops through the editing process, more about ultra processed food of course, the occasional post of existential angst like this one, our monthly zoom group Writing for Change, and perhaps some puppy news. See you soon! Milli x
Preorder your copy of Ultra Processed Women, it’s out on 27th February 2025!
Welcome back Milli. I don’t know who else I’m speaking for, but I’ve missed you.
Ahh Milli, how good to have you back. I always read your post as I cook dinner on Friday. I laughed out loud and totally felt your pain. The horror of getting it all wrong .. it’s all my fault! Total woman response! Welcome back xxxc