Julie Jay: Like oil and water, rest and motherhood simply don’t mix

I used to be great at napping during the day, but now I am as much a stranger to an afternoon siesta as I am to brushing my hair

As a mother, I am physically programmed to view rest as weakness, even failure, and so I baulk at any suggestion from my inner circle that I should just take a nap. Picture: iStock 

I have a confession, and it’s not even a juicy one: I do not know how to rest. I used to think I did. Before motherhood, I thought rest was just something human beings did. Like blinking. Or scrolling through Instagram pretending not to judge people you went to school with.

But apparently rest is a skill and, as a fully grown adult, tax-paying, allegedly functional woman, I have all the resting abilities of a malfunctioning fridge. My temperature can oscillate between Baltic and Mediterranean in the space of minutes, and I can leak drops of water for no reason. But rest? Not a chance.

I realised this recently when a friend said to me: “Julie, you need to mind yourself”. It was well-meaning, said in that lovely Irish way that somehow feels both supportive and judgmental.

But I knew what she meant was: “Julie, for the love of God, lie down.”

The problem is, lying down doesn’t work anymore. The moment I lie down, my brain begins its nightly cabaret show. Suddenly, I’m thinking about everything. Did I send that email? Did the kids eat anything green today?

Before having a child, I rested effortlessly. Gloriously. I was great at it. I was fond of a nap, particularly back in my teaching days after school and before dinner, after which I would go to sleep again, sometimes on the other side of the bed just to mix things up.

If someone had told me back then about “sleeping when the baby sleeps”, I’d have said yes, of course. I imagined gentle afternoons filled with soft lighting while the baby slept peacefully in a Moses basket, waiting for Daddy to land in the door at any moment in a trilby hat and a trench coat, announcing to his honey that he was home.

As a mother, I am physically programmed to view rest as weakness, even failure, and so I baulk at any suggestion from my inner circle that I should just take a nap.

I am torn between frustration at the ridiculous suggestion I could possibly hit the hay for an hour, and a secret wish somebody will insist I go to my bedroom and lock the door behind me. Effectively, I am longing for a bit of house arrest, purely to catch up on slumber.

I recently tried meditation. Everyone said it would help. I lasted about 90 seconds. The soothing voice told me to “soften my awareness”, which I didn’t realise was even an option. If anything, my awareness has become harder, sharper, weaponised since having kids, like that of a bodyguard to a Hollywood star, only I don’t get to attend glam events by proxy.

When the voice told me to let thoughts pass “like clouds in the sky”, I knew I was over and out. I had tried chilling out, and like brushing my hair, it just didn’t suit me.

But the thing I’m most ashamed to admit is that even when no one needs me, I still don’t rest. I grab my phone, I doom-scroll, I tidy things.

Once, I alphabetised my spice rack just to feel in control of something. Parsley probably doesn’t care about being accidentally placed beside sage, but the satisfaction in restoring it to its rightful place beside rosemary greatly outweighed any benefit I might have gained from grabbing 40 winks.

The truth is, I don’t know who I am when I’m not doing something. Rest feels indulgent. Wrong. Like something I don’t deserve or haven’t earned. But I’m trying to change and take tiny, micro-rests. I’ve started taking 30 seconds after finishing a cup of tea, where I don’t immediately leap into action. I’ve started sitting in the car for a whole minute before going inside, breathing like I’m auditioning for a mindfulness advert. 

Sometimes, I even let myself close my eyes, just briefly, while the kids are playing, but never for too long, because more than a minute of closed eyes always leads to broken cups and broken Mammy dreams.

Maybe motherhood isn’t about finding long, luxurious stretches of rest. Maybe it’s about snatching little crumbs of peace wherever we can. And maybe, just maybe, those crumbs add up, like flossing our teeth or Duolingo.

Really, what I’d love is not a well-meaning ‘you need to mind yourself’, but rather a sergeant major type who lands at my door and refuses to leave until I retire for an entire afternoon, as they keep an eye (preferably open) on the kids.

Rock star Jon Bon Jovi once proudly declared he would sleep when he was dead, but I, for one, am here to tell him the whole point of life is sleeping. Just ask bears. Or my husband. I dream of achieving my goal of eight hours of kip before slipping off this mortal coil. 

If Jon truly is without need of siesta, may I suggest he lay me down on a bed of roses, or better yet, get me a mattress, far away from broken cups and even more broken sleep.