BEL MOONEY: I feel guilty my son is in nursery all week so I can work

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DEAR BEL

I’m 27, have a wonderful partner and a beautiful 18-month-old boy. I am one of the lucky few because the job I do is something I dreamed of since childhood.

I am very good at it and know I am contributing to society. I am the main breadwinner — my partner also works full time, but in a lesser-paid job.

It’s not what he wants but he feels he should stick with it until something better comes along.

Unfortunately, I am feeling incredibly guilty about sending my son to nursery.

'I couldn't even tell you the last time that my partner and I went out for an evening together because I just can't bring myself to leave our son'

After 12 months' maternity leave, I returned to work three days a week for six months and that seemed a good balance.

But since January, our savings have run out and we simply couldn’t cope with me on a part-time wage, so I had to return full time.

My son is in nursery eight hours a day, five days a week.

He enjoys it, the staff make a fuss of him, he is always happy to go, never complains at being dropped off, and sometimes cries when I go to pick him up and we have to leave! So I know he is happy.

My problem is that I am always racked with guilt about the fact that I spend more time at work than I do with my son.

This isn’t helped by the constant  stories you hear about children being neglected, and research about how sending children to nursery is bad for them.

I feel that every moment outside of work that I don’t spend with my son is a waste. I’ve started cancelling plans to see friends just so I can spend as much time as possible with him when not working.

I couldn’t even tell you the last time that my partner and I went out for an evening together (while Nana babysat) because I just can’t bring myself to leave our son.

My partner insists that it isn’t the amount of time that we spend with him, but the quality of it.

Every weekend we do something as a family, going to the park or the zoo etc. I also know that going to nursery and socialising with other children is good for him, since we are unable to have any more children.

However, I just can’t get over the feeling that working full-time makes me a bad mother.

I often cry because I hate the fact that the staff at the nursery have spent the day playing with him, teaching him, doing the things that I want to do with him, but can’t because I work.

Please can you offer me some advice?

KATHARINE

My first piece of advice is heartfelt, as I put an imaginary arm around you. Are you listening carefully? OK.

You are obviously a really wonderful mother and because of that you must stop worrying, for the sake of your whole family.

If you weren’t good and loving, you would not have written to me in this way — because love, care and responsible intelligence shine through every word of your email.

    More from Bel Mooney...   BEL MOONEY: Even when I beg, my husband refuses to have sex with me 01/06/13   BEL MOONEY: Should I let my drunken, vicious ex-lover be a father to our baby? 24/05/13   BEL MOONEY: Should I boycott my mother's wedding to this ghastly gold-digger? 17/05/13   BEL MOONEY: Can I cure loneliness by selling up to be near my new love? 11/05/13   BEL MOONEY: I'm crying out for love but can't escape this black hole of despair 03/05/13   BEL MOONEY: We haven't had sex for 19 years but I can't escape my cheating husband... 26/04/13   BEL MOONEY: I've nursed my husband through cancer but now I want to leave 19/04/13   BEL MOONEY: I'm in love for the first time but not with my husband... 12/04/13   VIEW FULL ARCHIVE  

You speak of guilt, so allow me to share my own.

I have to assume you read my Femail article on this subject (Mail, March 21) in which I reported on a conference held by the charity What About The Children, and asked: ‘When will policymakers talk about mothering?

‘Or acknowledge that the uniquely close relationship between a mother and her baby is vital? Getting mothers back to work has been an obsession of politicians (especially Labour) for decades. I consider myself a feminist and understand the urge (as well as the economic need) to work.

‘But I believe we also need to ask a truly radical question: whether “outsourcing” mothering is the best way to create a healthy society.’

There was much more in that vein. Sometimes journalists write articles in good faith, but also with the awareness that their words may have an effect they’re not entirely happy with.

I wrote that article because I believe this society is careless about the emotional welfare of children.

The argument that young babies need constant, high-quality, loving care must be heard (see whataboutthechildren.org.uk), while female commentators should acknowledge that it’s not all about the mothers’ wants/needs.

But then comes your letter — making me sorry that my words may have exacerbated your guilt.

There’s no answer for either of us, is there? The situations we’re dealing with are complicated and most of us have to accept muddle and compromise as we struggle to be honest and do what is right.

You didn’t want me to disclose the nature of your job, but I know it matters.

Your partner is less fulfilled, and I suppose in the ideal world he’d have become the principal carer for your son (many men find this a good option) or a grandmother would have obliged, in the traditional way.

On the other hand, the world is not ideal, you need that second wage and grandmothers have their own lives to lead.

So what is to be done? Exactly what you are doing. Your son isn’t upset; he loves the nursery and he will certainly be gaining excellent social skills.

You are devoted and attentive parents all the rest of the time. In other words (to use that old psychoanalytic concept), you are ‘good enough’. As good as you possibly can be.

My advice is to embrace that idea — letting it soothe your mind and relax your shoulders and drive your guilt away on wafts of sweet aromatherapy. Good enough. As best as can be. Fine. So ‘everything’s gonna be all right’ as Bob Marley sang.

My children are adults now, with children of their own, and their memories of childhood are warmly gratifying. They remember all the good bits about their mum — not what a bad-tempered, impatient, tired and stressed baggage I could be. That’s how it works in loving families, you know.

So here’s what I think you should do. Ask Nana to babysit very soon, and arrange to meet two close friends for a film and a pizza.

Crack open the wine, laugh, chat about non-baby things, enjoy yourself. It will do you and your partner so much good. And you deserve that.

  Sex disgusts me but I'm desperate for love

DEAR BEL

I am 39 and have never had a girlfriend, let alone a relationship.

For me, sex is out of the question. I’ve never been attracted to men, so I know I’m not gay. I love women and appreciate good looks, but I’ve never tried to have sex because the whole thing disgusts me.

I’m affectionate and don’t mind hugs, cuddles and kisses, but that’s as far as I will go in any relationship. There’s no dark secret (such as abuse) in my past.

I don’t remember sex ever being discussed at home — my parents were probably too embarrassed, though they showed affection to me.

'Kids talked about sex at school, but sex education at 14 alienated me still further'. (Posed by model)

They divorced when I was 12 and I lived with my mother, who never had another relationship. Occasionally my dad would ask, ‘Are you still a virgin?’

Kids talked about sex at school, but sex education at 14 alienated me still further. After watching an educational video in a lesson, I thought, ‘I’m never doing that!’ Not much has changed since.

I think I am probably asexual but would like to be in a celibate relationship.

I read in the Mail (Femail, January 31) that only one per cent of people are asexual. Of this one per cent, half of them are gay and the other half men. Does this mean there are no asexual women?

Am I going to be single for ever? I am desperate for a loving relationship with a woman as long as it is  celibate. Is there any advice you can give?

JOHN

Knowing you are in such a minority must be very isolating, especially as we live in such a highly sexualised society.

My recent postbag also contained a letter from a 50-year-old lady who writes: ‘I am an attractive, vibrant, lovely woman and am so scared to get intimate with a man because I’m scared of total rejection as I can’t DO THE SEX THING.’

She believes this is due to a medical condition; yours is a mental state.

Both letters are cries from lonely hearts and I feel very sorry for the pain they express.

But I am going to start by giving you some advice you may find strange.

You wrote to me on two small sheets of lined paper, which can only mean you do not use email. A man of 39 who is not computer-literate is, I’m afraid, an anomaly and I sincerely suggest it’s time for you to do something about this.

This is the point: through the computer you will find information as well as help and possible companionship.

So the best thing I can do is to urge you to invest your last penny in a laptop or tablet and either get a friend to teach you or find a local course — and start living more ‘widely’. Trust me, you won’t regret it. Do it immediately.

Once you’re online, you can visit a very interesting website: platonicpartners .co.uk.

This is an information/meeting/dating site for people just like you.

They even have a ‘traffic light’ system so that people you may meet know exactly how you feel about physical contact — for example, some people don’t even want hugs.

You will also be able to follow links to essays on platonic love as well as sites like asexuality.org. This is American, but I think it will interest you.

One more thing — you tell me you have never had a girlfriend or a relationship then say that hugs and cuddles are as far as you will go in any relationship.

You say your parents never talked about sex, then quote your father’s crude, tactless question.

Something doesn’t add up — yet I am sure your letter is genuine. As well as learning computer skills, I feel it would be a good idea for you to seek some counselling (you could ask your GP about this, until you can look online) to try to sort out some of the confusions which beset you.

One day you may well find that, in a loving relationship with the right person, hugs and cuddles will lead to the tender expression of mutual love which is sex at its best.

Or maybe not . . . but either way, you have to put in some work to help yourself on the journey towards a happier life.

  And finally... Don't live a life of delusion

About 15 years ago, I wandered into a small gallery selling ‘alternative’ artworks.

I still have the one I bought: watercolour rainbow abstracts around words by the 19th-century American author, Henry David Thoreau: ‘Live the life you’ve imagined.’

At the time I thought those words profound. Living in a farmhouse, surrounded by family, writing my children’s books, I often dreamed of escape.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy; I just fantasised about long motorbike journeys, about hanging out in New York as I did in my late 20s, about the Australian outback at sundown when the clink of icy beer is the purest music, about handsome strangers whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

TROUBLED? WRITE TO BEL

Bel answers readers’ questions on emotional and relationship problems each week.

Write to: Bel Mooney, Daily Mail, 2 Derry Street, London W8 5TT, or e-mail bel.mooney@dailymail.co.uk.

A pseudonym will be used if you wish.

Bel reads all letters, but regrets she cannot enter into personal correspondence.

The life ‘imagined’ seemed preferable to reality: middle-aged woman marooned on a windy hill in chilly England.

The quote actually begins, ‘Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.’ I liked that too. The trouble is  . . .  reality and ‘talent’ show television have somewhat tarnished the idea of ‘living the dream’.

Overconfident delusions sadly deceive the talentless.

What’s more, it sometimes seems that too many people (especially young) yearn hopelessly to live the life they’ve imagined, to the extent that, if they can’t morph easily into Katie Price or Olly Murs or an overpaid Premier League footballer, life isn’t worth living at all.

Gloomily I gaze at pictures of the latest lottery winner spraying champagne (such a waste!) and think, ‘Yes, and your dream is what? Three hideously expensive cars and unhappiness?’

These days I’m afraid I think of the popular Thoreau quote as glib — a catchpenny phrase containing as much real wisdom as the spouting of a New Age ‘guru’.

How’s about living the life you actually have — and making it as good as possible? How’s about going confidently ‘in the direction’ of what you can do to make things realistically better?

I’m not saying we shouldn’t aspire. But surely hopes and dreams start in the love you have for your one precious life

Or maybe I’ve decided that being a contented middle-aged woman in a farmhouse in chilly England is what I always wanted, after all.