A mother of two, the partner of my partner’s cousin, remarked that I was a strong woman for daring to spend almost four days alone with my two-and-a-half-month-old in another city. I didn’t see it that way at all. I simply didn’t have a choice. Of course, that’s a fallacious thing to say. One always has more options than seem obvious at first glance. But I had run out of them. My sister, who was originally meant to be here at this time, couldn’t make it, for various reasons. My partner couldn’t take leave on short notice, and most friends I would have relied on had other obligations at exactly this time. The only other alternative I could foresee was withdrawing my participation from the exhibition that was meant to be the culmination of my residency at Künstlerhaus Büchsenhausen in Innsbruck, or dramatically limiting the scale of what I had intended to do. This option would mean I was already being forced to sacrifice something significant on account of being a mother. This decision didn’t sit well with me. So, on Sunday, after having spent Friday and Saturday morning teaching at the Bozen University—an immensely rewarding experience—my partner and I drove to Innsbruck. After attending our friends’ secular baptism party, he dropped me off at the residency and left shortly after. And so it came to be just the two of us. And it has been nothing short of fabulous.

I had initially considered writing a daily report that I could then metabolise into my column for this week, but I got sceptical after the first day went so well. I was so terrified of jinxing it, of committing to writing my elation only to discover that the next day was a disaster. You see, at the beginning of last week, I had an appointment with my tax consultant at 8 am. Because of the logistics concerning the unfortunately tiny size of our car and the largeness of the bassinet, I thought it made sense for me to take the bus with our child and let my partner drive by car, since he had to travel to work immediately after. I had various errands to run and friends to meet later, and I felt sure I could manage. I was sorely mistaken. Getting on and off the bus was frighteningly difficult. They had been designed for able-bodied people, and not with consideration for those with handicaps, or mothers with strollers. Although there was space for strollers, simply getting the stroller on and off the bus was daunting, and it made our child uncomfortable enough to start crying. Given that he rarely ever cries, I felt flustered when he did. Because my anxiety had already kicked in, over the rest of our day outdoors I got increasingly out of sync with his needs. I was so relieved when we returned to the safety and comfort of our home.