‘I asked Queen Elizabeth II if she had any advice for me': Jacinda Ardern on her time as a pregnant prime minister

The Guardian

2 days ago

There was one cheerful and imperfect baby blanket that stood out when it arrived in the post. It was made up of 24 squares, bright blocks of colour, each crafted with simple, uneven purl stitches. Looking at it, I could imagine the small hands still learning to master their needles and could almost hear the adult voice leading them. 'The prime minister is having a baby. Shall our class make a gift for her family?'
The response to the announcement about my pregnancy in January 2018 was almost overwhelming. It began with so many emails. In the 24 hours after the news broke, the person who managed correspondence for me said she'd never seen such an influx.
Handmade gifts arrived at the office, too. The correspondence team created a display table, and within days it overflowed.
I had braced for the worst. I was a public figure, used to judgment and scrutiny. Now I was pregnant and unwed. I was also new to the job. If people wanted to have a go at me, they had plenty of reason to. But I hadn't considered a fundamental truth: that politicians are humans first, and perhaps the public hadn't lost sight of that. And so maybe in the beautiful country of New Zealand, the happy news of a baby could be just that: happy.
But for all this support, my pregnancy added a new kind of pressure. I was only the second world leader in history to have a baby in office. The first was Benazir Bhutto. She was the first woman to lead Pakistan, and in 1990, two years into her first term in office she had a baby girl. I didn't think the world's eyes were on me, but I did think naysayers' were. Those who might be waiting to say: See, you can't do a demanding job like that and be a mother.
Not long after I'd made my announcement, I was at an event, speaking with a woman who'd had an impressive career in the corporate sector. While we were talking, I'd forgotten something minor – a word, or a name, perhaps – and I'd laughed off my memory lapse. 'Baby brain,' I said.
She hadn't laughed. Her eyes were serious, her voice firm. 'You absolutely cannot say that.' She was warning me: if you give your opponents any opening whatsoever, they will use your pregnancy to say that you – or any woman – shouldn't be given a position of authority. I knew this, but suddenly I was reminded how easy such a lapse could be. From then on, I treated my pregnancy like a test, a set of hurdles to get through without breaking a sweat.
By March, I was six months pregnant on a Pacific mission with a group of delegates to Tonga, Samoa, Niue and the Cook Islands. The goal was to position New Zealand as the Pacific nation we were, shifting the relationship with these countries away from a donor and recipient dynamic toward one of partnership.
The media were with us around the clock. They travelled on the plane with me. They were on the ground with me, at every event, meeting and meal. I decided that if they were going to be my constant companions, then I would show them, pregnancy or not, that I had stamina.
The air was sweltering throughout the tour, and at one press conference I could see streaks of sweat trickling down journalists' faces. I was dressed modestly, my arms and knees covered, and before long my feet began to swell, and my shoes dug into my skin painfully. Rather than wrap things up, I kept going until there were no more questions, long after the time available had passed. Only then, when I was certain I hadn't been the one to cave, I hobbled away to shove my feet into a cold bath.
A month later, now seven months pregnant, I picked up a letter from my obstetrician confirming, should an airline ask, that I was fit to fly so late in my pregnancy. The Commonwealth heads of government meeting (Chogm) was being held in London. Queen Elizabeth II, our head of state, would preside over it. We gathered at Buckingham Palace for the opening session and a formal photo. Before the leaders filed into the room with its bright red carpet, white and gold pillars framing the royal ensign that hung as a backdrop, ushers ordered us into lines. I jokingly asked whether the lines would be organised 'boy, girl, boy, girl'. They looked at me for a moment, perhaps trying to decide whether to take the comment seriously, before moving on to the next leader. Of course I hadn't been serious. There were 53 leaders at the meeting. Only five of us were women.
My partner, Clarke, meanwhile, was having the inverse experience, as one of very few men in the group of international leaders' spouses, and he was relishing it. He enthusiastically joined the formal spousal programme, which included afternoon teas and garden tours. He made a studious effort to get to know 'the wives'. One night, I told Clarke I needed to have a conversation with a leader I had been struggling to connect with. 'Well, if it helps,' he told me, 'his wife has an extensive orchid collection.'
The opening night for the meeting was a formal affair. To accommodate my bump, I'd had a gown specially made by a New Zealand designer, Juliette Hogan – a flowy mustard number, which I wore with a kākahu, a traditional Māori cloak woven from flax and covered with feathers. Next to me, Clarke, who hadn't even owned a suit when we first met, looked handsome in his tuxedo. As we walked through the halls of Buckingham Palace, we marvelled at the beauty and the history of everything we saw. I looked over at him. He was every bit the statesman, but just 20 minutes earlier he'd been standing in front of a mirror and screaming blue murder at the person back in New Zealand who told him a freestyle bow tie was a good idea.
That was life in those first few months: incredible, unreal moments, mixed in with the daily reality of having a job to do. Like any job, there was a tremendous amount to get done: papers to sign, press conferences, events, shoes to strap on, bow ties that won't do up. It was all still life – just a very different one.
While in London, we met Queen Elizabeth. She had, of course, raised children in the public eye, so in our private meeting I asked if she had any advice. 'You just get on with it,' she said simply. She sounded so matter of fact, just as my grandma Margaret might have.
I squeezed the package I was holding, a gift for the queen. It was a framed image of her during a royal tour to New Zealand in 1953, her head back in a full relaxed laugh. You just get on with it. Of course you do.
This is an edited extract from A Different Kind of Power: A Memoir by Jacinda Ardern, published globally on 3 June by Pan Macmillan in the UK; Crown in the US (a division of Penguin Random House LLC); Penguin Random House NZ; and Penguin Random House Australia. To support the Guardian, order a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.