Sisters Are Doing It For...Themselves

It’s no surprise that when a woman becomes a mother she changes. Your body changes, your attitude changes, your pee schedule certainly changes but perhaps most interesting of all is how you suddenly develop super powers. You become adept at identifying the smell of your own child's poop in a crowded room, you wake in the night anticipating your imminent baby's cry and in defecting to large knickers over the floss string thongs, well, then super hero status is of no question. Yet perhaps her most honed talent, the one that sets her apart, is her newfound skill of stabbing other women in the back.

I had a hunch when I entered the minefield of motherhood that suddenly the idea of sisterhood was lost, trampled somewhere between conception and the announcement of impending baby. It became stomped on and replaced with women feeling forced to defend their lifestyles and actions. It typically starts with comments on your bump. Wow - you are huge!! How pregnant are you? They must have your date wrong! Or, you are tiny - Are you not eating? Why can't we just tell a pregnant lady - she looks perfect - just beautiful? A flood of what I thought was well meant advice would infiltrate the forty weeks - on best vitamins, best classes, natural childbirth, Lamaze or Bradley, midwife or doula, induce with pitocin or wait and do it 'naturally' with sex and bouncing balls and curry can be overwhelming. The advice comes flooding in - emails, voicemails, text messages and Facebook posts from people you haven't spoken to since you were 5 offering "Try having sex. It worked for me." Thank you, oh perfect stranger.

Then after you give birth comes the real fun - the piece de resistance - they just come out of nowhere - literally clawing out of the woodwork. Before they are five feet into the door and handing you a casserole dish comes the question - "So...are you breast or bottle feeding?" The disappointment shown with a head tilt and scrunched face when you say formula is paralyzing. You'd think they had just started with a urinary tract infection or something and before you can even explain why, (which you never need to do) they have moved on to telling you that it will be better 'next time.' Next time? What? My stitches are still healing and my hemorrhoids are still hanging out. Two words that I wished had used (and please excuse my vehemence) - Screw You! (And my anger is directed at one woman who made a snide comment in a park that will forever hurt). Shame on any woman to put pressure on another - particularly a new mum. I spent months hiding away from these breastfeeding nazis for fear of being confronted or shunned in public about my nursing failure. I had tried, dear God I had tried, and had more milk in me than a cow at market but it didn't work out and I will not now, not ever bother to defend myself again as I spent doing months after. It is no surprise that this perceived failure led me to fall down the rabbit hole into post partum depression.

And then for me the most recent line that I have noticed drawn in the sand by women 'Stay at home mums' vs. 'working mums'. Instead of supporting one another’s choices - because that is what feminism gave us - the choice - we instead make slight comments, questioning remarks. So, which bee hid in my bonnet today? Sadly, it's my own fault - my guilty pleasure is an online tabloid that spouts celebrity gossip. However, today my quick fix was not nearly juicy enough to avert my eyes from the juvenile journalism that makes up this crappy newspaper. Lesson learnt! There lay an article celebrating the 'Return to Housewifery' and after torturing myself through the whole thing I was left feeling inadequate and attacked. I shook myself out of the stupor realizing I had been subjected to something on the reading level of an 8 year old. Nevertheless, in an effort to perhaps make you laugh or cry or both... I thought I would share some with you some of this stellar commentary... Brace yourself.

Kate, who is due to give birth to her second child in six weeks, adds: 'The idea of leaving him with someone far less qualified than me while I go out to work doesn't make any sense. 'My education wasn't for nothing. I use what I learnt to make learning fun for him. We do so much together - swimming, football , tennis, playgroups, music groups and pre-school clubs. 'I love it at night, when we snuggle up and read books together. Paul agrees that I've made the right choice for all of us. 'We don't have many meals out or designer clothes, but none of that is important to me. We live in a two-bedroom cottage, and we would love a bigger house, but we'll have to wait." How wonderful! How delightful. Gosh, what a selfless woman you are. And to survive in a two bedroom cottage wearing non designer clothes?- Goodness me, what a sacrifice!

Another interviewee, Poppy Pickles, simply became a Saint in my eyes with this glorious assumption... 'Children have really lost out by being parceled up into day care. Surveys show that young children thrive through getting one-to-one care from a loving adult. Mums are best placed to do that.' English graduate Poppy Pickles is another highly- educated young mother who is adamant that she doesn't want anyone else looking after her children Daniel, five, and Rosanna, three. She says: 'I worked hard at school and I enjoyed university but I never saw myself as having a high-flying-career, leaving my children to be looked after by someone else. 'The best person to look after my children is me. They are both very secure, very loved children, and they take me entirely for granted - which is what I want. 'They know Mummy is always here, and always at home for them.'

Wow Poppy Pickles, (now there's a good working class name) who we later discover used to work at Sothebys - thanks for making us other mothers whose children have to go to day care feel really good about our 'choice'. Incidentally, those surveys that showed that "children thrive getting one-to-one care from a loving adult" - are they the same surveys that suggested that only children delivered naturally, exclusively breastfed and fed entirely organic produce would emerge as scholars and global leaders? Thought so.

Poppy who obviously feels she has a voice for the unheard generation adds: 'I don't feel as if feminism has passed me by - surely it is every woman's right to choose. I choose to be at home. (Absolutely right, Poppy, we do have a choice- now leave it at that) - "I want to see my children's first steps, hear their first words, and be there to take them to school and pick them up. Those tiny moments in the day are so valuable to children, and you can never get them back."

Oops, nope, instead of balancing your argument or throwing in a "but that's just my choice" you just had to throw a knife in the heart or back of every mother who doesn't follow your example or hasn't a choice in this. The article continued to voice the opinions of several other women - although none with such a perfect name. For me - it served only to reaffirm the thinking that when women become mothers they feel so under scrutiny and fearful of making a 'wrong' decision that they go on the attack to defend whatever 'choices' they make. Sadly, it ends up being something like - It's your choice - we all have a choice - except you are making the wrong choice. Even more frustrating is that it is just the women doing this to each other! We wonder why men don't struggle with the worry that their children will transfer the love that they have for them onto someone else during daycare. No - we claim that 'society puts such pressure on us' - but who in society? This is solely put on mothers shoulders...by other mothers.

If we choose to go work, the argument is that we are 'failing' our family. We might be championing ourselves or affording our family a better life but we can never quite escape the mud that is thrown our way by the homemakers, the domestic goddesses, the SAHM's that we are somehow denying our children and ourselves the most primal instinct. If we stay at home we are so fearful of appearing dumb or without drive by the 'career women' that we fight back claiming that our children will know their mother and as a mother we will never miss a thing. Why on earth are we so intent to pull each other down?

And then there are the mums that don't have a choice? That have to work for their families to survive. Whose belts are already tightened with both of them working and yes, they have crunched the numbers to know that 'one of us not working isn't a better financial choice than having a child in child care'.

One woman in the article actually addressed this - "it all comes down to having the right priorities. It is entirely possible to survive on one income - but you have to be prepared to live a far simpler life. 'We have very little money,' she says. We live on my husband's salary in a two-up, two-down, terraced house and there is nothing left over for any extras. None of us has had new clothes for ages. We drive one car, a Ford Focus, and we allow ourselves one meal out a month.'

adly, giving up new clothes or a trip to The Cheesecake Factory is often not enough and please don't suggest that our priorities are not in order. Food on the table and a roof over heads will always trump staying home, and that's not choice but necessity talking. However, the funny thing is - for the women that have no choice - they are perhaps least attacked. They are not a threat to their 'mother' friends and make no comment on their peers' choices. In fact, perhaps given that they have fewer friends to bemoan or compare themselves to at the end of the day they probably have more time spent focused on their children. Ah, it's a cruel irony.

We women fought so hard to have a choice and now we have to question each other by suggesting what exactly the right choice is. Of course I have no answer and even if i thought I did i wouldn't offer it to anyone else. That's because in all honestly I don't believe there is any one right choice. Not for the children. Not for the parents. Not for any of us. There is only what works for each of us.

So women, (and if I was Oprah I'd have you sign a petition) how about we try and do the following:

1) When a pregnant friend tells you that she plans to give birth naturally no matter what your thoughts - you respond positively, ignoring every urge to tell a horror story, or even worse throw a flippant remark like, "That's what we all say." Wacka wacka...

2) When you visit your friend that has just given birth, you do not need to ask her if she is nursing. If you stay more than an hour you will know and if you can't stay that long you probably don't need to know. If she is bottle feeding - NEVER tell her that it might be better next time. It might be but it might not and either way her nipples are never your concern.

3) When a new mother tells you that she is either going back to work or staying at home, you just say "good for you". That's it. If it's her choice it will make her make her feel good and if it is not her choice it will make her feel less anxious.

I've come to the conclusion that when offering unsolicited advice to a woman on motherhood, less truly is more. It's funny but the word sisterhood sounds so inclusive, yet motherhood can often feel terribly lonely. It shouldn't.

To view the article in full: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1294231/How-latest-generation-graduates-choosing-time-motherhood-high-flying-careers.html

When Love and Hate Collide

This weekend was another example of how far a mother's love will take her. On Saturday I went for a hike. To be fair it was just a walk in nature - but I gather that that is described as a hike. I was excited to view the waterfall I had been promised and it did not disappoint but then we were to continue on a trail. Just typing it makes me weak. I can't stand walking somewhere if I don't know the route. I dislike not knowing the 'turn around' spot. It evokes a sort of fear in me. Before I go on, it is perhaps important to know that I grew up on a farm and spent weekends gathering eggs from the hen house, mucking out the goose hut and throwing corn at ducks. I truly tried to embrace it and would grab my grandfather's walking stick and pretend to be a member of the royal family viewing the gardens of Balmoral Castle. I would walk into the woods, taking newspapers to sit on and would read a chapter of my book before heading home. I gave it a fair trial. Yet sadly, after drama club ended on a Saturday morning I would dread the rest of the weekend without the promise of a sleepover or a birthday party to escape to.

I believe this is why Summer has always been my least favorite season. It undoubtedly places the expectation that one should be outdoors. Rubbish. I have red hair and fair skin for one reason and one reason only. To be excused from direct sunlight and fresh air.

I digress.

Before we started our nature trail, I needed the toilet. In an effort to pep up my spirits, I had drunk the face off an iced coffee and now because I couldn't gauge the length of this 'hike' I had to do a security pee. I swung open the door to a vile stench. I'm always terrified that a snake will just pop up me when I pee, so I habitually check every toilet I use. Every toilet. This is an irrational fear that has no origin.

However, instead of a beast, I found an abyss of poop. I gagged and held on to the rail whilst hovering above death. My security pee turned out to be the longest pee I had ever done in my entire life. Legs shaking, I ripped a couple of pieces of the roll holder that would not roll. Did a quick wipe and threw it. Whipped up my shorts and scarpered. As I pulled the door I noticed that the toilet paper had missed the gateway to hell but I couldn't go back. I feel bad about that. I do.

So, as we continued past the waterfall and my daughter joyfully walked toward bushes and leaves and other green things, my eyes were peeled for dirty, rotten snakes. I knew I shouldn't look but I did. No sooner had the sight of twigs made me twitchy I felt the most irritating touch known to man. That of a mosquito. I am subsequently aware that I should have doused in "Off" or something but I hadn't expected a tropical pest to be in the high desert of Central Oregon. I thought they lived in swamps and poo and Africa. I was mistaken.

It was over for me. I was bitten. Now, it would be of interest for you to understand that all this was internal conflict. I was trying desperately hard to be a 'good sport'. It was sunny and there was a waterfall. My sister and brother in law seemed enthused. Tom loves that stuff and dear Lord, Olive was properly giddy and waving at trees and dogs and every child that crossed our path...all of whom were headed in the other direction.

So, I am just smiling and trying to pretend that this is wonderful, but when the second mosquito bit my neck I just blew. Just as my panic escalated so did the intensity of the attack. They were literally everywhere and not even hiding. Blatant feasting on human flesh. I think that this is what you might call 'beyond a joke'.

In my defence I offer a visit to Spain when I was about 8 years old. It was a hot sticky night on the Iberian coast and I awoke to my face itching like I'd had an allergic reaction to an epidural. I had been bitten about seven times on my face and had mumps like lumps all over. I tried to rub them with my wrist rather than scratch them but fearing a further attack I pulled the covers up over my head. I was sharing a bed with my sister at the time and somehow the West Nile virus had failed to pierce her olive skin and infiltrate her blood. In true sibling irritant fashion, she pulled the covers down, I pulled them up, she pulled them down. For the record, this wasn't nearly as much fun as when we threw our knickers at the ceiling fan and watched them whizz round before flying off around the wall. No - this was serious. This was literally a matter of life and death. Sadly, being four years younger and afflicted with the pain of a face blowing up like the Elephant Man, I never stood a chance. In my delirium at being bitten alive I climbed into a suitcase and pulled the flimsy lid on top of me in the hopes of shelter. I lasted about a minute before my father came in and told me to get back into bed. At that point in my life, had he told me to drink the Spanish tap water I would have obeyed.

Seeing my daughter on that nature trail brought it all back. She was too young to run for shelter and there was no haven in this mess of dirt and shrubbery. When I saw one land on the back of her neck, I exploded. I grabbed her and ran. I must have looked like a loon but I didn't care. I wrapped her tight into me and covered any bare skin with my hands. This was survival of the fittest. I was wearing short denim shorts and a pair of white converse and knew this slippery trail laden with tree roots was designed to make me stumble. Yet it was no match for me. Until Olive started to cry that is. Now, this is not the point where I tell you that I relented and went back for more for the love of my child. I merely embraced my sprint as a game and started whooping and woohing my way downhill. Before long she was loving the escape and oohing and giggling her way to safety.

Now I'll admit, I did feel a bit like an idiot. As my other family members sauntered back prematurely, I did wish to have been more 'baby in a sling' relaxed. I just don't like surprises and nature is just bursting to show you new things unexpectedly.

There is no moral to this nor change in store for me. No feel good ending to this tale. In fact, to further fuel my fire, my initial bug bite became so swollen that I have decided that a spider bit me when I was in poop grotto. I believe he saw his opportunity while I was holding onto the railing in avoidance of the rim of danger.

To conclude, I stand by protecting my daughter from such misery. As the great Meatloaf once sang, I would do anything for love...but I won't do that.

All I am is just a...

I was asked last week, "so are you just a mum these days"? Somewhat dumbstruck I fumbled to give a response. I don't remember what i said except that it was far too long and far too nice. I have since spent hours trying to conjure up a response that was neither insulted nor defensive.

What I wished i could have done is grabbed a microphone, nodded to a pianist and sang the following. I would have sang loud and proud and hoped that every word sprang saliva into her pity ridden eyes.

Role Over

Dear God, please forgive me for directly quoting from People magazine. Amen.


"Every single day I second guess myself as a mother...it's frustrating because I feel like i'm failing on both ends". Naomi Watts - on juggling a movie career and motherhood.


Not exactly Gandhi - however, as I was perusing the pages of People magazine in the grocery store last week, i read this quote and my nose began to run as i struggled not to cry. I know, how embarrassing - i'll be quoting Kate Gosselin next. However, somewhere in me it hit a nerve. She had articulated in two lines what i had been feeling for months.

Later that week my meltdown escalated into a full on dissolution of mind, body and soul. No nose sniffing could stop these mammoth tears of literally monsooning my face.

I came home late from work. I had a warm dinner waiting, my house was clean and my laundry folded. Olive was bathed and in bed. I should have been kicking my heels off and singing (quietly) some Lionel Richie. Instead i found myself literally destroyed.

I tried to reason with myself to understand why I was lying on the bathroom floor bawling my eyes out and gasping for air. I was one phonecall away from being sectioned when i picked myself up and looked in the mirror knowing the shock of seeing a blotchy, freckled panda would scare me into silence. The tears stopped and were quickly replaced with rage. At the world. At everything. But mostly at myself. I was furious with myself and i couldn't figure out why. I just sat on my bed for what seemed like an eternity revisiting the past 30 years - random memories flooded my brain, of running to catch my school bus, a dance teacher straightening my arms, of showering in flipflops, of olive, of tom, of new york. Of new york. I knew I had no reason to be sad and every reason to be thankful but in that moment - that one moment - I wanted to scream to the world - my life is a compromise. There, I said it.

I'm sweating as i type.

In my tiny mind all I could see was that I'm not around to look after my daughter during the day, I hadn't cooked my family dinner, I had left my house a mess and I had left my laundry in the drier. I can't even call my day job a success because it used to be my career that defined me and now it hurts to even think of that. I felt utterly redundant as a mother and a wife. I had never cared about this before. At least I never thought that I cared. But in that moment I did. I do. It wasn't about wanting to slave behind an oven, nor sing to the sound of my vaccuum or even play with tea sets and teddies all day. Now, these duties are not expected of me - i was met with no disappointment. In fact, nobody could understand what was up with me. It's just that those roles have become a part of me and much of being a mother and a wife seems to come out of being needed. Subsequently, in that moment, I felt unnecessary. And guess what? It's downright painful to fail at something you became by default.

Of course we all give up things when we become parents. Sleep, impromptu showers, dreams. Rarely begrudgingly. It's all worth it when you see the love you have shining back at you. It's tough when you miss that. If only for a day.
The reality is that something has to give. If you are on the fast track in your career then maybe the payoff is affording your family a better life. If you are a stay at home mum then you do perhaps lust for your career but rest easy in knowing that you can give 100% to your child. For me, I fall somewhere inbetween and so I have become precious over what is under my jurisdiction and the desire to do it well.

And yes, I know, I do, that I am a lucky lady if my biggest problem is coming home to a clean house, a warm dinner, folded towels and a loving family. However, this is a confessional (I know, - get a journal) but I have to believe that there are other people that feel this way. And so I go back to quoting a movie star (was she the one in King Kong?) and agree that sometimes I feel like I am failing on both ends.

The tears stopped. The day ended. My headache passed and after letting it all out I felt a bit daft but I refuse to dismiss that meltdown as anything less than real. That night I found myself consumed with the thought that I'm not the mother that I thought I would be. Over and over I ran this through my head. From vowing never to use pacifiers, to insisting that my child will cry it out, and of course the cardinal sin - never having a child sleep in bed with me. There I was, lying in bed, wide awake at 3am with Olive uncomfortably nestled in my armpit and I couldn't understand where I had gone wrong.


The following day I blurted this out to a friend over a toilet stall. "I'm not the mother I thought I'd be."
As if to add insult to injury i had to repeat myself because of an unexpected flush from another stall. - Yet over the rustle of toilet paper my fears were allayed. "None of us are. You're the mother you need to be."


That works. I'll take that. Right now that's enough.

Lost In Translation

Something that I always agonize over or at least occasionaly think about is moving back to England. Why? Not for the Victorian gardens, the tea, surely not the Tories...no, it is so I can once again shine on the rounders pitch.
Allow me to share with you a tale of a woman shoved into a foreign culture with only her memories to keep her safe.
Last night i debuted on the company softball team. They were short of people and I was essentially doing them a favor. I adopted a Hugh Grant dithering demeanor when asked and feigned fear of sports. "I am just making up the numbers", i kept saying and then chuckling nervously. Inside, i was giddy. I would return to my former glory running from base to base with my hair blowing in the wind. Ok, so I come from a land of small bats and small balls. Softball was a little different, but, I was raised on rounders. How hard could it be? Plus, I work with a bunch of shirts and ties...I was a maverick, a former sports star, I would show them I was more than a skirt in an office.
I arrived 10 minutes early. My hair was up in a ponytail and I had that song from A league of Their Own in my head. Not "This Used To Be My Playground" - don't be ridiculous - the other one. Anyway, I arrived after a minor directional disaster ( in hindsight this was the gods trying to avert embarrassment) I checked myself in my rear view mirror and aside from the crows feet and blonde facial hair glistening in the sun light, I was 12 again. I could smell the changing rooms and sense the verrucas.
I walked over to where my team mates were throwing a ball. They were wearing mitts. Ha! I guffawed. Just like that american football stuff with the shoulder pads. Wait till you see my hands of steel catch those suckers. I approach and am ignored. Not quite the thank you for saving the day welcome I had imagined. "Hi", I shout to the guy that recruited me. He catches the ball and responds, "sorry i can't hear you". Dear lord. I mean, if you see someone for the first time wouldnt you at least say, "hi, sorry I can't hear you"?
I wave my hand across my chest giving the old international sign for don't worry about it.
Everyone seems to have a partner that they are throwing to and I don't seeem to know any of these people. Eventually a young man throws me a ball and gasps when I catch it bare handed. My insides burn with excitement. My hand burns with pain. Good pain. Feel the burn. I fire it back at him and nearly knock him off his feet. The Burt is back. After the 16th throw my hand is hurting and so I decide to bumble over and 'up' the Brit thing. Little less Grant, little more Firth. "So...may I see the size of your bat?" Thought that might raise a giggle, to which i could pretend to have not noticed my double entendre. I could blush and before long they would be asking me where in London I am from? It would be like Beatlemania.
Nothing.
Crickets chirping.
Am handed a bat - something the size of an AK-47. The ball is the size of a large hand grenade (should they come in sizes). No wonder they can hit it. Keep cool. Hustle.
I decide to lean over and talk to one girl and tell her it is my first time playing this game. She says that it is hers too- i smile and put my hand on her arm and say, oh it's all a bit of fun. She tells me she was joking and this was her sixth year playing in this league to which I remove my comforting hand and tell her that it really was my first time. We laughed. It was a clumsy exchange. Ahh, softball humor.
Anyway, I bided my time. I was the eighth hitter/batter and the seven before me had managed contact. I was ready to knock this ball low and hard.
I approached the dusty square and waited for a nice underarm ball to come my way. I swung with all my might. It was beautiful. I missed. Cue embarrassed giggle. "It's my first time", I told the backstop (catcher) to which she laughed and told me to just keep swinging. How nice, I thought. She spoke to me.
Next ball, it was like slow motion - a perfect rise and fall. I swing and....i'm out. Apparently, we all start with one strike against us. What. A. Load. Of. Rubbish.
I walk off the field and nobody said anything to me. I am left to sit on the bench on my own. Maybe it was because I clapped when the other team caught us out or because I whooped when they hit a good ball...but I was just being supportive of everyone.
Anyway, to make a horrid story short - it happened again...and again. I was officially playing for the other team. I eventually offer my batting position toward the end of the game to the girl beside me. I expected her to reassure me that it was just a game. Sadly she couldn't have been any quicker to snatch my bat.
Sigh.
You see...to be honest, I just wanted to immerse myself and learn the sport. I have the fondest memories of my mother practising rounders and netball with me and sadly those sports never caught on over here (because they are wholesome and non contact, no doubt). I was a bit of a wizz at rounders. Here, i'm the foreigner with no friends. As I sat on the bench, kicking my feet in the dirt, I wondered if this is how extremists start. A bit bullied and made to feel like an outsider -and before you know it you leave a carbomb in Times Square. Poor chap probably had a rough time on the softball field.
I digress...
To be fair, these were no doubt lovely people taking their game seriously and probably found me to be a bit ofa bumbling irritant. My point is...yes, there is one...i'm discovering that it is rather strange for me to raise a child in a country that i didn't grow up in. The other day Nellie the Elephant fell on deaf ears. The wheels on the bus don't go all day long, they go all around town and don't get me started on the hokey pokey. Even family fortunes is called family feud. It's the simple things. Marmite costs $9 a jar. I miss fruit machines and drinking Top Deck. I miss citing Timothy Claypole as a comedic figure. I especially miss referencing a Neighbours episode when a friend needs advice. No complaints just observations - it's not as if I am in a country where I am forced to eat dog because there has been a run on chicken.

Now, I know you don't want to live through your children but it is lovely opportunity to relive some fun moments through their eyes.

I leave you now complete with bruised ego and bruised hand. I put my rose tinted specs back on and remember myself as a good player - one who would race round the stick bases to the chant of "raandur, raandur". (That's rounder with a Bedfordshire accent).

On the plus side, i didn't pee myself. Silver linings, people...silver linings...

Happy Mother's day

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5 minutes

I'm sitting on a sandy beach. It's not quite warm but it feels nice when the sun hits. In the distance I can see Tom walking with Olive taking her to the ocean to dip her feet. I resist every urge to run over and tell him that it is too cold. Instead I sit, I watch and I remember.
I am 10, standing on a balcony overlooking the sea. I see myself, I had a thick and uneven fringe. My mum comes out to join me. She pulls me into her. She has the sides of her held back with tortoiseshell comb grips and she is beautiful.
I see myself in Spain. It is dark and I can hear the sound of the sea inbetween the jukebox switching records. I turn and see a table littered with empty bottles and shot glasses and three people laughing at something that none of us will remember but all of us will never forget.
I am wrapped up, holding hands, mind full, mouth shut, just married.

He has her feet in the water and she is fearless, laughing as he dips her in and out. My heart is so full it hurts my throat.

I think I get it.