NS March 3rd, 2008

Last night, lying in bed with TNH, his head on my emerging bump (aka The Noble Fetus), talking to it:

TNH: I can’t wait to meet you, baby. You’re going to have a fantastic older sister who will play with you, and a mummy who takes care of you and loves you very much. You probably won’t see me a great deal at first because I’ll be at work a lot and mummy has to feed you. But when you’re a little bit older, we’ll have a great time. We can play football if you’re a boy or sing songs and dance if you’re a girl, and…

Me:  Um, you can do both of those things with either sex. A boy can sing songs and dance and a girl can play football too, you know.

TNH, without missing a beat: And you should know that your mummy is a feminist.

Too right, mister.  But thanks for making me laugh so hard just before going to sleep.

• Feminist Fury , The Noble Fetus , Til Death Do Us Part
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NS March 2nd, 2008

It’s Mother’s Day here in the UK today. Well, actually, they call it Mothering Sunday. I know, I know, I laughed too. But the sentiment behind it is exactly the same. Honour thy mother and do one, some or all of the following: send/bring her a card with swirly, cursive writing and soft-focus pastel flowers on the front and a smarmy poem on the inside about a mother’s love and how she’s always there for you; send/bring her flowers; send/bring her chocolates or wine; send/bring her some cheap jewelry or a coffee mug that says ‘Best Mum’ or ‘Number 1 Mum’; take her out to a restaurant/cafe. Thankfully, I don’t think I’ll get the pastel card or the cheap coffee mug, though I wouldn’t mind some flowers, chocolate or a nice lunch at an establishment other than my own kitchen. Actually, what I really want is just to spend time with my family outdoors and wish I could see my own mother. Thankfully, I’ll be seeing her in four short weeks so the though of that keeps me going.

It is 10.30am and TNH is still asleep. I know that I should technically be the one sleeping in, seeing as it’s Mother’s Day and all, but he was up late whooping our friends asses at a long game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I went bust shortly after 11pm in what was my worst game of poker ever. I didn’t win a single hand, even though I had several good ones. Someone else beat me every time. If I had two pairs, they had three of a kind. If I had three of a kind, they had a straight. So on and so on. I was grossly unlucky. I went to bed just before midnight, the game still going strong between the other six players. When I woke up to The Noble Child stirring at 7.15 and took her downstairs for breakfast, I expected beer cans and chilli bowls to be laying around, poker chips still out and glasses stacked in the sink. Instead I saw a spotless kitchen and dining room, all the washing up done and the entire poker-playing area cleared up and wiped down. A note from TNH told me that he had won (£70 pot — result!), though it had taken him until nearly 3am to part our friends from their money. This news, plus the clean kitchen, got him the lay-in he requested with no resentment. Smart man. And now I’m off to the shops to get some more milk and the Sunday papers so he can have a nice coffee and read the sports page when he gets up. It’s the least I can do when I’ll be spending his poker winnings.

Before I go, I just wanted to get something off my chest that is mother-related. I was watching a clip from the Academy Awards last week in which Jennifer Garner gets accosted by the ever-so-strange and slightly scary Gary Busey while being interviewed by Ryan Seacrest (host of American Idol and radio/tv presenter). The inappropriate neck kissing aside, the thing that actually kinda bothered me about this clip was Seacrest’s question to Garner about being a “Supermom,” meaning how she balances her career and her family. This question gets asked a lot of working mothers and it bothers me for a few reasons. First, because men rarely, if ever, get asked this. How often does a male get asked how in the world he does it all and get called “Superdad” for having both a career and kids? I hate how it’s assumed that a man with children has a woman at home, be it his wife, girlfriend/partner or a nanny, taking care of them. How he ‘juggles’ this is never an issue because the assumption is that someone else (undoubtedly a female) is taking care of everything while he just brings in the dough and worries about his career advancement. Dad doesn’t need to worry about who will take off work if Junior is sick, or whether his promotion possibilities will suffer as a result of his fatherhood, there’s a woman out there worrying about those things for him! It’s so demeaning to both women and men, as the assumption that men are not involved in their children’s care and upbringing is surely insulting to involved dads too.

Second, it bothers me because the ‘shock and awe’ that some working mothers are met with is so patronising. Asking “How in the world do you do it all?” not only implies that working mothers are some kind of new-fangled invention and stay-at-home moms are the norm (which is completely inaccurate — there are more working moms than ones who stay at home full time), but it also induces guilt far too often in working moms who stop to ask themselves, “Am I not meant to be ‘doing it all’? Am I doing my kids or my career a disservice by not focusing 100% on either one?” It’s kind of a backhanded way of asking “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing here?” and it’s totally gross.

The third reason that this bothers me if because if working mothers are Supermoms, what does that make those who stay at home? Regular, boring moms? Got it easy moms? Ladies of leisure moms? Now, I know I may be slightly more sensitive to this since I myself am a SAHM but I’m not really one by choice. Sure, I like it well enough most days and enjoy spending lots of time with my daughter, but if I could afford to work, I would. I know that for most people it’s the other way around (not being able to afford not to work) but it’s just as bad to feel that you don’t have the choice to work as it is to feel you have to. And believe me, there are days when I would give my right eye to leave the house in the morning wearing something other than jeans and carrying something besides a diaper bag. Commuting to work where I can listen to my iPod and read a book in peace for 30 minutes? That would be bliss. Dealing with a boss who may be a jerk but at least can be reasoned with and counted on to not shit on the floor or throw food in my face? A joy. Talking about something other than Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and the merits of eating all of one’s vegetables? Priceless. So forgive me if I take a bit of offense at the notion that all women who work are sacrificing something greater than themselves for their children, being compare to superheroes, and that those who stay at home are doing a cakewalk and just don’t know how lucky they are and how easy they have it. If working moms are the superheroes, I guess SAHMs are equivalent to the maid — always there in the background clearing up other’s messes  but not getting thanked for it because it’s ‘just their job’. Though at least maids get rewarded financially for their work.

So, to sum up: Ryan Seacrest can bite me. No one is a Supermom. We’re all just women with children doing the best we can with what we’ve got. If motherhood is like a game of poker, sometimes we’re extraordinarily unlucky and sometimes we win the pot. But when it comes to our children, we always hold ‘em.

• Career , I Bitch Therefore I Am , Parenting 101
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NS March 1st, 2008

I found an old journal of mine the other day, filled with poems written during my senior year of high school. The cover of the journal, which is red and blue and brown in a Southwestern design, was put on backwards and upside down so that what looks like the front is actually the back, wrong side up. I thought that was so symbolic at the time.

My parents gave me a new journal for Christmas every year because they knew I filled them up quite quickly and was always looking to replenish my stock. Inside the front cover, I always printed my name and the date I began writing in it. This one says I started it on Christmas Day 1996. In the interests of comedy and nostalgia, I’m reprinting a few of the poems I found inside, ones I haven’t read for many years. Enjoy (or not)! Oh, and sorry for the double spacing throughout, it’s my template and I couldn’t be bothered to change it for this one post. I’m lazy like that.

Birthday Boy

My darling little boy

is dressed in birthday blues

Such a brave little solder

what am I to do

It’s killing me to see the pain

bleeding from his eyes

This blow was not expected

he’s bound to ask me why

Little Susan came

with pushing from her mother

She’s sitting solemnly

while he waits for all the others

The beautiful cake I made

sits next to Susie’s card

The candles melting down

near the door where he stands guard

He wants to check the invitation

maybe they were wrong

He’s pulling on my skirt

asking what’s taking them so long

I smile through my tears

and pat his innocent head

Oh god, give me his suffering

give it to me instead

The party games lay still

he knocks them to the floor

A mother’s realization

I can’t protect him anymore

Susan starts to cry

and asks if she can go back home

My little boy in blue

is now oh-so all alone

His once vibrant face

has aged in this one day

His birthday expectations

have all been thrown away

As he trudges up the stairs

his head hung like a fool

I torment in his grief –

kids can be so cruel

Little Town

In a little town

that is run by Mayor Brown

Where the roads are still not paved

and the Amish still don’t shave

Where they’re blowing manhole covers

and Pop and Sis are lovers

There’s a little laid-back place

that discriminates by race

In the back there’s yellow beet

and a stack of dirty sheets

Round the corner is a house

that’s as quiet as a mouse

All the white men beat their wives

sly as cats who have nine lives

The Chinese couple opened shop

Sis works there when not with Pop

The Hispanics in the slums

quote Macbeth and chew their gum

There’s an all-night Uzi store

where they’ve tired of keeping score

In the single county car

Sheriff Herschel rubs his scar

Sneaks in safely to his home

and idolizes Al Capone

In the forest late at night

by a fire draped in white

All the women of the town

take turns beating Mayor Brown

Floating On By

Just one moment

maybe in Tahiti

No x’s and o’s

at the end of the letter

Two sundeck chairs

and a life that is better

Two fortune cookies

that we throw to the sea

Sippin’ cider through a straw

and tanning our feet

Those precious little moments

when we fall from a laugh

Into each other’s arms

and a pink bubble bath

I could live in your eyes

and never have to explain

By a fire in Mexico

toasting love with champagne

Filling my soul

with the sweet smell of you

On warm autumn days

under a sky carved from blue

From cinnamon trees

we dangle and grin

Tickled by grass

on elbows and chins

As we run alongside

the rusty sunset

We’re fearless of waves

not afraid to get wet

Amen hallelujah

little angels float by

Washing up on our shore

where they learn how to fly

Cupping our hands

we blow them a kiss

And make up for time

we’ve desperately missed

• Life's Lyrics , Miscellaneous Missives
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