About that six day warning...

Last week I wrote a post about the unrealistic expectations and laziness of men when it comes to leaving the house. You can read it here. One male blogger, incensed by my nonsense, sent me this response. Read it and weep.

Dear Wife,

Last Sunday you told me that we would be going to your Sister’s house this Saturday, for lunch. I grunted my acknowledgement and forgot about it instantly.

On Monday, you mentioned that we would go for a walk in the woods while we were at your Sister’s at the weekend. I filed that under ‘that’ll-be-nice’ and gave it no further thought. We only need legs to go for a walk and I have two of those. I considered myself ready for the challenge.

On Tuesday, you said how excited you were about going to your Sister’s at the weekend and I distinctly remember asking what day we were going, why we were going and what we were going to do while we were there. You did a special womanly sigh and informed me that we were going on Saturday, for a walk and for lunch. “What time will lunch be?” I asked, “Lunch time, or later?” It’s important to know the difference between a ‘meal’ which can be served at any time, and ‘lunch’, which should be at 12 O’clock. I’m very set on this detail.  “Lunch” you replied.

On Wednesday you asked me what time we needed to set off in order to get to your Sister’s for lunch on Saturday. I remember thinking to myself that this was a remarkably strange question considering that I didn’t even know we were going to your Sister’s, not to mention the fact that we have both lived in the same respective houses for at least six years and we have visited them at least four times a year ever since. Surely by now you should have got the hang of how long it takes? We don’t even use the sat-nav anymore. “Half past ten,” I say, “eleven at the latest if we are to get there in time for lunch.”

On Thursday, you had a day off talking specifically about your Sister but instead spent an hour banging on about how you don’t have anything nice to wear at the weekend, and the general lacking in your ridiculously over-stuffed wardrobe at the moment. I told you that fourteen different outfit combinations looked lovely on you but no actual decisions were made.

On Friday, you pointed out that if we were to leave the house for half past ten the next morning, then we was really going to have to get on with it when we got up. You mooted the idea of setting an alarm but shelved it in favour of a gamble that the kids would wake us instead. I reminded you how long it always takes you to get ready and that we really did need to be away in time because your Sister’s kids would eat all the sausage rolls again, if we were late. You nodded in agreement – that particularly cold and food depleted visit has never actually been forgotten nor forgiven.

For six days you have nagged me about this visit. For six days you have been planning it.

So why is it, love, that with twenty minutes to go you are still sat in your PJ’s with your nose deep in Twitter and need me to tell you to get ready?

An hour ago I mumbled that perhaps you could possibly have a shower first, on account of how much faffing this always entails, and you shrugged me off. I looked over at the kids half an hour ago and I thought you were leaving it a bit late to get them ready. I shook my head in disbelief at your apparent lack of thought. 

It only takes me five minutes to wash my pits, sack & crack in the shower (I’m nothing if not thorough), five minutes to dry and throw on the closest pair of trousers and shirt to the end of the rail, and another five minutes to follow you around as you use your special female Voodoo magic to locate my otherwise lost phone, keys, socks and sunglasses.

Fifteen minutes – that’s all it takes me to be ready! I’m ready with five minutes to spare and where are you? Upstairs, messing about with the kids now that you’ve finally noticed they aren’t ready.

Will you please get a move on? Those greedy nephews of yours will be tucking into the garlic bread soon.

Love you

Husband x

Held together with glue

I remembered something today that made me chuckle.

It was something my Mum said, probably about 20 years ago, and she was in tears at the time.

“Everything in my house is glued”

It was a reference to the fact that she drops, smashes, or breaks everything. And if she doesn’t, inevitably one of her kids will (more than likely me)

Twenty years on and I’m feeling her pain. My house is starting to look the same. Most things have a missing part, a missing partner, or are just plain missing (in action. Probably down the tip by now)

As I sit here typing I can see:

·        A three legged giraffe pen holder

·        A broken wine glass (the last of a set of four)

·        A recipe book stand that won’t stand up (snapped the leg off)

·        A chipped vase (tap again)

And that’s just in one room. Outside on the drive sits my car, with the bumper hanging off (nothing an occasional kick can’t sort), the back door opens only from the inside (3 yr old comes in handy)  and the glove compartment won’t close (unless my passenger kindly wedges their knee against it). Even one of my fingers is glued on. (but that was my sister’s fault)

I never get through the day without breaking or spilling something.

Yesterday I threw Weetabix all over my 1 yr old. Today I almost threw the one year old as I tripped up the stairs. Once I tripped and threw a whole jar of pickled onions. And when I’m not throwing things I’m throwing up. All over my car ceiling (yes, inside) and in someone else’s glove box.

I’ve blamed lots of things, bad eyesight, terrible hand/eye co-ordination and hereditary clumsiness.

But basically I’m just in a rush. And now everything in my house is glued too.

A Mother first

“When a woman has a baby, she is a Mother first and a wife second. A man will always be a husband first and a father second.”

Discuss

Oprah Winfrey said this about 18 years ago. Despite my status as a fully-paid up, grant maintained (those were the days) layabout student, it stuck with me. Filed away for future use to put to the test in my mid-thirties.

What she was talking about was how women’s priorities change when they have a baby and more importantly how the men in their lives react. Some feel total rejection, some view it as everything they’ve ever wished for.

My own experience has proved this theory right. My children are my number 1 priority, whether I like it or not. This has nothing to do with being an earth mother; I am not a stay-at-home Mum, doing craft, teaching foraging skills and making play clothes from curtains. But I have bumped my husband down the pecking order to sit proudly at number 3. He gets fed last these days.

But what about him? Does he put me or the kids first? It’s a tough one, he idolises the children, but it seems to me that he also knows I’m the one he needs to keep sweet. Because he loves those kids so much, it makes sense to keep their mother happy.

And I think that’s what Oprah meant when she said a man will always be a husband first. It’s not that he loves me more than his children, it’s more that he values my role in being their mother SO much, that he will put me first. Well that’s my theory anyway.

That particular episode of Oprah dealt with the men who felt rejected. They’d been number one in her life until that baby was born.  I’ve seen this happen and it’s a shock, who knew a baby could have such an impact on the male ego?  I think even the strongest man must feel a twinge of envy, or longing for their old life together, when they see the way a mother looks at her child.

And sometimes us women don’t help. A letter in this Saturday’s Times magazine talks about ‘martyr mothers’, it says:

“if you ask them how they are, they recount an exhausting list of after-school activities, domestic chores, play dates and doctor’s appointments…..their personal identity sucked into some horrible child-centric vortex”

Recognise yourself in there? I do *cringes and takes another gulp of wine* This particular man said he just didn’t find his wife attractive anymore and couldn’t view her as a ‘sexual being’. This is serious stuff. How do you get down and dirty with the woman who is also the mother of your child?

So for all our complaints as women (and mother martyrs in particular) I think we need to spare a thought for the men. Just a thought mind, don’t dwell too much on it.

If you are a husband and father reading this, no matter how bad you are feeling about being pushed down the pecking order, you’re still not at the bottom. There are four people in my family and when it comes to priorities, who sits at number 4?

You guessed it. I always get the burnt toast.

A Mother's Guilt

I seem to be in permanent state of guilt. I’m guilty. I suffer from guiltiness.

I have been feeling this way since 16 May 2008. I can pin-point it to the birth of my first child.

 

No one warned me that being a mother meant living a life plagued with guilt. They told me of the joy, the closeness, the fulfilment, even the pain. But they failed to mention the guilt.

Guilty for that cheeky coffee you have when they’re asleep (and you should be cleaning).

Guilty for going to work ‘for a break’.

Guilty for leaving work early, but picking them up from nursery late (I had some shopping to do).

Guilty for leaving work at all.

Guilty for leaving your husband in charge – just the once.

Guilty for staying on for an after work drink.

Guilty for lying in bed for an extra half hour.

Guilty for letting them watch TV while you have a shower.

Guilty for the fight that’s just broken out because I’ve been ignoring them whilst I browse through facebook.

Guilty for breathing.

We have no reason to be guilty, no one is making us feel guilty, for some reason it’s something we like to do to ourselves. Like no sleep, a fat belly and stretch marks aren’t punishment enough?

We are mothers. We are guilty. As charged.