I am woman hear me whinge.

Some time in the year of our Lord 1971, an Aussie by the name of Helen Reddy coined (part) of the title of this post. It is my understanding that she was singing about the emancipation of women, of equal rights and that fact that women roared.  Mind you, I could be WAY off the mark, as I was but a young girl when the song was released.

Oh Helen, I really hate to disappoint you, but really, there are some things that have not changed since the heady days of your number one hit.

Fast forward to 2012. I am a working mother. I work full time, I have two children that I ferry around to various specialists.  I manage the home finances, I am the social secretary, and life doesn't move without me.

But really, the world unfortunately favours those of us who were born with a penis.  Those of us who have a vagina still have not earned a place on the important list.

My husband, bless him, is completely clueless when it comes to anything other than his PS3, his conjugal rights and what's on the menu for dinner. He shows no interest in anything other than what pleases him. He remains clueless to the finances and has no idea who the kids specialists (of which there are MANY) and he has never read any of the kids school reports.  

So why then, does the bank, the school and every other institution alway always address the Mr in our home and not the Mrs??  What the fuck??

I'm sorry, but that really gets my goat.  Every time I log onto the school website, the family account is addressed to Mr Nobody.  He is parent 1. I on the other hand, am parent 2. Even though Mr Nobody, still to this date (term 4), does not know our 7 year old's teacher's name. 

And the bank...  OMG don't even get me started. No, you cannot fucking talk to the man of the house because the man of the house knows NOTHING!!  Why on earth would I get him involved?  He's only going to pass the phone over to me anyway!!

Seems to me that there is still a lot in life that needs to play catch up. I'd have no problems in deferring the balance of power to Mr Nobody if he actually knew what the hell he had to do.  But he doesn't.

GET WITH THE PROGRAM PEOPLE!!!!!  

AARRGGGHHHHHH

Ok, vent over.

Have  a great weekend, even those of us who are parent 2.

Peace out party people.

Mrs Nobody

Yummy Mummies: Rumble in the Playground

Hi guys.  I'll confess, I'm kinda cheating.  I wrote this piece as part of a uni assignment. I think it still resonates with those of us who have children at school... any school really. Enjoy. Hope this makes you feel ok about your parenting skills, which I will only assume are WAY better than mine!!  Oh, and PS, I got a HD 

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I’m going to be brutally honest.  Motherhood is not all it’s cracked up to be.  Nothing prepares you for the politics of being a mum. No one mentions the unspoken rules of the playground. It’s like a war zone. The battle is sometimes blatant, but mostly covert, usually vitriolic, subliminal, extremely aggressive and always damaging.

            I found myself facing motherhood later than I had hoped. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, with assisted conception and IVF, I was in good company. Fertility rates for women aged 35-39 years increased in 2005 making it the highest rate since 1962. That year 259,600 babies arrived.

            No sooner are you home with baby, then you face the prospect of mother’s group.  A local council run initiative, it’s designed to allow new mums to come together with other mums for support. It can be wonderful.  I have great friends from my mothers’ group. But things go awry when your child starts to hit (or miss) the milestones.

            My child was into missing most of them, something that was pointed out to me many times. As a mother, you try not to compare children, because every child is unique. The constant reminders that your child isn’t rolling, lifting its head, crawling, holding its bottle, or talking can be draining not to mention demoralising.

            Our group began with 15 members. There are only five of us who still keep in contact. I can’t say I miss the ones who made me feel guilty, who made me question my ability to parent effectively and the choice I made to go back to work.

Lorraine Candy, Editor in Chief of Elle magazine has talked about her experience with the ugly side of ‘Yummy Mummies’. It’s comforting to know it’s not just me. She raises some interesting questions. Do women do this to make themselves feel better about themselves or is it based on jealousy? Yes, on both counts. Her final conclusion is enlightening.  ‘The trouble with motherhood is there is no end result, no chart of comparison that says you did it brilliantly or terribly.’ How true.

My alienation from my mothers’ group began when the kids started kindergarten.  As a working mother, my children have been in full time childcare since they were eight months of age. We decided on the kinder program at the centre for convenience while the other children attended the local pre-school. There was a shift in the balance and before too long, I was on the outer perimeter looking in, replaced by new alliances made in my absence. I was comforted by the knowledge that primary school would bring us back to the fold.

Our first day of school was exciting. A civilized affair, there were tears and countless photos. In the days that followed there was a change in mood. As the children were lined up by homeroom, I was separated from my group of friends and was left with one friendly face among a sea of strangers. Being isolated gave me the opportunity to observe the key characters at play.

Groups of mothers clustered around and stared each other down. It’s nerve wracking for the uninitiated and can determine your place in the playground for the duration of your child’s stay in that particular school.

Time poor, I sometimes feel like I’m racing against the clock to finish everything on my to-do list. It’s a battle I constantly lose. I’ve forgotten how to apply make-up and if my clothes aren’t stained with snot or food, that’s good enough for me. This philosophy doesn’t fly with the ‘Yummy Mummy’ crowd that is so prevalent in the school ground.

The cliques can be broken up into a number of categories. According to Rachel Halliwell of The Daily Mirror 2009, there are the ‘Super Mummies’, ‘Yummy Mummies’, ‘Earth Mummies’ and ‘Slummy Mummies’ to name a few.

‘Super Mummies’ can do it all and can be said to be the leaders of the pack. Impeccably attired, they are hands on with their children. I want to be them.

‘Yummy Mummies’ are coiffed, manicured, wear skinny jeans with stiletto boots. They don’t work, drive 4WD’s and love their designer bags. I roll my eyes at them.

‘Earth Mummies’ radiate blissful calm and waft into the playground oblivious to playground politics. They’re more concerned with global warming and cutting their greenhouse gas emissions.  I envy them.

‘Slummy Mummies’ are the ones who just aren’t on top of their game. Always late, they arrive at school in rumpled clothes, red faced and sweaty.  I am them.

Comedian Libbi Gorr describes in the waiting for the afternoon bell and engaging in chitchat as ‘an extreme sport’. Extreme it is. I once overheard two mothers savagely tearing apart a mother’s parenting style, like vultures stripping flesh off a carcass. One mum smugly informed me her daughter told her that my child does not have good listening ears.  Oh, really?  Why thank you.

Apparently not having listening ears can be a deal breaker, as I later learned that my child was the only girl in the class not to receive an invitation to this girl’s birthday party. That killed me. Was it because of me? How do you protect your kids from that? Thankfully, my child lives in a fantasyland where everyone is a friend and life is grand.

Even I judge. It’s a terrible thing to admit. You can’t help but do it. There’s ‘Super Skinny’, ‘Super Model’ and ‘Wannabe’ to name a few.  There’s a trio of mums always playing Angry Birds. I call them ‘The Birdies’. I dread to think what my moniker is. 

Examples of my extreme lack of parenting skills are too juicy not to share. Did I mention I also forgot the Walkathon? What about the time I dragged my child to school, only to be stopped by the business manager who said ‘The children finished yesterday… for the term.’

‘Oh.’

On the last day of (prep) term one, the junior school held their Easter Bonnet Parade. It was scheduled for 12.45pm. I turned up at 12.20pm only to find I was late. Apparently the children had put on a play before the parade began. Whoops.

Fortunately, one of my friends from playgroup saved me a seat in the second row. Apparently I missed a near fistfight over the race for front row seats. It was chaos. Parents jostled for position to take photos. There were even video cameras on tripods.

I managed to get only two photos of my disheveled but happy child who walked proudly beside her grade four buddy, her bonnet perched precariously on her head. She sang out ‘That’s my mummy!”.  Those three words made me feel like a super hero.

Peace out party people.

Mrs Nobody.