Mother's Day? Bah! Humbug!

I know that there are women who genuinely enjoy celebrating Mother's Day with their families and look forward to it every year, but I confess that I'm not one of them.  

I've been a single working mother for 15 years, on call 24x7 day-in and day-out, public holidays and weekends included as part of the deal, and still find it an insult that on one day of the year all my hard work and sacrifice is acknowledged.  Well, not an entire day, just through breakfast or, if Mum is lucky, through lunch but then it's back to Business as Usual.

When Scout was a littley, she really struggled to understand why I loathed Mother's Day.  Everyone at Kindy was excited about it and all her friends were excited about it ... and then there was her mother, the only person in her universe who wasn't into Mother's Day.  

There were a couple of years when Young Scout would make me go back to bed so she could fix me breakfast in bed.  And I'd get to clean up the mess when she'd dump the tray in my bed and dissolve into tears.  So, I'd go into full-on Mom Mode: calm her down, reassure her that everything was OK, clean her up, clean the carpet in my room, launder my sheets, clean up the kitchen all the time convincing her that it was the BEST Mother's Day breakfast in bed ever and how lucky was I to have such a wonderful daughter!  

That's why we started running in the Mother's Day Classic at the Domain.  Though she was convinced that it was to raise money for breast cancer and to show our support for friends, like Kathryn Sheehan, who had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  But even the 6.30am start was better than Mother's Day breakfast in bed!

But over the years, Scout has come to understand that my dislike of Mother's Day was because, if the work I did as a mother was so important, my being a mother should be celebrated every day and not just one morning a year.  She now has taken to admonishing her friends to celebrate their Mums every day of the year, not just on Mother's Day.

Maybe Mother's Day isn't so bad after all.

The Dreaded ManFlu

Women sometimes feel that we are the disadvantaged ones ... we tend to earn less than men ... we carry a disproportionate amount of carer responsibilities ... we are more likely to be the victims of domestic violence. But all that pales to insignificance in the face of The Dreaded ManFlu.

I have never understood the suffering that men have to endure once they fall victim to ManFlu. My husband suffered from it from time to time, as even the strongest men will do, and I showed a remarkable lack of sympathy.

During one particularly trying bout of ManFlu, I suggested that my husband would be better off in hospital. He told me that Royal North Shore Hospital simply wasn't equipped to deal with such a debilitating and virulent strain of ManFlu. It would be safer for the staff, patients and, indeed, the general public if he stayed at home in bed. In hindsight, given recent headlines featuring RNSH in a very uncomplimentary light, I have to admit that he probably wasn't too far wrong.

Another time, after a rather prolonged bout of whinging and wimpering requests for succor, I simply lost the plot and handed him his AMEX card and the phone, saying "QANTAS flights land and take off every day. Call your mother and get her out here!"

"But, Mag," he barely had the strength to whisper, "I need your love and tender care to get me through this."

To which, I replied, as kindly as I could manage while looking him straight in the eye, "Honey, you are gonna die."

You won't be too surprised when I tell you that that marriage ended in divorce.

But the intense suffering of the victims of ManFlu was again brought to my attention recently when some of the guys at work came down with it. One by one, they fell victim to more pain and suffering than any individual outside of Guantanamo Bay or a Super Tuesday state should be forced to endure.

The fact that I've been sick with flu for two weeks and missed a couple of days of work seems to count for very little. I was informed by a particularly acute sufferer of ManFlu that ManFlu germs (or virus ... the victims barely have the strength to debate that one) are so highly evolved that they won't even try to infect a Mere Woman. It would surely kill her instantly and, if women started dying at the obviously high rates that would result from ManFlu infection, that could put the entire species at risk, including future generations of men. And where would that leave the ManFlu?

Clever bastards, these ManFlu germs.

I confess that I have been enjoying their suffering more than I should. Particularly the special kind of Male Measuring Ritual that accompanies ManFlu: the comparison of symptoms to see who is sicker or suffering more or closer to imminent and painful death. The first liar doesn't stand a chance. There is barely a dry eye in the house ... from anyone listening to them carry on.

But, from what I gather, the ManFlu germs mutate almost constantly, pushing their victims to new heights of misery and suffering. And the only way to ensure that they can survive is for we Mere Women to show them the sympathy and the compassion that they so richly deserve.

Gentlemen, you are gonna die.

Update 14 August 2008: It has been pointed out that I have been remiss in giving credit where credit is due. I would like to thank Rob Creek for inspiring this post. Without his pain and suffering, the world would have been a much duller place.

You will be relieved to know that he has not only made a miraculous recovery from The Dreaded Man Flu, but completed the City to Surf with a very respectable time and will be running in the top group in next year's race.

A Dog Story

This was posted to my other blog on the 30th of December, 2006.

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In the mornings, I go for a long walk along the local reserve on Sydney Harbour's foreshores. Because I've taken some time off work between Christmas and New Years Day, I've been going later in the morning and see lots more people out walking than I usually do. And I've seen lots more dogs as well.

This morning there were lots of dogs and their owners out and I saw something I don't usually see during my early morning walks: the dog-smelling-dog ritual greeting. And this, in turn, reminded me of a story that my dad always told my brothers and I while we were growing up . He always swore that it was true.

Now, there aren't many stories that my dad told us while we were growing up that I can share with anyone outside my immediate family. But I think I can get away with this one if I tell it carefully.

Once upon a time, my dad would say, there was a big dance hall where all the dogs would go on Saturday night for dancing. Dogs from all around would gather at the big dance hall every week, some coming from miles and miles away.

Before they would go into the dance hall, each dog would hang their dog bottom up outside the door, like people hang up their coats on a winter night, on rows and rows of coat hooks. After dancing the night away, they would collect their dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall and head on home.

One Saturday night, tragedy struck and a fire broke out at the big dance hall. In their panic to escape the flames, the dogs just grabbed any old dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall. Of course, they didn't grab their own dog bottom but got someone else's. Which means that some other dog has their dog bottom.

And that is why dogs smell each other's bottom when they meet, just in case they found their dog bottom lost the night of the fire at the big dance hall.

Even after all these years, his dog story still makes me laugh.

A Fred Story

This one was published on my other blog on the 28th of March, 2007.

My dad's birthday was on Tuesday and he would have been 74. I still miss him and thought about him a bit more than usual this week. And, as often happens with my dad, I was reminded of a Fred story ...

From the time I was born and through the first couple of years of school, my dad was going to graduate school and getting first his Masters degree and then his PhD in Mechanical Engineering while also teaching at uni and working full time. Part of the unfinished basement was fitted out as a combo den and office so he could study. The old TV and lounge were put down there as was an old Franklin stove (cast iron wood burning stove) to keep the cold Connecticut winters at bay. He had an old china tea pot, white with royal blue swirls and gold accents, that sat on top of the Franklin stove to keep the tea warm. I've never been able to find a teapot that looks anything like that one I remember from the basement.

My dad worked hard at everything he did and our family life in those years was organised around his very busy schedule. As a family, we still celebrated birthdays, but always in the middle of the night. Dad would get home from uni well after we'd gone to bed. So we'd be rousted out of bed in the dead of night and sit around the kitchen table in our jammies singing 'Happy Birthday' and waiting for the lucky parent or kid to blow out the candles before tucking into cake and ice cream. When we were finished, we had to brush our teeth AGAIN and go back to bed. The family dog must have thought we were nuts.

It was years before I found out that normal families celebrated family birthdays during the day. I felt a bit sorry for them.

We always used the backs of my dad's draft thesis and dissertation papers for drawings and writing stories and colouring. I remember when his final draft dissertation was stolen out of his car at uni. This was well and truly in the days before computers so the entire document had to be recreated from the previous drafts and notes and stuff. I'm not sure who I felt sorrier for, my dad or his typist!

Finally, the big day came and my dad was going to get his PhD. I was in the 5th grade, so I was about 10 or 11. My brothers and I were kept home from school, a very rare event because at my house, the only way you got to stay home from school when I was a kid was if you were projectile vomiting, going for both accuracy and distance, or had blood squirting on the walls or had a temperature of over 107F. Otherwise, off to school you go. But today was special and we going to the commencement ceremony at the University of Connecticut (UConn) in Storrs.

Let me digress for a moment ...

When I was in primary school, the classes were overflowing with kids. Each class was full to the gills. The only exception was the class for the mentally retarded kids. They did lots of things together with the other kids in the school, called 'main streaming' at the time, but they still had special classes every day that were just for them and there were about a third of the kids in their entire special class compared to my 5th grade class.

So, back to my Fred story.

We sat upstairs in a huge hall; I can still remember looking down at all the little people in their caps and gowns. We sat there as groups of UConn graduates get their diplomas. First they do the Associate degrees ... gowns and mortar boards (those flat graduation hats) ... calling out the names, handing over the diploma case and shaking hands. Then, group after group of Bachelor degrees ... gowns and mortar boards. They went on forever. Then a couple of small groups of Master degrees ...gowns and mortar boards. Then, finally, the PhD gradates ... just a couple of people (including my dad) with gowns but, instead of mortar boards, they wore funny baggy beanie hats.

I was devastated. My dad was retarded! That was why it took him so long to graduate. All the other kids on my street had a black&white photo at home of their very young-looking dad in a gown and mortar board. My dad was old in comparison, really old. So, my dad was retarded. Small class, funny hat ... the proof was overwhelming. No denying it. My dad was retarded.

When I went back to school the next day, all my friends asked where I'd been. I was too embarrassed to tell them the truth so I lied and told them I was sick.

I figured out the truth later and don't know if I ever told my dad this story. But it makes me laugh now.

Before You De-Couple ...

When you are married and things aren't going well or you are getting restless or are bored, it is easy to look at your friends who aren't married and long for their life instead of you own. Those rose coloured glasses can keep you from seeing how things look from those of us who live it every day.

So I have decided to let you know what it's like to be a Divorced Woman in the Big City. Of course, this is just my perspective and your mileage may vary.

Are You Ready To Trade Him In For Another Model?
To set the stage, let me say that I've spent about the same amount of my adult life single as I did married. I haven't dated as many men as, say the character Sam on Sex in the City, but I've dated my share since my divorce.

If a man over 40 is available and some woman who can spot an eligible man over the age of 40 at half a kilometre in the dark and she hasn't married him yet, there is a reason. It might be obvious ... it might not be ... but the reason is there.

My experience is that men over 40 are really looking for someone to take care of them because they can't or don't want to take care of themselves. They are attracted to strong, independent women because they know she can do it.

When I refer to a strong, independent woman in this context I mean that she has no needs, no wants, puts no demands on his time or emotions or money and is totally self-sufficient. If she ever exhibits any needs, wants or ask for a modicum of support, he'll head for the hills complaining bitterly that women are all the same, ball-breakers just like his ex-wife. However, this does not prevent him from using her as an oxygen tank to suck dry in order to meet his needs and wants.

I figure if their mum's couldn't raise them and their previous wives or girlfriends or de factos couldn't raise them, why would I want to take on the job raising them? I have promised myself that I won't raise anyone that I didn't give birth to. That pretty much eliminates most available men over 40 from consideration.

If you aren't happy taking care of the husband you've got now, how do you know that the next man in your life is going to be any better? My money says that he'll be worse. So Caveat Emptor -- Let the Buyer Beware.

And Now You Are One

You will come home day after day with no one to share the trials and tribulations of your day. You will be the one to pat yourself on the back when things go well and you will be the one to console yourself when things don't. Of course, you'll have your friends -- where would we be without them? -- but they have their own lives and families and partners. You're on your own, kiddo.

In addition, you get to deal with the daily fallout from the impact the divorce has had on the kids. They won't tell their father how they feel because they are worried that he won't like it and will see them even less than he does now. If he remarries, what happens to them? And they will wonder if the divorce was somehow their fault. And who bears the brunt of their confusion and frustration and guilt? This lovely tsunami of emotion is coming your way and there is no where to hide. They know that they can do this to you because you won't ever leave them.

And Now You Are Looking for The Next One
Be prepared to be seen as a threat to still-married women who used to be in your local circle of friends but now view you as a threat to their marriage, their family and their way of life. Suddenly they are busy or forget to call you back ... a hundred very plausible reasons that you won't stay in touch.

You will be amazed at the number of school or work or social functions that you won't be comfortable attending without a partner. When you were married you would have laughed at this but when you are the one with out a date, it all changes. And if you've been married for a really long time, you are out of practice at doing these things on your own.

And having a husband who wouldn't go to them with you so you went alone doesn't count. You were married then and you aren't now. Being available instead of married means that the old rules don't apply any more.

And just where are you going to find this guy? Of course single men flirt with you when you are married. It's safe for them. But once you are single, they seem to evaporate. And meeting new men isn't that easy when you are now shouldering all the responsibilities for the children. Of course, a woman over 40 with kids who just came through an unpleasant divorce ... who wouldn't find that attractive?

And Now You've Found The Next One
Lucky you. You won't ever be alone with him. The ghost of his ex-wife will be with you every moment as he complains or constantly thinks about the last stunt she pulled or what she's got the kids doing or wondering what she's up to or something ... it will always be something.

You will get treated to endless tales of how he was hard done by in court or how she manipulated things to her advantage and he ended up screwed. Of course, that isn't how it happened but he'll chew it over and over for years. All for your regular listening pleasure.

And you will be in the queue behind his kids and his ex-wife and his hurt pride. Might be a bit tough if you are used to being higher in the queue than that.

The tricky bit is that, even if you end your marriage without to much drama and get an absolutely fabulous financial settlement, you aren't out of the woods. You are bringing with you all your foibles and hang-ups and problems into your next relationship. What's to stop it from all ending up the same way again? You are already half way there.

And Then There is Sex ...
I loved the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie has the line: "We made love like teenagers. He was terrible and I didn't say anything." It was followed later by the line: "He thinks that sex is like masturbating but with a woman instead of his hand."

If I had a dollar for every time a divorced man complained "I never understood why my wife stopped having sex with me", I'd retire now, a wealthy woman.

The first time I heard this, I said without any hesitation, "I know why. You're really not very good at it." Well, that is the abridged version. If memory serves, I burst out laughing and my answer was much more detailed and thorough than what I've written above. There is a very good chance that the term "shithouse" was used, more than once. But you get the idea. Since then, I've learned to suppress the comment and am still working on the laughter.

Studies show that men think about sex, on average, every three minutes. If it is so important to them, how can they make it to 40 and, with a few notable exceptions, be so incredibly bad in bed? Don't give me that crap about problems men face as the get older. I get spam emails every day offering Viagra and can't listen to the radio without hearing a dozen ads for 'nasal delivery technology'. That's not what I'm talking about.

If sex is so important to men, why don't they know more about it? Their practical knowledge of female physiology is non-existent except for a vague idea of where to find your vagina. They have no idea how to satisfy a woman in bed. And the idea that satisfying your partner in bed is a good thing seems to totally foreign to most men.

His Next Wife
Statistically, your husband is much more likely to re-marry than you are. How will you feel when he brings his new girlfriend or wife to family functions ... graduations, weddings, family gatherings, family holidays down the coast? She'll be there and so will you. Or she'll be invited and you won't.

And your kids are going to meet her and, in all likelihood, will like her. A lot. And they'll talk about her and her kids and things they all did together. And she'll be way cooler than you are. Maybe younger. Probably better educated. And prettier. And dress better. And thinner. With perkier breasts.

It's gonna happen, so best to be ready.

Divorced-Induced Poverty
It is more likely that your ex-husband will bounce back financially from the divorce than you will. And that you will never be as well-off financially once divorced as you were when you were married and had stayed married.

And you can kiss your comfortable retirement good-bye. You won't be able to afford it. So it is very likely that you will continue to work for as long as you are physically able. And I hope that you enjoy working because you'll be doing it for the rest of your life.

It's easy to say that the money doesn't matter when you live comfortably indoors and are used to eating regularly. But it's another thing all together when you have to sell your home and some of your possessions in order to stay out of bankruptcy and keep food on the table.

And In Closing ...
There are a number of very good reasons to get divorced -- alcohol or drug abuse, physical or psychological abuse, mental illness -- but boredom or frustration probably aren't near the top of that list. Divorce isn't a decision that should be made after surveying your friends for what they think. What if all your friends are getting divorced or talking about it and that's got you wondering if you should too? Just because it's suddenly in fashion doesn't make it a good thing.

Deciding about divorce is a decision that you have to make for yourself and for good reasons. But I can tell you that being single and over 40 is not the picnic that it might look like from inside an unhappy or boring marriage. Before you make the leap, you should know what kind of aromatic decaying fecal matter you might be landing in and how deep it can be.

But if you are thinking about ending your marriage, then let me wish you luck, no matter which way you decide to go, from someone who's been there and will quite happily stay divorced for the rest of her life. I can not imagine anything or anyone that could induce me back into marriage again. But, as I said before, your mileage may vary.

I Am The Queen

I am consolidating some stuff I wrote on my other blog to this one. Don't worry, two new posts are in the works, they just need a bit more ... refining, to be ready to be published. In the meantime, some older works will be migrated here.

So, from the 11th of March 2007 post to my other blog, please enjoy I Am The Queen

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This was originally published on 23 August 1996 by Susan Reimer who writes for The Baltimore Sun and it is a relevant now as it was then. Maybe more so as HRH has so recently discovered. I've included it here with Susan's permission.

"I am the queen," she said. "Everything you need to know starts with that fact."

Standing over her kitchen sink, her anger and agitation churning the soapy water, she was washing the dishes and recounting to me the moment when her relationship with her children changed.

Not right away, perhaps. It occurred to me that they might have recognized the scene she was describing as the periodic price of doing business with Mom and kept their heads down until it was over.

But for this woman, it was life changing. She was Copernicus, telling the world that the sun did not revolve around it, but it around the sun.

"I am not a doormat or a domestic servant. I am not a helpmate or a handmaiden. I am not your personal cheerleading section," she had told them.

"I am the queen of your world. I am She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am the straw that stirs the drink. I am Da Man. I am the be-all and end-all for all of you."

That is what she told them the morning she found clean clothes in the hamper, the results of sartorial indecision someone was too lazy to return to the dresser.

The morning she found the cap missing from the root beer and the carton of melted ice cream in the cupboard where she kept the drinking glasses.

The morning she found all those plastic sleeves from freeze pops littering the carpet in front of the television.

The morning she realized that her family (like that of the heroine of Anne Tyler's novel Ladder of Years) might not be able to describe her for a missing person's report.

"I am the reason there is always more toilet paper under the bathroom sink," she told them. "I am the reason there is always more ketchup in the pantry.

I am the reason none of you has measles, mumps or rubella," she said. "I make it happen around here. I grease the skids in your happy little lives. I feed you, I clothe you, I comfort you. I sign you up and then I drive you there, and I am not waiting any longer for you to notice.

You guys will worship the ground I walk on, and it will start now."

She demanded that they do what she could not get done and express their gratitude for what she did. She no longer asked for "help" because that implied the job was hers, done by them only as a favor or an act of generosity.

So she assigned tasks, and if they whined, or did them too poorly or too slowly, she assigned more tasks. They were indentured servants for weeks before they realised that she wasn't kidding.

These were not chores, they were responsibilities. And there were no cash bonuses, no praise, no good-job kisses for their completion.

For years, she had hustled to meet their expectations of her. Now they would live up to her expectations of them, or no one would ever go to the movies or horseback riding ever again.

Her face turned the color of her hands in the hot water as she remembered the scene. It had been no outburst, but an epiphany, the moment when she realised that she was a parent, not a character from Remains of the Day.

During a weekend visit, I saw that the queen's new law had been written on the hearts of her people. Tasks were done without complaint, and the family machine worked relatively smoothly.

I also saw a mother who was no longer a martyr but a manager -- delegating, not doing it all.

My own children, the little Prince and Princess for whom I played chambermaid for so long, did not see these things, and they flinched with surprise when, upon my return home, I declared:

"I am the queen. Everything you need to know starts with that fact ..."