(I apologise in advance for bringing the tone of the blog down with this post. But really, kids are gross. There's no getting away from that, delightful though they may be. And so, it seems a little too tidy to have a blog about little kids without talking about poo somewhere along the way. )
It was epic. Yes. one of my baby's once-every-three-days poos. I am sorry, once again, to be fulfilling that nappies-scones-poos-and-wees cliche about mothering conversation that we all know and love... but you should have seen it. There I was, walking down the hallway, with clean, fed, tired baby all ready for bed, and dirty, fed, tired toddler all ready for bed. And then, without warning, the baby's nappy exploded in my hands. Yellow, sticky goop everywhere - down my top, trousers, shoes, the carpet, and all over the baby. It was quite amazing both in quantity and aim, with the sheer number of square feet of affected fabric being quite overwhelming. I stood in shock, holding the baby at arm's length, making feeble sort of 'aaah' noises. Eventually, I came to, plonked the baby on the nearest washable surface - the hard bathroom floor - where he proceeded to smear his little feet in the mess, gurgling with glee (think snow angels, but with poo.) I rushed to gather my retaliatory ammunition, consisting of - somewhat appropriately - a facecloth with a large yellow picture of Winnie the Pooh on it. Ah, those beautiful moments of congruence that can so easily pass us by. Anyway, it was a vast clean-up job, the details of which I shall spare you. But I will say this: boy was I calm, cool, and businesslike. Yup - no poo too large for this lady.
Until, after some time, when all was very nearly cleaned up, I noticed my two year old rushing merrily around with suspicious-looking yellow hair. Yes, he does have yellowish hair normally, but.... yes. It's true. What you're thinking. With all the pre-meditation of a zucchini, Master Two had reached into that yellow mess and wiped it through his hair. (A new market niche product! Not 'Bed-Head', not 'wax' or 'mud', but 'Poo-Head!'). He also had no clothes on by this stage (another story) - except gumboots. Gumboots go best with no other clothes on - ask any toddler. And as i saw this little Thing One (or is it Thing Two) flash past, poo-encrusted hair, gumboots on, I was somehow reminded of that moment in The Titanic where Miss Winslet lounges, holding up that winking jewelled necklace, and instructs Leonardo, in a throaty whisper: 'i want you to draw me. Wearing this. Wearing...ONLY this." Yes, I imagined my toddler, with a little less suggestiveness in his tone, resplendent in his gumboots - just his gumboots - holding forth: 'I shall have poo in my hair! Wearing gumboots! Wearing...ONLY gumboots.'
Anyway. I have learned today that baby poo can dye already blonde hair a lighter, brighter shade of yellow, somewhat akin to Turmeric. Schwarzkopf, here we come.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
The Wedding and the Toddler (an older story)
It dawns a bright, sunny, wedding-ish day. Excellent news for my sleeveless dress – don’t have to wear that wrap that falls down when I pick Toddler up. But bad for the seriously temperature-challenged Toddler in his smart shoes and bow tie. If there is one thing that sends him over the edge, it is being too hot.
We get up, my husband and I. Not because we particularly want to, or because it is time, but because Toddler has been standing up in his cot for the past 20 minutes, demanding ‘Breakfast! Get down! Breakfast! Morning tea! Lunch! (you will soon see a theme developing). I hope vaguely that there is no-one in the room next door. It’s amazing how often one is consoled, when parenting a toddler, by scenarios where you know you will never have to see the people concerned ever again. We dress in casual clothes, as it is only sensible to put on our formals at the last minute. The alternative is wearing milk, jam and butter, as well as a slippery wrap. Not the polished appearance I had in mind.
Breakfast in the hotel room is a very civilised affair, unfortunately for us. Not, of course, that we are savages, but that we are working on civilising Toddler; and we are not quite there yet. (So, after sticking his fork into the butter to make patterns, wailing that the eggs keep sliding off his fork, dropping jam on his shirt, pouring water on the toast, dropping sugar (still in its packet) into Dad’s coffee,) and filling his pants so conclusively that the noxious odour fills the small dining room, it is time to leave, not withstanding a small detour while Toddler asks the nice old lady if he can have some of her egg. ‘Oooh I’d like some too’ is not as cute as it sounds.
Getting dressed up is an exercise in juggling various potent objects; we are all in the same room, complete with formal clothes, make-up, lego, nappies, bananas, and Toddler, all in worryingly close proximity to each other. Toddler gets his long shorts, short-sleeved shirt, bow tie, and little shoes on. He looks positively angelic. This is how even the most cherubic-looking child begins the inevitable process we know as: slow melt-down. Finally ready to go, with 30 seconds to spare before our meeting time, we close the door to our room and lift Toddler up to go down the stairs. Toddler protests, inevitably, wanting to go down himself. In the ensuing tussle, the Velcro on his cute little shoes gets caught on my cute little 10-denier stockings. The does not bode well for my stocking future; into my one back-up pair, and we haven’t even got down the stairs.
So, the minibus ride to the ceremony sounds straightforward enough. It is only when we step inside the stiflingly hot, non-air-conditioned bus that the real problems begin. ‘Hot’ announces Toddler. We take off his shoes and socks, revealing already hot and sweaty little feet. ‘Hot hot hot’ wails Toddler. We take off his little shorts. ‘Hot hot hot hot hot’ screeches Toddler. We take off his shirt and bow-tie. Then he starts asking for food: the beginning of the end. It sounds a bit like this: ‘biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit.’ Now we have a large, bright red, sweaty, obsessive Toddler, dressed only in a disposable nappy, on his way to the wedding. Things are not looking good.
Upon arriving at the location, we attempt to mingle with the other guests and relatives we haven’t yet met, smiling what we hope are calm and welcoming smiles, while hanging on to our near-naked and sweaty Toddler. This is complicated by the fact that he has bare feet, and the concrete is hot. ‘Hurts!’ shrieks Toddler. ‘Sore feet! Lift!’ ‘Say please’ we admonish, somewhat redundantly, as there is nothing for it but to lift him up. Guests look on, half disapprovingly, half amusedly, at the near-naked child, sucking his thumb voraciously, grinning manically at each introduction. Many think he is happy and charming; I know that he, and thus we, are nearly over the edge.
The back row of the church is the place for us. We manage to get Toddler’s shirt back on, but there is little point with the trousers, as it is simply too hot. He is getting really hungry now, so I fish around in my bag for a biscuit. Now we have a totally wired child, dressed in a shirt, bow-tie, and nappy, perched on the seat and dropping crumbs everywhere. We pray that the photographer is otherwise occupied. The entrance completed, the first hymn sung, we think things are under control, until my husband hisses ‘what’s that wet patch on the seat?’ Aghast, we realise that Toddler has somehow managed to pee out the side of his nappy - which looks otherwise intact – onto the red plush seat. My husband volunteers to sneak out and change him. Things are holding together by the thread of a disposable nappy.
So they sneak back, nappy changed, dignity only just intact, under the cover of a rousing hymn with an Alleluia chorus, which Toddler manages to get to grips with on the last chorus, just as the hymn ends. This doesn’t deter him, and he bellows cheerfully ‘Alleluia Alleluia Alleluia!’ into the silence of the church. This is our cue for another quick getaway – my turn this time – and we escape out the side entrance, my hand theatrically yet necessarily over his mouth. This is his cue, upon glimpsing the new-found freedom of grass, tombstones, and daisies, to roar around yelling ‘Running! Running! Running!’ I exchange knowing and sympathetic glances with the other parent-of-hysterical-toddler lurking in the graveyard, and lead Toddler smartly away from the stained-glass windows, from the open church doors, from the quiet and dignified service, and feed him a banana, which he inadvertently gets on my dress. And we all know what banana does to dresses.
Let me tell you though, at that stage I didn’t care if I was wearing a fancy black dress, a squashed banana, or my bathing suit – or perhaps I still had enough shreds (or is it shards?) of dignity to avoid the latter – and I really needed a drink. Strictly non-alcoholic though, because…. I’m pregnant! ha ha ha ha h ha ha ha ha ha! (wild maniacal laughter at the thought of doing all this again with a newborn too.) Well. And some people have eight! Words fail me… all I can think of to say is a sort of infernal repetition of the word ‘biscuit’, for some unfathomable reason.
We get up, my husband and I. Not because we particularly want to, or because it is time, but because Toddler has been standing up in his cot for the past 20 minutes, demanding ‘Breakfast! Get down! Breakfast! Morning tea! Lunch! (you will soon see a theme developing). I hope vaguely that there is no-one in the room next door. It’s amazing how often one is consoled, when parenting a toddler, by scenarios where you know you will never have to see the people concerned ever again. We dress in casual clothes, as it is only sensible to put on our formals at the last minute. The alternative is wearing milk, jam and butter, as well as a slippery wrap. Not the polished appearance I had in mind.
Breakfast in the hotel room is a very civilised affair, unfortunately for us. Not, of course, that we are savages, but that we are working on civilising Toddler; and we are not quite there yet. (So, after sticking his fork into the butter to make patterns, wailing that the eggs keep sliding off his fork, dropping jam on his shirt, pouring water on the toast, dropping sugar (still in its packet) into Dad’s coffee,) and filling his pants so conclusively that the noxious odour fills the small dining room, it is time to leave, not withstanding a small detour while Toddler asks the nice old lady if he can have some of her egg. ‘Oooh I’d like some too’ is not as cute as it sounds.
Getting dressed up is an exercise in juggling various potent objects; we are all in the same room, complete with formal clothes, make-up, lego, nappies, bananas, and Toddler, all in worryingly close proximity to each other. Toddler gets his long shorts, short-sleeved shirt, bow tie, and little shoes on. He looks positively angelic. This is how even the most cherubic-looking child begins the inevitable process we know as: slow melt-down. Finally ready to go, with 30 seconds to spare before our meeting time, we close the door to our room and lift Toddler up to go down the stairs. Toddler protests, inevitably, wanting to go down himself. In the ensuing tussle, the Velcro on his cute little shoes gets caught on my cute little 10-denier stockings. The does not bode well for my stocking future; into my one back-up pair, and we haven’t even got down the stairs.
So, the minibus ride to the ceremony sounds straightforward enough. It is only when we step inside the stiflingly hot, non-air-conditioned bus that the real problems begin. ‘Hot’ announces Toddler. We take off his shoes and socks, revealing already hot and sweaty little feet. ‘Hot hot hot’ wails Toddler. We take off his little shorts. ‘Hot hot hot hot hot’ screeches Toddler. We take off his shirt and bow-tie. Then he starts asking for food: the beginning of the end. It sounds a bit like this: ‘biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit.’ Now we have a large, bright red, sweaty, obsessive Toddler, dressed only in a disposable nappy, on his way to the wedding. Things are not looking good.
Upon arriving at the location, we attempt to mingle with the other guests and relatives we haven’t yet met, smiling what we hope are calm and welcoming smiles, while hanging on to our near-naked and sweaty Toddler. This is complicated by the fact that he has bare feet, and the concrete is hot. ‘Hurts!’ shrieks Toddler. ‘Sore feet! Lift!’ ‘Say please’ we admonish, somewhat redundantly, as there is nothing for it but to lift him up. Guests look on, half disapprovingly, half amusedly, at the near-naked child, sucking his thumb voraciously, grinning manically at each introduction. Many think he is happy and charming; I know that he, and thus we, are nearly over the edge.
The back row of the church is the place for us. We manage to get Toddler’s shirt back on, but there is little point with the trousers, as it is simply too hot. He is getting really hungry now, so I fish around in my bag for a biscuit. Now we have a totally wired child, dressed in a shirt, bow-tie, and nappy, perched on the seat and dropping crumbs everywhere. We pray that the photographer is otherwise occupied. The entrance completed, the first hymn sung, we think things are under control, until my husband hisses ‘what’s that wet patch on the seat?’ Aghast, we realise that Toddler has somehow managed to pee out the side of his nappy - which looks otherwise intact – onto the red plush seat. My husband volunteers to sneak out and change him. Things are holding together by the thread of a disposable nappy.
So they sneak back, nappy changed, dignity only just intact, under the cover of a rousing hymn with an Alleluia chorus, which Toddler manages to get to grips with on the last chorus, just as the hymn ends. This doesn’t deter him, and he bellows cheerfully ‘Alleluia Alleluia Alleluia!’ into the silence of the church. This is our cue for another quick getaway – my turn this time – and we escape out the side entrance, my hand theatrically yet necessarily over his mouth. This is his cue, upon glimpsing the new-found freedom of grass, tombstones, and daisies, to roar around yelling ‘Running! Running! Running!’ I exchange knowing and sympathetic glances with the other parent-of-hysterical-toddler lurking in the graveyard, and lead Toddler smartly away from the stained-glass windows, from the open church doors, from the quiet and dignified service, and feed him a banana, which he inadvertently gets on my dress. And we all know what banana does to dresses.
Let me tell you though, at that stage I didn’t care if I was wearing a fancy black dress, a squashed banana, or my bathing suit – or perhaps I still had enough shreds (or is it shards?) of dignity to avoid the latter – and I really needed a drink. Strictly non-alcoholic though, because…. I’m pregnant! ha ha ha ha h ha ha ha ha ha! (wild maniacal laughter at the thought of doing all this again with a newborn too.) Well. And some people have eight! Words fail me… all I can think of to say is a sort of infernal repetition of the word ‘biscuit’, for some unfathomable reason.
How OLD is your child?
It has gradually dawned upon me that we are fond of this well-utilised phrase for two reasons only. Firstly, it is the parental equivalent of talking about the weather. Every child has an age. Every age is non-confrontational, non-loaded, and just sort of there. An excellent conversation starter, middle, and end.
Secondly, it is the ultimate point of comparison. ‘Oh, 6 months?’ we say with mild interest, while our mind busily scans the child, looking for comparative height, weight, girth, hair, teeth, motor skills, speech, clinginess, and dribble. ‘My child is 6 months too.’ Both parents gaze contemplatively at their respective children, quietly assessing how 6-monthly they appear to be, in comparison to the other. It has to be the most unassuming comparative phrase that we are in possession of as parents. Quite safe. Harmless even. And yet…
Secondly, it is the ultimate point of comparison. ‘Oh, 6 months?’ we say with mild interest, while our mind busily scans the child, looking for comparative height, weight, girth, hair, teeth, motor skills, speech, clinginess, and dribble. ‘My child is 6 months too.’ Both parents gaze contemplatively at their respective children, quietly assessing how 6-monthly they appear to be, in comparison to the other. It has to be the most unassuming comparative phrase that we are in possession of as parents. Quite safe. Harmless even. And yet…
Monday, 16 February 2009
The Morning that Was
My day was one out of the box. It began at, say, 10:00 p.m. the night before, or perhaps, 1:00 a.m., or perhaps 4:00 a.m. – I’m not sure anymore where the cut-off lies. Perhaps you could ask my 3 month old baby who decided to have a series of midnight feasts in quick succession. (Think: Lord of the Rings – breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses…. My child is a hobbit.) Anyway, the day did happen, even if it was a seamless continuation of the one before. My baby and I were joined by my two-year old at around 5:00 am, so we could all enjoy the sunrise together. Pity no-one told Master Two that sunrise doesn’t happen until around 9:00 at the moment. (I like the way I said ‘joined’ back there, so calmly. What I really meant was, Master Two rushed to his door when he heard the baby crying at 5:00 a.m., and opened it, howling, ‘IS IT TIME TO GET UP? I’D LIKE SOME LUNCH!!’ Can I truly describe just how deep a heart can sink?’)
So there we all were, squashed into our little dining room, while I tried to keep the household quiet for at least another hour so my husband could get a bit more sleep. I didn’t really see why all of us had to greet the morning so brutally. The dialogue went like this:
Mum: (brightly)Right, it’s time for breakfast.
Master Two: eeeeuuuugheeeeoooghhhh
Mum: (with even more feigned brightness): Please get into your chair and we’ll have some porridge.
Master Two: I don’t like porridge.
Mum: Ok, well, no breakfast for you.
Master Two: I’D LIKE SOME PORRIDGE
Mum: What do you say?
Master Two: (ominous silence)
Mum: (doggedly) What do you say?
Mum: (grimly) What do you say?
Mum: (desperately) WHAT DO YOU SAY?
Master Two: (in the tiniest, smallest, most miniscule voice) Please
Mum: (with tangible relief) Thank you! Right. Here comes the porridge.
Master Two: I’m sorry Mum was noisy.
And so it goes. We were all over being out of bed and we hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
Well, the breakfast was eaten, the toast toppings were chosen, chosen again, denied, requested, received, and duly smeared on face, and it was time for baths. (We have no shower in this house, and instead we have a somewhat monastic, ascetic morning ritual of shallow baths with a plastic yellow bucket thrown over our heads to wash hair. It was novel for the first 2 weeks.) Still attempting to keep the house quiet, I dumped a pile of Lego in the bath, dumped the child in the bath with the Lego, and sat on the (closed!) toilet lid feeding the baby. My husband opened the bathroom door and gazed quizzically, in his morning glory, at the scene of domestic bliss that awaited him. ‘I wanted to let you sleep longer’, I explained. ‘Ah’, he said. ‘Thanks.’
………………………
Husband off to work, trailing clouds of glory (“Don’t go, Dad! Stay and build a helicopter….Bye Dad….See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad?)
……………………..
Mid-morning.The baby roared. The toddler roared. I considered roaring but decided that of the three of us, I was probably the grown-up here. The situation was degenerating. I briefly considered phoning a friend and describing just how terrible everything was. Oh, no! No, I was coping well. The phone rang. I left the room, with howling in my wake.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi! How are you?’
‘Oh, fine!’
And so it goes.
…………………..
This day, of all days, the joiner was coming to pull up the floorboards in two of our rooms – the baby’s, and the toddler’s – to investigate the chronic damp and mould problem (I know, don’t ask). He was coming at 10:00. At two minutes to ten, I was desperately rocking the still howling baby, willing those little eyes to close. At 30 seconds past ten, he abruptly closed his eyes and went to sleep, just as the joiner was coming down the path!
Hurrah! The joiner opened the door to our tranquil scene of domestic bliss. Hello, I smiled, hastily rubbing the baby sick into my jersey.
I had forgotten Master Two. Furthermore, I had not noticed that he had taken his trousers off while I wasn’t looking. ‘Hello, man’, he beamed, trouser-less (though not pantless, thankfully), with cracker crumbs stuck to his chubby cheeks. ‘I am having a picnic with chocolates and cakes and sausages and Meat.’
‘Ah’, said the joiner, looking helplessly at me for guidance. ‘Er…that’s nice.’
‘She’s got a good appetite then, eh?’ he said to me, grinning.
I had to restrain the ridiculous urge to tell him that my child ate a healthy diet and was not, in fact, stuffing his face with such goodies.
Oh, and that she was a he. Obviously time for a haircut.
……………………
The last scene from our epic morning of creative and educational activities that I will subject you to is the one where the joiner proceeded to pull up the carpet and saw into the floorboards with a huge electric saw-thing that emitted a kind of high-decibel screeching whine. The resulting smoke also set off the fire alarms, which added their own shrill harmony to proceedings – sort of ‘baby-waking machine in stereo’. Perhaps there’s a market somewhere. The three of us hid in the kitchen, willing the man to finish soon, while we watched far too many episodes of Pingu, the mindless plasticine penguin who communicates with a sort of Tele-tubbies meets Morse code nasal honk, linguistically indefinable. I assuaged my maternal guilt with the reassuring scream of the saw in the background, telling me that I had no choice.
And that, friends, was our morning. I shall leave the afternoon’s capers until you, and we, are sufficiently recovered.
So there we all were, squashed into our little dining room, while I tried to keep the household quiet for at least another hour so my husband could get a bit more sleep. I didn’t really see why all of us had to greet the morning so brutally. The dialogue went like this:
Mum: (brightly)Right, it’s time for breakfast.
Master Two: eeeeuuuugheeeeoooghhhh
Mum: (with even more feigned brightness): Please get into your chair and we’ll have some porridge.
Master Two: I don’t like porridge.
Mum: Ok, well, no breakfast for you.
Master Two: I’D LIKE SOME PORRIDGE
Mum: What do you say?
Master Two: (ominous silence)
Mum: (doggedly) What do you say?
Mum: (grimly) What do you say?
Mum: (desperately) WHAT DO YOU SAY?
Master Two: (in the tiniest, smallest, most miniscule voice) Please
Mum: (with tangible relief) Thank you! Right. Here comes the porridge.
Master Two: I’m sorry Mum was noisy.
And so it goes. We were all over being out of bed and we hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
Well, the breakfast was eaten, the toast toppings were chosen, chosen again, denied, requested, received, and duly smeared on face, and it was time for baths. (We have no shower in this house, and instead we have a somewhat monastic, ascetic morning ritual of shallow baths with a plastic yellow bucket thrown over our heads to wash hair. It was novel for the first 2 weeks.) Still attempting to keep the house quiet, I dumped a pile of Lego in the bath, dumped the child in the bath with the Lego, and sat on the (closed!) toilet lid feeding the baby. My husband opened the bathroom door and gazed quizzically, in his morning glory, at the scene of domestic bliss that awaited him. ‘I wanted to let you sleep longer’, I explained. ‘Ah’, he said. ‘Thanks.’
………………………
Husband off to work, trailing clouds of glory (“Don’t go, Dad! Stay and build a helicopter….Bye Dad….See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad? See Dad?)
……………………..
Mid-morning.The baby roared. The toddler roared. I considered roaring but decided that of the three of us, I was probably the grown-up here. The situation was degenerating. I briefly considered phoning a friend and describing just how terrible everything was. Oh, no! No, I was coping well. The phone rang. I left the room, with howling in my wake.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi! How are you?’
‘Oh, fine!’
And so it goes.
…………………..
This day, of all days, the joiner was coming to pull up the floorboards in two of our rooms – the baby’s, and the toddler’s – to investigate the chronic damp and mould problem (I know, don’t ask). He was coming at 10:00. At two minutes to ten, I was desperately rocking the still howling baby, willing those little eyes to close. At 30 seconds past ten, he abruptly closed his eyes and went to sleep, just as the joiner was coming down the path!
Hurrah! The joiner opened the door to our tranquil scene of domestic bliss. Hello, I smiled, hastily rubbing the baby sick into my jersey.
I had forgotten Master Two. Furthermore, I had not noticed that he had taken his trousers off while I wasn’t looking. ‘Hello, man’, he beamed, trouser-less (though not pantless, thankfully), with cracker crumbs stuck to his chubby cheeks. ‘I am having a picnic with chocolates and cakes and sausages and Meat.’
‘Ah’, said the joiner, looking helplessly at me for guidance. ‘Er…that’s nice.’
‘She’s got a good appetite then, eh?’ he said to me, grinning.
I had to restrain the ridiculous urge to tell him that my child ate a healthy diet and was not, in fact, stuffing his face with such goodies.
Oh, and that she was a he. Obviously time for a haircut.
……………………
The last scene from our epic morning of creative and educational activities that I will subject you to is the one where the joiner proceeded to pull up the carpet and saw into the floorboards with a huge electric saw-thing that emitted a kind of high-decibel screeching whine. The resulting smoke also set off the fire alarms, which added their own shrill harmony to proceedings – sort of ‘baby-waking machine in stereo’. Perhaps there’s a market somewhere. The three of us hid in the kitchen, willing the man to finish soon, while we watched far too many episodes of Pingu, the mindless plasticine penguin who communicates with a sort of Tele-tubbies meets Morse code nasal honk, linguistically indefinable. I assuaged my maternal guilt with the reassuring scream of the saw in the background, telling me that I had no choice.
And that, friends, was our morning. I shall leave the afternoon’s capers until you, and we, are sufficiently recovered.
Just a Mother
‘Just a Mother?’
In defence of a little parenting
It is a feature of our society that we define ourselves initially, and perhaps primarily, by what we do. As obsessed as we are by external appearances, the acquirement of numerous and thrilling life experiences, and the fulfilment of our career potential, our ‘doings’ have come to be almost the summation of our personhood, and the less quantifiable development of our personal character has become increasingly irrelevant.
Little surprise, then, that my current occupation as a mother is often subsumed to the realms of ‘just’. Spending one’s main earning potential (i.e. time) attending to the welfare and upbringing of a human being is hardly doing things ‘for me’, contributing to my own acquisition of consumer goods, or, most significantly, it seems, fulfilling my own ‘career’ goals. These are not new observations; the relatively short yet tumultuous history of tensions inherent in such discussion of female priorities has ensured this is well-traversed ground. Yet, as a new-ish parent, I find myself increasingly interested in the pervasiveness of this ‘justing’ of mothers and by the assumptions and contradictions often inherent.
‘Just’ is a small word; it seems so innocuous. We usually use it to soften the blow, to denote insignificance or casualness: ‘I’m just off to the shops’; ‘I just wanted to know; ‘I’m just going to stick this needle in your arm.’ Essentially, it serves to lessen the impact, significance, or surprise of what follows. ‘Don’t worry’, we imply;, ‘this is not worth making a fuss about; this is not really important.’ A sentence filler, usually; perhaps indicative of a quintessential Kiwi reticence and tendency to downplay? Yet, when used as a prefix to one’s main occupation, the ‘just’ takes on new import. ‘Just a Mum’ becomes a role of quiet insignificance; a situation defined not by any intrinsic merit, but because of what it is lacking. ‘Just that?’ we are asked. ‘Only that?’ Suddenly, there seems a gaping hole where our supplementary, career driven, paid employment should be.
We bring it upon ourselves, often, ‘justing’ our own roles self-deprecatingly, and adding other multi-hyphened explanations, e.g. ‘stay-at-home’ Mum, or, my personal unfavourite, ‘housewife’. Both descriptions give the distinct impression of being permanently indoors, excruciatingly domestic, and altogether rather diminished in scope. We struggle to find terms to describe what we do, because we remain in some respects an anomaly in society; we have a mysterious, somewhat questionable role, in the eyes of those who do not understand what it entails, and therefore a definition of ‘what we do’ is not immediately obvious.
As I have mentioned, all this should not really come as a surprise; the history of the ‘mother-wars’ of the 80s and 90s put paid to any simplistic notions about societal acceptance of women’s freedom to choose. Yet the pervasive undervaluing of parenthood still jars, and in no small measure because it often seems to be singled out amongst other occupations for the privilege of the ‘just’. Even when presented with the most menial of occupations, it is common to respond with respect, and to at least make a minimal effort to politely affirm the job in question, or to look for points of interest. Would you say ‘do you just clean toilets then?’; ‘do you just sweep the streets in one of those trucks’; ‘do you just teach maths?’ Hopefully not; whether through politeness, or an implicit acceptance that the occupation in question is sufficient in itself, I don’t often hear that kind of statement. In an era of supposed ‘tolerance’, where we tend to fall over ourselves to avoid being politically incorrect in all manner of possible scenarios, motherhood is still - subtly, often unconsciously - denigrated simply by the tenacious ‘just’, particularly in less formal, more social settings.
The underlying assumptions that reveal themselves in the ‘just’ tend to be rife with inconsistencies, upon closer inspection. We tend not, for example, to respond in such a way to an early childhood educator who is paid to care for small children. Such educators do tend to be underpaid themselves – evidence of the same general societal casualness towards such education, in practice if not in theory – yet my experience is that there is generally more acceptance and understanding of a worker who is Paid to Go to Work. This is a legitimate occupation – it demands qualifications, all the usual structures and strictures around an employer/employee relationship, and neatly divides home from work. It is a valuable and worthy career. The same tends to be said for a nanny or au pair, who is paid to care for children in their own home. Here, the general understanding is that this is an even more preferable arrangement – children in their own home, with a stable presence. Things get even more interesting where there is a full-time father. Suddenly, he is a hero. ‘What a career sacrifice’ we say, admiringly, as we observe the quality father-child time. ‘But how noble, and how worth it – just a few precious years, and he will never regret it.’
Occasionally, too, I pick up a sense of confusion where a mother has only one child at home. It seems more acceptable when a mother has at least two children – then, it is obvious what she does. But the old ‘what do you do all day’ question seems to loom ever-larger the fewer children that one has. Conversely, however, lowering the carer-child ratios is a constant discussion point with reference to early childhood centres. One carer to three or four children is acceptable; one to two is even better; and imagine if we had a one-on-one quality care situation! To many, this would be unimaginably stimulating and stable for the child in question – more like a nanny scenario – yet, strangely, society often struggles to see the distinct parallel between the paid one-on-one carer and the unpaid mother, in her own home, with her own child.
Further to this, the mother with one child may well have more time than a parent with, say, three or four; yet who is to say that this mother does not spend some of that time visiting and supporting other families, joining various community, education, and volunteer groups, and generally acting as the involved and responsible community member we try and bring up our children to be? More than anything, this seems to speak strongly of society’s bias towards paid employment as being the only legitimate occupation. We pay lip service to volunteer work, and to the many almost invisible people who care substantially for disabled or elderly family and friends. Yet the deep materialistic vein that runs through our society often - subconsciously or otherwise - regards only paid employment as really worthwhile. Perhaps this, in the end, is the insidious strain of thought that contributes most substantially to the undervaluing of motherhood in Western culture (among other negative effects).
There are several points that need to be made, in consideration of the fact that most people who use the ‘just’ are completely unaware of its possible hurtful effects, and of the complex issues surrounding its usage. Quite simply, most are not intending at all to be offensive. Firstly, I grant that fulltime mothers are substantially in the minority; therefore, there is an expectation and assumption that you may be doing some other work, and often a genuine confusion about even the possibility of this being one’s main occupation. In this sense, there is no intention to downplay motherhood, but rather it serves as a response to what is deemed normal in society.
I would respectifully hold, however, that the use of the ‘just’ still indicates an assumption that motherhood is not enough in itself; even if this is a normal assumption, it indicates a subservience to these societal norms rather than showing much awareness of the existence of an alternative view of motherhood.
Similarly, the ‘just’ is perhaps intended to highlight the mother’s potential in a number of areas, rather than to degrade what she may be solely doing; it is intended as a compliment, a note of surprise that you may not be using your other talents. This approach, however, tends to assume that your skills are not being used in parenthood, and indicates a lack of awareness or acceptance that the role of parenthood demands a variety of skills and traits that have to be developed and worked on just as in any other occupation. It may also forget the possibility that you may be doing this only for a time, and putting other skills and training aside for now – that there are phases in a woman’s life, one of which may be full-time motherhood as a legitimate occupation. There is a distinct dichotomy that is often drawn between motherhood and one’s Career goals; I often have the clear impression in all this that my ‘career’ is the rest of my life, which is completely put on hold, while I get this ‘other thing’ (motherhood) out of the way. It is not a very holistic or nuanced way of looking at life or one’s own contribution. I prefer to think of my occupation/s in terms of ‘vocation’, which can incorporate both motherhood and also the other skills and passions I choose to develop in order to make a living and contribute to society. It is increasingly common for people to have several career changes during their lifetime, and I see no problem in considering motherhood as part of developing one’s vocation through several different life phases, in a number of different contexts.
All this aside, the deep irony here is that giving into the ‘just’, and assuming that a woman should be doing ‘something else’, actually negates the original aims of feminism, which had at their heart the emancipation of women to have the freedom to make their own choices. To insist on women prioritising their own paid career development above all else, and to see that as the only way for true feminine fulfilment and societal contribution, is to fall into the same dogmatism and narrow-mindedness that feminism purportedly fought against. The inevitable result of this way of thinking is a society which subordinates the freedom of women to be mothers, and which legislates, in a perverse reversal of the original domestic focus of women’s affairs, for there to be only one legitimate path for a women to follow.
Far from such an extreme scenario, my point is simple: please choose another term to use when describing my current occupation. I can accept that confusion, ignorance, and prejudice surround this issue, and welcome genuine interest, but I would prefer it to be open and honest discussion, rather than the ambiguous, vaguely suspicious, and irritatingly ubiquitous ‘just’. Look, mothers, let’s practice. Repeat after me: I Am (pause for effect; this statement should be impressive in itself) A Mother. That’s it.
In defence of a little parenting
It is a feature of our society that we define ourselves initially, and perhaps primarily, by what we do. As obsessed as we are by external appearances, the acquirement of numerous and thrilling life experiences, and the fulfilment of our career potential, our ‘doings’ have come to be almost the summation of our personhood, and the less quantifiable development of our personal character has become increasingly irrelevant.
Little surprise, then, that my current occupation as a mother is often subsumed to the realms of ‘just’. Spending one’s main earning potential (i.e. time) attending to the welfare and upbringing of a human being is hardly doing things ‘for me’, contributing to my own acquisition of consumer goods, or, most significantly, it seems, fulfilling my own ‘career’ goals. These are not new observations; the relatively short yet tumultuous history of tensions inherent in such discussion of female priorities has ensured this is well-traversed ground. Yet, as a new-ish parent, I find myself increasingly interested in the pervasiveness of this ‘justing’ of mothers and by the assumptions and contradictions often inherent.
‘Just’ is a small word; it seems so innocuous. We usually use it to soften the blow, to denote insignificance or casualness: ‘I’m just off to the shops’; ‘I just wanted to know; ‘I’m just going to stick this needle in your arm.’ Essentially, it serves to lessen the impact, significance, or surprise of what follows. ‘Don’t worry’, we imply;, ‘this is not worth making a fuss about; this is not really important.’ A sentence filler, usually; perhaps indicative of a quintessential Kiwi reticence and tendency to downplay? Yet, when used as a prefix to one’s main occupation, the ‘just’ takes on new import. ‘Just a Mum’ becomes a role of quiet insignificance; a situation defined not by any intrinsic merit, but because of what it is lacking. ‘Just that?’ we are asked. ‘Only that?’ Suddenly, there seems a gaping hole where our supplementary, career driven, paid employment should be.
We bring it upon ourselves, often, ‘justing’ our own roles self-deprecatingly, and adding other multi-hyphened explanations, e.g. ‘stay-at-home’ Mum, or, my personal unfavourite, ‘housewife’. Both descriptions give the distinct impression of being permanently indoors, excruciatingly domestic, and altogether rather diminished in scope. We struggle to find terms to describe what we do, because we remain in some respects an anomaly in society; we have a mysterious, somewhat questionable role, in the eyes of those who do not understand what it entails, and therefore a definition of ‘what we do’ is not immediately obvious.
As I have mentioned, all this should not really come as a surprise; the history of the ‘mother-wars’ of the 80s and 90s put paid to any simplistic notions about societal acceptance of women’s freedom to choose. Yet the pervasive undervaluing of parenthood still jars, and in no small measure because it often seems to be singled out amongst other occupations for the privilege of the ‘just’. Even when presented with the most menial of occupations, it is common to respond with respect, and to at least make a minimal effort to politely affirm the job in question, or to look for points of interest. Would you say ‘do you just clean toilets then?’; ‘do you just sweep the streets in one of those trucks’; ‘do you just teach maths?’ Hopefully not; whether through politeness, or an implicit acceptance that the occupation in question is sufficient in itself, I don’t often hear that kind of statement. In an era of supposed ‘tolerance’, where we tend to fall over ourselves to avoid being politically incorrect in all manner of possible scenarios, motherhood is still - subtly, often unconsciously - denigrated simply by the tenacious ‘just’, particularly in less formal, more social settings.
The underlying assumptions that reveal themselves in the ‘just’ tend to be rife with inconsistencies, upon closer inspection. We tend not, for example, to respond in such a way to an early childhood educator who is paid to care for small children. Such educators do tend to be underpaid themselves – evidence of the same general societal casualness towards such education, in practice if not in theory – yet my experience is that there is generally more acceptance and understanding of a worker who is Paid to Go to Work. This is a legitimate occupation – it demands qualifications, all the usual structures and strictures around an employer/employee relationship, and neatly divides home from work. It is a valuable and worthy career. The same tends to be said for a nanny or au pair, who is paid to care for children in their own home. Here, the general understanding is that this is an even more preferable arrangement – children in their own home, with a stable presence. Things get even more interesting where there is a full-time father. Suddenly, he is a hero. ‘What a career sacrifice’ we say, admiringly, as we observe the quality father-child time. ‘But how noble, and how worth it – just a few precious years, and he will never regret it.’
Occasionally, too, I pick up a sense of confusion where a mother has only one child at home. It seems more acceptable when a mother has at least two children – then, it is obvious what she does. But the old ‘what do you do all day’ question seems to loom ever-larger the fewer children that one has. Conversely, however, lowering the carer-child ratios is a constant discussion point with reference to early childhood centres. One carer to three or four children is acceptable; one to two is even better; and imagine if we had a one-on-one quality care situation! To many, this would be unimaginably stimulating and stable for the child in question – more like a nanny scenario – yet, strangely, society often struggles to see the distinct parallel between the paid one-on-one carer and the unpaid mother, in her own home, with her own child.
Further to this, the mother with one child may well have more time than a parent with, say, three or four; yet who is to say that this mother does not spend some of that time visiting and supporting other families, joining various community, education, and volunteer groups, and generally acting as the involved and responsible community member we try and bring up our children to be? More than anything, this seems to speak strongly of society’s bias towards paid employment as being the only legitimate occupation. We pay lip service to volunteer work, and to the many almost invisible people who care substantially for disabled or elderly family and friends. Yet the deep materialistic vein that runs through our society often - subconsciously or otherwise - regards only paid employment as really worthwhile. Perhaps this, in the end, is the insidious strain of thought that contributes most substantially to the undervaluing of motherhood in Western culture (among other negative effects).
There are several points that need to be made, in consideration of the fact that most people who use the ‘just’ are completely unaware of its possible hurtful effects, and of the complex issues surrounding its usage. Quite simply, most are not intending at all to be offensive. Firstly, I grant that fulltime mothers are substantially in the minority; therefore, there is an expectation and assumption that you may be doing some other work, and often a genuine confusion about even the possibility of this being one’s main occupation. In this sense, there is no intention to downplay motherhood, but rather it serves as a response to what is deemed normal in society.
I would respectifully hold, however, that the use of the ‘just’ still indicates an assumption that motherhood is not enough in itself; even if this is a normal assumption, it indicates a subservience to these societal norms rather than showing much awareness of the existence of an alternative view of motherhood.
Similarly, the ‘just’ is perhaps intended to highlight the mother’s potential in a number of areas, rather than to degrade what she may be solely doing; it is intended as a compliment, a note of surprise that you may not be using your other talents. This approach, however, tends to assume that your skills are not being used in parenthood, and indicates a lack of awareness or acceptance that the role of parenthood demands a variety of skills and traits that have to be developed and worked on just as in any other occupation. It may also forget the possibility that you may be doing this only for a time, and putting other skills and training aside for now – that there are phases in a woman’s life, one of which may be full-time motherhood as a legitimate occupation. There is a distinct dichotomy that is often drawn between motherhood and one’s Career goals; I often have the clear impression in all this that my ‘career’ is the rest of my life, which is completely put on hold, while I get this ‘other thing’ (motherhood) out of the way. It is not a very holistic or nuanced way of looking at life or one’s own contribution. I prefer to think of my occupation/s in terms of ‘vocation’, which can incorporate both motherhood and also the other skills and passions I choose to develop in order to make a living and contribute to society. It is increasingly common for people to have several career changes during their lifetime, and I see no problem in considering motherhood as part of developing one’s vocation through several different life phases, in a number of different contexts.
All this aside, the deep irony here is that giving into the ‘just’, and assuming that a woman should be doing ‘something else’, actually negates the original aims of feminism, which had at their heart the emancipation of women to have the freedom to make their own choices. To insist on women prioritising their own paid career development above all else, and to see that as the only way for true feminine fulfilment and societal contribution, is to fall into the same dogmatism and narrow-mindedness that feminism purportedly fought against. The inevitable result of this way of thinking is a society which subordinates the freedom of women to be mothers, and which legislates, in a perverse reversal of the original domestic focus of women’s affairs, for there to be only one legitimate path for a women to follow.
Far from such an extreme scenario, my point is simple: please choose another term to use when describing my current occupation. I can accept that confusion, ignorance, and prejudice surround this issue, and welcome genuine interest, but I would prefer it to be open and honest discussion, rather than the ambiguous, vaguely suspicious, and irritatingly ubiquitous ‘just’. Look, mothers, let’s practice. Repeat after me: I Am (pause for effect; this statement should be impressive in itself) A Mother. That’s it.
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