What women think
September 2008
Mamma Mia
Motherhood. The second oldest profession in the world. Lousy pay, long hours, demanding boss, no career path.
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If you read the job description you'd never apply. This is exactly why one doesn't exist.
When my daughter was born, I wanted to be awake and alert for her delivery; to witness her first moments in the world and to finally meet the little sucker who had given me heartburn for two months.
When I got her home, I wished instead that I'd asked for a strong anaesthetic, one that would last for, say, five years.
That's probably a bit harsh, because she was a gorgeous child. You know, there's only ever one truly gorgeous child in the world, and every mother has it.
It was handy to have a little person around. If I wanted the remote control passed to me, or my reading glasses from the bedroom, I just had to ask. "Darling, can you be a good girl and please fetch such-and-such for mummy?"
Her father drew the line at asking her to get the wine bottle from the fridge so I could refill my glass. So I had to get him to do it instead.
The first time we used a paid babysitter was a nightmare. It took me a while to get over my annoyance that my mother wasn't available. Or his mother. If you have to have a mother-in-law, at least let her be on hand at all times to babysit.
It took me longer to write out the babysitter's list of instructions than it took all those government bods to draft the constitution.
I was blessed with a bed wetter. I'd get up during the night to check on her, and I was always too late. Even if she'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. I could limit liquids after 5pm. I could get her to pee five times before she went to bed. Didn't matter. It always ended with me in the laundry sometime between midnight and 3am doing a load. While her father slept.
My daughter was born at the height of that Keating-inspired interest rate fiasco at the start of the 90s. We had a home loan at the bargain basement rate of 16.9%. Ouch. Repayments of $342 a week on an $85,000 loan.
This meant that I ended up back at work before her first birthday. Suffused with guilt, I would make these endless lists of things to do with my daughter on the weekend - a picnic in the park, a long walk with the dog, baking, dressing up, visiting relatives etc.
Then of course came Saturday and after I'd washed, cleaned and shopped, the thought of another activity would make me want to throw up. The picnic in the park became a sandwich on the back deck. The long walk with the dog became throwing him a ball in the yard. Baking became buying something ready made.
Her third birthday party was probably one of the most fun nights of my life. We invited everyone we knew to come around on Saturday about 3pm. Fortunately or unfortunately - I'm still undecided here - they all said yes.
We counted up how many children would be attending and it came to 27. Multiply it by three for the number of adults. We hired two babysitters, a juke box and an industrial-sized bbq. And the obligatory cake with pink icing and a ballerina on top.
Everyone brought a bit of something - meat, bread, salad, wine. After all, if my only purpose for the party was to make sure my guests had a good time, I would have simply sent them all champagne with a kind note attached.
Cake, presents, fairy bread and quite a bit of "pass the parcel" was followed by the gentle shepherding of the children by the wonderful babysitters to the rumpus room for sausages and videos (pre-dvd days). This left the grown-ups ample opportunity to cook, drink, dance, chat.
Well, it may be her birthday, but I sure as hell was doing all the work three years ago. I deserved a bit of a celebration too, I justified to myself.
Another fun time was joining in a Clean Up Australia morning. I believe in making the world cleaner for my child. But not our child's child. That's because I don't think my child should be having sex. Ever.
We were doing ok, picking up rubbish here, there and everywhere, lamely making as much a game you can out of rubbish collection. Until I noticed my daughter determinedly chewing away. In horror, I stuck my finger into her mouth and extracted a cigarette butt and half a cockroach.
We went home immediately. Maybe washing out your mouth with soap isn't always the successor of swearing.
For years (well, maybe two) I waited and waited to hear one word from her - Mummy.
But is it the single most annoying word in the English language. When your 12 year old is too lazy to reach out from the bath and grab the towel. "M-u-u-u-u-m!!!!"
Not always. It is also the single greatest word in the English language. When your seven year old is lying in bed just about to pop off to sleep, and she murmurs it as you stroke her hair. "I love you Mummy".
After all, the joys of motherhood are never fully experienced until the children are in bed ...
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