Today I received a call from the primary school where my youngest boys attend.
Any mother of school aged children will know the first few seconds of gut wrenching feelings this call induces.
Broken bones.
Explosive diarrhea.
Your child has wandered away from the school and hasn’t returned. The police have been called.
There was an accident involving the monkey bar and another child, slightly obese, well, he landed on your son and there was a lot of blood but he’s ok, he’s at the hospital.
Who is at the hospital? My son or the … other child?
He choked on the peanut butter sandwich we repeatedly remind you not to pack into his green lunch box.
Someone else ate the peanut butter sandwich and they had an anaphylactic fit and it’s not looking good.
He really is fine but secretly has an urge to be at home on the couch playing wii. Let’s go along with it.
Or something like that.
Whilst collecting my ill son from the sick bay near the office, I had to sit and wait for eight minutes whilst his school bag was collected from his classroom.
The teacher (pretending to be a nurse) sparked up a conversation with me which resulted in me sharing with her that I was a writer.
She expressed admiration and then told me that she wasn’t any good at anything.
Anything?
No, nothing.
I find that beyond believable, everyone has a gift for something.
No, nothing.
My eyes diverted toward the door.
Hurry up bag. Hurry up son.
I looked at my shoes and noticed a large scuff mark near the toe.
I’m not good at polishing shoes. I usually just buy new shoes and give the shit ones to charity.
Oh, I do that with shirts sometimes when they need a new button.
I pulled out my humanitarian shovel and began digging around the soil of this woman who professed to be good at nothing.
I wondered why my son was walking from one end of the school to the other if he was so unwell that he needed to come home early.
Well, you must be good with people and children otherwise you wouldn’t be a teacher.
Yes, I suppose so. Yes.
See, that’s quite a gift!
Having children or working with children is consuming. It’s easy to lose yourself in the amazing and all consuming magnificence of the youth.
They are like sponges themselves and soak up every new experience with gusto.
As mothers, we give so much of ourselves to our children. It’s easy to forget about nurturing our own selves.
If there is one thing that I’d like to give to my children, it’s the importance of self. Especially my daughter.
Gone are the generations of women who surrendered themselves only and mostly to the good of their husband and families.
It’s a tricky balance to find the middle ground.
We can appear selfish. We also place an incredible amount of guilt upon our own shoulders for taking time out for ourselves.
We stress about how things will fair if we disappear for an hour each day and dedicate that time to us. Perhaps a walk, a long hot bath, gym, study or visiting friends.
Oh yes, happy wife, happy life.
But who has time?
We’re probably our own worst enemy when it comes to placing ourselves first. Just sometimes.
We spin ourselves into messy and tightly wound balls of control thread and of course sooner or later, it begins to unravel.
I’ve been a stay at home mother now for eight years.
It was possibly about two years ago that someone asked me whether I get bored.
No, only boring people get bored.
But don’t you go crazy being at home all the time?
I’m always crazy, it’s not geographically dependent.
Truth is, I’ve loved being at home with my children. It’s something my parents weren’t really able to do when I was younger. My mother worked very long hours as a nurse, often double shifts. My father worked in an abattoir and trained horses or greyhounds.
There was always a parent at home to care for us, though it wasn’t consistently one or the other.
I feel blessed to be able to do this for my family.
Next year, all of the kids will (finally) be in school. Actually, my oldest will have finished year 12 (gasp!) but our three youngest will all be in primary school.
Perhaps I’ll work in the canteen, volunteer my time in the Stephanie Alexander kitchen or devote some time to reading to the students if they’d like me to.
I won’t be joining any parent and teachers committee though. Oh, I know, that’s not the spirit of community. But, It’s just not me.
I’ve got so many other things I want to do with my time.
And that’s what it will be again won’t it?
It’ll be MY TIME.
Well, in between school runs and emergency sick bay collections and school holidays and house cleaning and grocery shopping.
I’ve been thinking about my long term dream to become a successfully published writer. All consuming, lonely world of the writer. It’s a juggling act.
Lately, I’ve been revisiting the idea of returning to study.
I’ve been toying with the idea of doing some type of psychology, justice or social work degree.
I’d like to work with abused/traumatised children or women.
See, there it is again – that incessant little urge inside of me to surround myself with children.
But you have four of your own!?
Yes, but I always wanted six remember.
How would you cope?
I just would.
I might not do things perfectly or bake the best cakes for the kids lunch boxes (you can buy fabulous cakes and biscuits at the supermarkets these days) but I would hope that there’s a balance between my life as a mother and my life as me.
I heard someone once say that you should never devote your life entirely to your children because one day they’ll grow up and move away and you’ll be left with not much.
I guess it depends on what YOU want for your life.
Every person is different. Every mother is different.
Finding your gift, is a talent.
Finding the time and value in pursuing your gift, is also a talent.
I have many talents. Being a mother is one of them.
Some days, being a mother feels like the thing that I’m least talented at. It’s usually around THAT time of the month, when the smallest thing the children are doing causes me to throw my arms up into the air and scream like a madwoman at anyone who is in the house. I will then completely over dramatise a simple situation and everything will feel worse than it actually is. Then I sit back and realise there’s been no ‘me time’.
I think most mothers do that though.
We’re a tough bunch.
We lose ourselves completely in other human beings because we both want and need to.
They depend on us for life.
We gave them their life.
Eventually though, if we’re not careful, we began to deplete the true life within ourselves.
We forget who we ever were or who we could truly be.
And it matters.
I really did dream of being a professional mother. I couldn’t wait to get out of the work force and be a stay at home mum. Some might suggest that means I’m lazy. I’d like to challenge anyone thinking that to pop my (scuffed) shoes on for a week and pretend to be me.
There is no such thing as a quiet day.
My days are far from lazy.
When friends ask me what I’m doing this coming weekend and I say, “Oh absolutely nothing. Very quiet weekend ahead.” Well, all mothers know there’s no such thing.
In between cleaning and cooking and bathing and combing knots from a daughters long hair and another supermarket run and some time out at a park and walking the dog and oh, shit I forgot that birthday was this weekend! Bugger, I just have to zoom up to the plaza and buy a present that only costs $10 but looks like it’s worth $30 for this little girl that I’ve never met.
Well, in a large family, doing nothing means doing lots.
Whilst taking the time to write this, I’ve not yet made the beds, cleaned up the breakfast dishes from the bench nor put on a load of washing.
It’s all waiting for me.
And it does.
That’s the thing. We place enormous energy into making things perfect around us.
The routines, the right clothes on our children, their hair cuts, their snack as soon as they want it, their must have new toy, their everything.
And of course, that’s what a mother does.
But remember you too.
You really matter the most, because as you all know, when mother falls in a heap or gets sick, most everything else falls apart.
Unless you have an amazing husband, which I’m also blessed with.
You’re lucky.
No, I’m smart.
Still, they can never do everything as efficiently as you can they?
If they had to.
I’ve had five attempts at writing this piece. It would normally take me twenty minutes at most. I’ll wrap it up now because there’s a load of towels that have been on the washing line for three days. I keep forgetting about them, but this morning I had to choose between a not so fluffy damp bath sheet (which if I’m perfectly honest is beginning to emit a strange stench) or a primary colour hotwheels beach towel for after my shower. It’s time I brought in the washing.
Things to do. A cake to bake (the packet mix has been sitting in the cupboard for two months, perhaps it’s time). House to clean. Beds to make. Washing to hang, fold and redistribute back into the vortex of wash, wear, dump on the floor because Mummy will pick it up and make it better again.
It’s like magic. We’re magicians. We make things happen.
Don’t forget to pull yourself out the magic hat once in a while. Before the rabbit and after the disappearing act (MUM!? WHERE’S MY RED TOP?).
It’s where you left it. Actually, it’s not. It’s either in the washing basket or folded up and placed back in your drawers. Otherwise, if you’re a teenager, it’s been placed just inside your bedroom door because I’ve ceased wanting to walk into the centre of your bedroom anymore. It’s scary in there.
Today, I gave up a little bit and it felt good.
A friend visited and we sat and talked and let the entire afternoon drift by.
It was perfect.
The house however, is far from such today.
I only made one bed (mine) and although I’ve taken the mince out of the freezer, I haven’t considered what I might cook for dinner tonight.
Rest assured, I will serve something delicious and packed with nutrients, though it won’t be another bowl of cereal (although I know at least one of my children would prefer that).
As mothers, we need to pick our battles.
Let some things escape us, stand guard on other things.
Nobody really cares as much as we do if the house is messy.
And if they do, just remind them who is boss.
Or ask them to clean it whilst you go and concentrate your energies on yourself or that something else that you’re talented at.
Perhaps a long hot soak in the bath tub whilst you think about it.
Just try to take that bath when the kids are in bed asleep.
Otherwise it’s pointless.
Perhaps it’s safer to leave the house for a walk.
If you’re not too tired.
See, it’s easy to make excuses.
And it’s easy to fall into the ordinary (which we love so unconditionally).
I really wanted to end this piece with something thought provoking but the truth is, it’s now 4pm in the afternoon and the silly hand of the clock has just ticked around.
It’s mad hour.
I don’t exist anymore.
Only Mum does.
motherstuff 