Phew. What a couple of days! Since my last posts I've created a website, joined numerous others, completed various jigsaw puzzles an uncountable number of times, walked for miles and miles and slept. A little. I have also had my father-in-law here. Oh yes, Hotel Bryant was, once again, open for business.
4pm yesterday... Cue phone call from hubby 'reminding' me that father-in-laws arrival was imminent. In approximately an hour. A sweeping glance through my kitchen and lounge renders me at an utter loss as to where I'm going to start making the place look half reasonable for his arrival. So, I begin, to tidy (or hide the mess. However you want to put it) when "bing bong" goes the doorbell, accompanied by delighted squeals from the boys that "Grandpa's here, Grandpa's here". My joy wasn't quite as boundless.
Door opens, smiles abound along with a continental kiss (why?!) then I usher him in to the playroom so Charlie can show him his scalectrix while I make a cuppa. Fantastic- that buys me approximately 10 minutes to finish clearing the bombsite. It would appear we have the worlds slowest boiling kettle as the tea took well over ten minutes to make, and the end result was a vaguely presentable living space (as long as no one opens any cupboards)...
I'm sure this is a situation we have all found ourselves in and some point and has to lead us to question why we put ourselves through it? Is it their expectation, or merely our expectations of ourselves, what we aspire to be or how we think society expects us to be?
I, for one, do not consider myself to be a housewife. I am a mummy. And a working mummy at that. Moreover, my work doesn't finish at 5, or even 6. It has been known for me to work once the children are in bed, at weekends; at times when I could be making my home presentable! Do I think that father-in-law takes this in to account when he walks in to a bathroom that needs cleaning or some stairs that needs hoovering? In my own mind he does not think "she's obviously got a lot of work on", my immediate feeling is that he considers me to not be a good wife or, for that matter, a good mother. But is this my issue, or his?
Is the worry, insecurity and panic that descends on me when the in laws arrival is imminent because of their real expectations, or my own standards and (what I consider to be) failings? I fear it is my issue that causes this reaction, and that he couldn't care less about when I last hoovered or polished the TV.
This surprises me because I have always stood my ground and not let other peoples' opinions bother me. I know what I excel at and, quite frankly, cleaning is not one of those things. I am, however, not a good one for failing. Or being seen to not be coping. And perhaps that's the issue.
This means it is not the in laws who are the problem, however easy it may be to blame them, but instead my own insecurity and feelings of inadequacy when it comes to housewifely duties. Does that mean I am now going to put down the laptop and get out the duster? Ummm... No way.
Thursday 12 March 2009
Tuesday 10 March 2009
'Working from home'
What a great statement that is: 'working from home'. As if we mums ever do anything but work at home. In my case, the childcare, cooking, cleaning and other wifely duties I spend a considerable portion of the day partaking in do not seem to count as work; instead the two hours for which I sit in front of my laptop tapping away writing text for various places is considered my 'work'. An interesting perspective when, in all honesty, it is the looking after of my children, educating them and generally (hopefully) helping them to grow in to well balanced, healthy and polite young men that I consider to be my main career.
For example, today I spent my two hours 'working' drinking tea, listening to Radio One and generally being rather relaxed. 11.30 comes around and it's a race to the nursery to collect Charlie, carrying his scooter (which, incidentally, hurts a lot when it bangs in to your shin), collect a miserable Charlie, who looks like he may be getting conjunctivitis, back to the childminders' house to pick up Felix, home, cook lunch, put coats, boots etc back on before heading out again to the chemists/co-op before it looks like it may tip it down with rain. Finally get home and sit down at 3.30, then the pestering begins to get the paints out... Paints out, mess made, put away, cook tea, make them eat the food I have prepared, play a lovely game of pairs, read two stories (to save arguments) then bath/bed for them followed by bath/bed for me (after a little writing of course...)
Add to this vast amount of to-ing and fro-ing the growing baby bump I am carrying, the lack of car and a pregnancy joy that I haven't experienced in my two previous pregnancies: thrush.
Yes, joy of joys I have the dreaded itching, burning, painful thrush. Which, not only makes for uncomfortable days but also for sleepless nights as nothing will ease the burning after having woken up at 2am for a pee. Hence the dash to the chemists today. Cross your fingers it works, and I'll cross my legs...
For example, today I spent my two hours 'working' drinking tea, listening to Radio One and generally being rather relaxed. 11.30 comes around and it's a race to the nursery to collect Charlie, carrying his scooter (which, incidentally, hurts a lot when it bangs in to your shin), collect a miserable Charlie, who looks like he may be getting conjunctivitis, back to the childminders' house to pick up Felix, home, cook lunch, put coats, boots etc back on before heading out again to the chemists/co-op before it looks like it may tip it down with rain. Finally get home and sit down at 3.30, then the pestering begins to get the paints out... Paints out, mess made, put away, cook tea, make them eat the food I have prepared, play a lovely game of pairs, read two stories (to save arguments) then bath/bed for them followed by bath/bed for me (after a little writing of course...)
Add to this vast amount of to-ing and fro-ing the growing baby bump I am carrying, the lack of car and a pregnancy joy that I haven't experienced in my two previous pregnancies: thrush.
Yes, joy of joys I have the dreaded itching, burning, painful thrush. Which, not only makes for uncomfortable days but also for sleepless nights as nothing will ease the burning after having woken up at 2am for a pee. Hence the dash to the chemists today. Cross your fingers it works, and I'll cross my legs...
Yes, I am 25....
Well, up until yesterday that statement would have read "Yes, I am 24..." generally following some lovely person asking: "So, how old are you?" My response always seems to practically knock people to the floor, and more often then not the reply is a shocked "Really?! I thought you were about 28". Yes, yes. Thanks for that.
So, I am an old looking 25 it would appear. Perhaps it is the hagged, weary facial expression, the hair that probably isn't brushed quite often enough or the sheer exhaustion that exhumes from my every pore. Or maybe it's the two little boys I generally have tottering along beside (aka being dragged along behind) me.
I am, what the media love to call, a 'young mum'. In fact, I only just missed out on the prestigious 'teenage mum' title by 5 months. Please note how none of this blog recognises that fact: not my name, nor the title. It is, wholly, irrelevant to me. Alas, to some people it is not but, to be frank, I couldn't give two hoots. No, I don't have a 'career', yes, I will have three children at the age of 25. And YES, they do all have the same father. He is called my husband. Marvellous. Glad we've got that sorted.
Of course, no one actually asks that question but you can always tell when people are thinking it. And as, to be totally honest, someone who is a little too judgemental, I may well have thought the same thing. It doesn't stop it bothering me though, or making me even more determined to prove myself to be a good mother, and to make my life as successful as possible. Not that I'm bothered by what other people think.
Much.
So, I am an old looking 25 it would appear. Perhaps it is the hagged, weary facial expression, the hair that probably isn't brushed quite often enough or the sheer exhaustion that exhumes from my every pore. Or maybe it's the two little boys I generally have tottering along beside (aka being dragged along behind) me.
I am, what the media love to call, a 'young mum'. In fact, I only just missed out on the prestigious 'teenage mum' title by 5 months. Please note how none of this blog recognises that fact: not my name, nor the title. It is, wholly, irrelevant to me. Alas, to some people it is not but, to be frank, I couldn't give two hoots. No, I don't have a 'career', yes, I will have three children at the age of 25. And YES, they do all have the same father. He is called my husband. Marvellous. Glad we've got that sorted.
Of course, no one actually asks that question but you can always tell when people are thinking it. And as, to be totally honest, someone who is a little too judgemental, I may well have thought the same thing. It doesn't stop it bothering me though, or making me even more determined to prove myself to be a good mother, and to make my life as successful as possible. Not that I'm bothered by what other people think.
Much.
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