The Mummy Wars!
Is it just me or does everyone absolutely hate the Mummy wars?
To work or wait? Bottle or breast? Bake or buy? M, PG or maybe just G? Day-care or homecare? Social life or home life? In newspapers, on the radio and over the internet debate continues to rage. And in absolutely every case, somebody’s mother is being made to feel like she’s doing it wrong.
I’m not saying I don’t have an opinion on what makes a functional family, I have simply seen enough parenting ‘experts’ with unhappy kids to know there is no such thing as a magic formula.
The latest author to raise my ire is an American named Caitlin Flanagan. She writes for the New Yorker and I usually think she’s pretty smart and funny despite the fact she describes herself as an anti-feminist (if that’s even possible for a woman).
But she’s also too rich and too privileged for her own good.
Caitlin is the well coiffed wife of a Mattel executive, who proudly declares she only went back to work when her twins no longer needed her at home, yet she readily admits she had a full time nanny and has never changed a sheet, ironed a shirt or cleaned up vomit.
This same woman now makes a living telling women to stay at home and take care of their families, recently declaring, “When a mother works, something is lost.”
Caitlin is probably just stating the obvious (ask my kids, between us we’ve lost a million permission slips, library books and even the odd guinea pig) but without my wage, I think we would have lost something a little more serious, namely the house, so thanks for your concern Caitlin, but I think I’ll take it from here.
Like I said, I am never very interested in parenting ‘law’ written by people who see child rearing as an industry, but the next one to fall on my desk made me cack myself.
“I 'm too sexy for my Volvo: A mum's guide to staying fabulous," by Betty Londergan, is meant for "trendy, hip and fashionable, modern mothers [who] want it all -- personal style, great bodies and hot sex with their husbands." Told you you’d laugh.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the yummy Mummy, I look at you with envy and awe, but through either jealousy or generosity, I feel the need to point one thing out.
No matter how cool, hip, sik, phat or wicked you think you are, your kids would probably prefer you just act like their Mum.
Karen is the yummy mummy chosen to go on Big Brother this year (I think we might be about the same age by the way – which is obviously what’s upsetting me the most). When asked what her teenage kids thought of her decision Karen said “My kids say everyone at school already thinks I’m hot, so they’re not worried, this will just make them think I’m hotter.”
I swear, even if I looked like Kylie Minogue and had a lovely new rack like Karen’s, my kids would never never want to hear those words come out of my mouth.
But I’m a hypocrite, when I started writing I actually meant to say other people’s judgements were irrelevant to your family. Someone famous once said ‘Love is all you need’ and he was right. The rest of it should fall into place.
So I apologise Karen, you are hot. I am jealous.
But for those of you with a bum as big as mine, don’t cry, just bake your babies a cake, I promise they’ll think you’re pretty hot too.
And finally, because it’s Mothers’ Day I want to tell you something about my kids. I think they’re lovely. But they’re growing up too fast and I’m scared because they won’t be kids forever and I don’t think I’ll know what to do with myself when there’s no sheets to change or vomit to wipe.
I can look at the child boorishly refusing to turn the TV to a channel everyone wants to watch, and only see the girl who lifts the cover of her bed when her little sister has a nightmare and wants to get in.
I can flinch when the wounded nine year old howls so loud over sibling injustice my ears almost bleed, yet only hear her trampoline giggles which delight everyone they reach.
And I can watch that boy of mine walk toward me after work, looking more and more like a man everyday and only see the dimpled toddler in denim overalls and red boots, running at me not so long ago, crying ‘Up! Mummy! Up!’
Being a mother is my favourite thing to do, even when I’m not doing it exactly right.
To work or wait? Bottle or breast? Bake or buy? M, PG or maybe just G? Day-care or homecare? Social life or home life? In newspapers, on the radio and over the internet debate continues to rage. And in absolutely every case, somebody’s mother is being made to feel like she’s doing it wrong.
I’m not saying I don’t have an opinion on what makes a functional family, I have simply seen enough parenting ‘experts’ with unhappy kids to know there is no such thing as a magic formula.
The latest author to raise my ire is an American named Caitlin Flanagan. She writes for the New Yorker and I usually think she’s pretty smart and funny despite the fact she describes herself as an anti-feminist (if that’s even possible for a woman).
But she’s also too rich and too privileged for her own good.
Caitlin is the well coiffed wife of a Mattel executive, who proudly declares she only went back to work when her twins no longer needed her at home, yet she readily admits she had a full time nanny and has never changed a sheet, ironed a shirt or cleaned up vomit.
This same woman now makes a living telling women to stay at home and take care of their families, recently declaring, “When a mother works, something is lost.”
Caitlin is probably just stating the obvious (ask my kids, between us we’ve lost a million permission slips, library books and even the odd guinea pig) but without my wage, I think we would have lost something a little more serious, namely the house, so thanks for your concern Caitlin, but I think I’ll take it from here.
Like I said, I am never very interested in parenting ‘law’ written by people who see child rearing as an industry, but the next one to fall on my desk made me cack myself.
“I 'm too sexy for my Volvo: A mum's guide to staying fabulous," by Betty Londergan, is meant for "trendy, hip and fashionable, modern mothers [who] want it all -- personal style, great bodies and hot sex with their husbands." Told you you’d laugh.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the yummy Mummy, I look at you with envy and awe, but through either jealousy or generosity, I feel the need to point one thing out.
No matter how cool, hip, sik, phat or wicked you think you are, your kids would probably prefer you just act like their Mum.
Karen is the yummy mummy chosen to go on Big Brother this year (I think we might be about the same age by the way – which is obviously what’s upsetting me the most). When asked what her teenage kids thought of her decision Karen said “My kids say everyone at school already thinks I’m hot, so they’re not worried, this will just make them think I’m hotter.”
I swear, even if I looked like Kylie Minogue and had a lovely new rack like Karen’s, my kids would never never want to hear those words come out of my mouth.
But I’m a hypocrite, when I started writing I actually meant to say other people’s judgements were irrelevant to your family. Someone famous once said ‘Love is all you need’ and he was right. The rest of it should fall into place.
So I apologise Karen, you are hot. I am jealous.
But for those of you with a bum as big as mine, don’t cry, just bake your babies a cake, I promise they’ll think you’re pretty hot too.
And finally, because it’s Mothers’ Day I want to tell you something about my kids. I think they’re lovely. But they’re growing up too fast and I’m scared because they won’t be kids forever and I don’t think I’ll know what to do with myself when there’s no sheets to change or vomit to wipe.
I can look at the child boorishly refusing to turn the TV to a channel everyone wants to watch, and only see the girl who lifts the cover of her bed when her little sister has a nightmare and wants to get in.
I can flinch when the wounded nine year old howls so loud over sibling injustice my ears almost bleed, yet only hear her trampoline giggles which delight everyone they reach.
And I can watch that boy of mine walk toward me after work, looking more and more like a man everyday and only see the dimpled toddler in denim overalls and red boots, running at me not so long ago, crying ‘Up! Mummy! Up!’
Being a mother is my favourite thing to do, even when I’m not doing it exactly right.
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