Until this week I had no idea that Hugo Chávez formally recognised the economic value of traditional “women’s work” . To be honest, I didn’t know much about Chávez. The one Venezuelan I know didn’t like him, but then none of us like our political leaders, do we? The most I’d assumed was that Chávez didn’t like women overly much, given the state of abortion law in Venezuela. Seems I was wrong, at least where a certain type of woman is concerned. It appears Chávez acknowledged that women who, to use the terminology of the average pay gap apologist, “don’t work because they’re raising children”, were bloody essential to a country’s welfare. Even if things were a bit more complex than that, as a basic principle that seems brilliant. Globally, we pay lip service to the devotion of mothers, yet so often stop short of saying you could actually put a price tag on it.

With Mother’s Day coming two days after International Women’s Day, I can’t help wishing it was more about that – genuine, heartfelt recognition – and less about a bunch of flowers, a pat on the head and yet another year of being horrendously undervalued. Don’t get me wrong, on a very personal level I love it. The card my five-year-old has written for me (“Thank you for all the love yoof givan me”) is just marvellous and I’ll treasure it forever. But as a cultural event, I wish Mother’s Day kicked a bit more arse. The commercial focus of it these days all feels rather KFC “Mum’s Night Off” in how it values what mothers do, bigging up inequality as a noble sacrifice in return for which you get, if not a bucket of chicken, then the only marginally better box of Thornton’s Continentals. It celebrates a particular type of motherhood – twee, self-effacing, repressed, waiting for that one day of the year when it can truly let rip with a half-bottle of rosé wine and a Lush bath bomb. It has got, let’s be honest, fuck all to do in appreciating what a wide range of mothers, all of different backgrounds and with different needs, do for their own children and society at large. If it did have, it would at least offer some form of meaningful response to all the things which piss us off.  (more…)

Most people really don’t like mummy bloggers, do they? By this I don’t mean that the latter are facing intolerance on a daily basis. It’s not as though there are crowds lining up with pitchforks outside Mumsnet Towers (having said that, I’m not sure whether that’s even a real building). Anyhow, I just think that, if you asked most people what they thought of mummy bloggers, those who bothered to have opinions at all would not be expressing positive ones. 

You could say it stands to reason. To the outside observer, mummy bloggers are like Private Eye’s Polly Filla, only with less successful writing careers. They’re whingey middle-class moaners, who think their children are the centre of the universe and that everyone else should be gripped by the trials and tribulations of parenthood. They write whiney posts about potty training, behaviour management, cake baking, childcare guilt and cleaning products. They even write whiney posts about whining. Narcissists of the hearth, they’re unable to see beyond the domestic sphere and engage with what really matters. What’s more, they’re so self-obsessed that they’re even aware that this is going on (in case you didn’t check – why ever not? – all of the above links lead to posts written by me. I’m so vain, I’m pretty damn certain this post is about me). (more…)

Top tip for partners: If you and your partner have children together and there’s one bit of parenting you don’t usually do – let’s say it’s getting everyone ready for the school and nursery run – and it just so happens that one day you get to do it – let’s say you’re setting off for work a bit later – and it turns out it’s really, really difficult, do you:

  1. think “crikey, this is stressful” and make a note that while your partner may not have to start work as early as you do, that doesn’t mean life’s necessarily much easier?
  2. stomp about wondering why no one has got a better routine established, intermittently asking the kids pointed questions that start with “but don’t you usually …” or “doesn’t Mummy get you to …”?

The correct answer is of course (1). The second one does NOT accurately describe the way my partner behaved this morning, but it just felt that way. Because I’m stressed and tired and so is he. We’re really, really tired and even though our children are lovely, they don’t half whine about irrelevant crap. (more…)

Becoming a mother has brought with it many unexpected perks. I get my own special “mummy” porn. Proctor & Gamble are proud sponsors of me. And now, as an added bonus, TV presenter, classical musician and Hear’say survivor Myleene Klass is designing clothes for me. Honestly, will the treats never end?

Introducing her new clothing range for Littlewoods, Myleene explains that it’s “designed by a mummy for mummies”. Thank heavens for that. I am so sick of forcing my mummy-shaped body into all these “normal” clothes. Finally, someone has listened to the voices of mummies everywhere and catered to our highly specific needs. (more…)

“If working parents didn’t feel guilty enough about leaving their children at nursery, now new research has found …” starts the 1,00,695th Daily Mail article on the crapness of “working parents” (aka mothers in paid employment). Yes, fellow “working mums”, it’s our turn again. Just when you thought all eyes had been turned on stay-at-home mummy bloggers, it appears we’re back in the firing line. Bring it on! (more…)

As a parent, with five full years of parenting experience behind me, I’ve come to hate one thing in particular: people who refer to being a parent as though it offers them some divine insight into the meaning of life. “As a parent …”, they will begin, before going on to tell you how the arrival of Jake and Isabella totally changed their worldview, finally making them aware of what really matters. These people don’t mean to suggest that non-parents are inferior, but they do so anyhow. In addition to this, they make all other parents feel crap, since if we don’t agree with their “as a parent” positions, this somehow suggests we’re not doing enough to rise to the parenthood challenge. It drives me mad, this fake parental insight; just the sight of one Calpol “if you’ve got kids you’ll understand” slogan is enough to have me spitting feathers (as if non-parents are incapable of understanding that giving kids pain relief might mean they’ll be in less pain). Yes, I’m a sodding parent, but I don’t need this constant ego-stroking. Give me cheaper childcare and I’m happy. (more…)

Earlier this year my partner, kids and I stopped for tea in a Little Chef.* For reasons I cannot explain, my boys were being exceptionally well-behaved, so much so that one of the waitresses came over to compliment us, the parents, on this. For further reasons I cannot explain, my youngest then decided to hold his chicken nugget aloft and pronounce “I’m like a dog eating poo off the floor”. I can totally see him as a future Sunday Times restaurant critic. He has that way with words. Back then, however, it was less than impressive. Thankfully the waitress took the feedback in far better grace than it deserved.

There are times when my kids have been total sods in cafés. Real little fuckers annoyances. I mean, they’re ace and everything – this morning I even over-egged the positive parenting pudding by calling them “the best little people in the world” – but now and then they turn to the Dark Side. And when that happens, there’s no reasoning with them at all (okay, I tell a lie – there sort of is. But it’s the kind of reasoning that ends with someone going “waaaaaahhhhh!” and it’s not always me). (more…)

I am a mummy. I have small people living with me – I like to call them “children” – and I am obliged to take care of them. I am also really fucking stupid. After all, that is what being a mummy is all about.

It has taken me quite a while to admit to the “being stupid” element of motherhood (that’s possibly a symptom of the stupidity itself, but I wouldn’t know). Technically what happens is your brain turns to mush, or porridge to be precise (if you happened to be a fuckwit to begin with, then it’s Ready Brek). Thereafter you might be left with a helpless human being who’s entirely dependent on you, but best steer clear of doing anything remotely responsible. From now on you’re only capable of working on “instinct” (don’t worry if you haven’t a clue what that is – you’re not expected to rationalise it, or anything else for that matter). (more…)

My son goes back to school tomorrow. Alas, I’d assumed it was today. So there we were at the school gates, with him in his uniform and me all set to drop him off and make a dash for work, when … Well, actually, that last bit was a fib. I found out I’d got the day wrong the night before, so managed to palm him off on a classmate’s mum. But that’s not as good an anecdote. As far as parenting’s concerned, if you’re going to mess up, you really should do it properly.

As a parent I’m really quite competitive when it comes to making a balls of things. What’s more, I don’t think I’m the only one (which is something of a relief; there’s nothing more pathetic than being desperately ambitious when no one else is arsed). Like most mums and dads, I realised long ago that being the best parent ever is totally out of reach. On the other hand, being the most ridiculously, comically incompetent parent feels much more doable. And hey, it’s an achievement of sorts. It shows you’re not just coasting when it comes to this parenting game. (more…)

On Sunday my eldest child will turn five. To put this another way, on Sunday my eldest child will be halfway to reaching ten. To put this yet another way, on Sunday my eldest child will be one quarter of the way to reaching 20. In short, give or take a decade, my son is practically an adult.

Obviously he’s excited about his birthday, and especially enthused about the Jabba the Hut cake which I have no idea how to make but will somehow magic up in two days. Every day he remind us that his birthday is coming (and, to his younger brother, he will add with particular glee “and yours isn’t!”). As his mother, I have to say I’m less pleased than about this forthcoming event. It’s not because I think he’s missing his milestones (since I haven’t a clue what the “turning five” milestones are). It’s not even to do with the flipping cake. It’s because the older he gets, the more likely it becomes that I will have to cease being Mummy. (more…)

I have never read a Maeve Binchy novel. They have always struck me as a tad “mumsy”, which is ironic since today, three days after her death, I found myself reading an article which argued that while Binchy “didn’t need the experience of motherhood to write about love and friendship in a way that charmed millions” (i.e. in a way that a cultural snob like me would dismiss as “mumsy”), had she actually been a mum “she might have dug deeper, charming less but enlightening more”.  Hmm. Allow me to put on my literary analysis hat. Now, I realise this is all hypothetical and that we’re still saying “might”, but even so, what a great big steaming pile of crap. (more…)

This evening my eldest threw a massive tantrum about the fact that it was my turn to put him to bed. His father and I do alternate nights, but Eldest always likes to claim it’s Daddy’s turn, every single time. Youngest is exactly the same. No one ever wants it to be Mummy’s turn. It’s a fate worse than having no Star Wars time.

You may wonder what can be so terribly lacking in my putting-to-bed skills. I wonder myself. I run Matey-filled baths, dole out beakers of tepid milk, read the same Horrid Henry stories again and again, but still it appears I’m useless. I’m just not the same as Daddy. Daddy is ace and I’m not. Daddy’s the favourite and Mummy – well, in a good mood, we’ll humour Mummy, but in a bad one we’ll just scream and scream and scream. (more…)

How do you read your news in the morning? Do you scan down the headlines, looking for what’s important? Do you gravely read the articles matter, even if they’re boring as hell? Or are you like me, heading straight to the opinion section to alight on something trivial yet annoying to set you up for the day? (Tip: start with the Guardian online, and if all else fails, work your way right down to Femail.)

This morning I didn’t need to look far for my morning grump. Over in the Guardian Hannah Betts is writing about the “Peter Pan Generation”, aka “Generation X-ers”, people whom she describes as “the true squeezed middle”. It’s yet another of those pieces which rants about the previous generation, the baby boomers, having enjoyed unprecedented privilege before pulling up the ladder behind them. Betts has got a point, certainly. Still, like her, I was born in the 1970s and I don’t think our generation have had it all that bad, certainly not as bad as young people today. Not only was a university education still free in the early 1990s, but we’d been raised in the age of Ross burgers, Supermousse and Cheggers Plays Pop. Looked at from this perspective, we weren’t really all that deprived. (more…)

Way-hey! It’s the start of the holidays! School’s out, the sun’s shining, so let the fun begin! Well, it’s fun for the kids, anyhow, who’ll be at home all day, getting under everyone’s feet and turning the place into a complete and utter madhouse. To tell the truth, I don’t know how I’ll cope. Or rather, I don’t know how my partner will cope. Me, I’ll just be going to work as usual. And I hate to say it – and feel a tosser for doing so – but I’m feeling a bit left out.

One of the many reasons why my partner retrained as a primary teacher was so that he’d be around in the holidays for our kids. It was a good decision, but not one that I could have made (I am monumentally awful in front of a class of thirty). This summer is my partner’s first as a qualified teacher, and our eldest child’s first following a year at school. It’s a special summer for both of them. They deserve it – they’ve both done so well — but I can’t help thinking hang on – I want in! How can they be having an idyllic Cotswolds summer without me in it? (more…)

Being the type of person who’s always up for a freebie, I’ve always thought I’d like nothing better than a sponsorship deal. Imagine my surprise when one finally comes along and I find out that actually, these things aren’t remotely as good as they’re cracked up to be.

Along with all other mums, for the last few months I have been “sponsored” by the company Procter and Gamble. I don’t remember signing an official contract ; perhaps we have a named “spokesmum” who’s done it on behalf of the rest of us. Anyhow, turns out someone didn’t read the small print. It’s actually a rubbish deal. I for one haven’t seen so much as a branded T-shirt. (more…)

The Daily Mail is kindly requesting that, next time you review your list of Women We All Should Hate, you add model Miranda Kerr. It is, on the face of it, a perfectly reasonable request. She’s really, really mind-blowingly annoying.

In an interview for Harper’s Bazaar, Kerr claimed she chose not to have an epidural when giving birth to her son because she did not want “a drugged-up baby”:

Miranda explained: ‘I had made a decision I wanted to do it naturally. So I was kind of upset when the doctor said I had to be induced because there wasn’t enough liquid around the baby.

‘She was like, “most people who get induced have the epidural. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t”. And I’m like, “I made a plan. I am determined to do this without pain medication.’

Concerned about the negative implications it might have on her son, whose father is Orlando Bloom, she told the glossy: ‘I wanted to give him the best possible start in life I could.’

If you are reading this and you, regardless of whether or not you were induced, succumbed to the temptations of an epidural, I hope you are feeling suitably crap when comparing yourself to Miranda. It’s not enough that you’re not a gorgeous model. Nor even that the father of your baby is not Orlando Bloom. You are weak. You couldn’t take the pain (not that it would in fact have made any difference to your baby. You wimped out and therefore you suck). (more…)

Today I tweeted two photographs of domestic items. Said items were 1) a potato, and 2) an apron. These are not great photographs, nor were these particularly interesting items. However, they amused me, as each struck me as an especially extreme example of its genre (assuming potatoes and aprons can be said to have genres). They were common items, and yet they were symbolic of something bigger than themselves: the peculiarly obstinate headfuck that is motherhood and domesticity.

1. The Potato of Slummy Mummy Hell

I found this right at the back of a kitchen cupboard, behind some tins of 3rd and Bird pasta shapes. (more…)

Yesterday at work I was on the road visiting clients. The colleague with whom I usually travel was off, so I’d been asked to take along a younger member of staff, to help her gain experience. When I say ‘younger’, I mean quite a bit younger. The colleague was fresh from university and in her first job. She still lived at home with her parents (as should anyone fuckwitted enough to have been born later than 1987). As we drove along, she asked me lots of questions about my life, work and experiences. I started to feel like we were in a film. A terrible road movie looking at female relationships across the generations, a movie in which lessons are learnt and bridges are built. As the questions mounted, I started whether the M5 was in fact a bluescreen.

At one point she said the following:

It must be really hard, working full-time and having children. How do you manage?

(more…)

There are many things in life which are, as the saying goes, like Marmite. The Smiths, Ann Widdecombe, gerbils … you either love them or you hate them, and there’s no in-between. That’s just how they are. Other things, however, are not like Marmite. Take Marmite itself, for instance. I can take it or leave it. I might fancy a bit on my toast but hey, if there’s none left to scrape out of the pot, no worries; I’ll just have a bit of marg on its own. Everyone talks about the great Marmite divide, but let’s be honest – marmalade’s the real deal breaker in all of this.

I’m inclined to think this way about breastfeeding too. Just as you can’t eat a Marmite soldier without being told you love it, women who breastfeed are all encouraged to believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that they’ve decided  breast is best. This doesn’t mean that they can’t talk about the difficulties. It doesn’t mean they have to pretend it’s easy. But once you breastfeed, it tends to be assumed that you most definitely “heart” having a baby on the tit. (more…)

So, I started reading that Anne-Marie Slaughter piece in Atlantic magazine on Why Women Still Can’t Have It All. I started reading it, but bloody hell, I found it hard work. Perhaps I’m just tired. Perhaps I’m just tired from all the effort I put into having it all.

I’m not actually all that good at having it all. Or rather, I’m totally ace at the “not seeing much of the kids” side of it, but the “super career woman” bit – well, I wouldn’t rate me much on that score. Certainly not in comparison to Slaughter. This is a woman who has dropped out of her high-powered Washington career to spend more time with the kids and yet still – still! – she gets to piss all over the piffling achievements of women still clinging on to all the shit jobs they can find:

I have not exactly left the ranks of full-time career women: I teach a full course load; write regular print and online columns on foreign policy; give 40 to 50 speeches a year; appear regularly on TV and radio; and am working on a new academic book.

Presumably Anne-Marie also sticks a broom up her arse and sweeps the floor as she walks along. I mean, good for you, Ms Slaughter. Seriously. You’re really fucking amazing. Quite how this puts you in a position to comment on the compromises made by lesser mortals isn’t, however, totally clear to me.

I mean, yeah, it’s always difficult getting the work-life balance in order, even, as Slaughter comments, “with bosses as understanding as Hillary Clinton and her chief of staff, Cheryl Mills”. Often it’s just a total bummer (with or without the broom). Here’s how it was for Anne-Marie:

My workweek started at 4:20 on Monday morning, when I got up to get the 5:30 train from Trenton to Washington. It ended late on Friday, with the train home. In between, the days were crammed with meetings, and when the meetings stopped, the writing work began—a never-ending stream of memos, reports, and comments on other people’s drafts. For two years, I never left the office early enough to go to any stores other than those open 24 hours, which meant that everything from dry cleaning to hair appointments to Christmas shopping had to be done on weekends, amid children’s sporting events, music lessons, family meals, and conference calls.

Yeah, tell me about it. Do you know how I cope with all this, Anne-Marie? I generally manage by fucking up. By always being the parent who forgets it’s non-uniform day, always being the colleague who’s late for early morning meetings, just generally always being “that person” who has to live with Allison Pearson narrating her every move. It’s not an ideal solution, sure, but once you come to terms with it and accept the essential fucked-up-ness of it all, it’s surprisingly bearable. And the bonus is, by doing all this, you get to have cute kids and a roof over your head. Result!

I don’t think there is anything necessarily gender-specific about my situation, or indeed Anne-Marie’s, other than that it’s arisen from working patterns failing to keep up with social change. I don’t have a househusband, therefore there’s no one there to pick up the pieces, yet workplaces still treat employees as though that extra person is necessarily there. And some employees do have stay-at-home carers as their partners. However, if you’re one of those who doesn’t, there’s a limit to how much flexibility you feel able to ask for. We should still keep on asking, though. Otherwise, why are we all working? What’s it all about? *rests hand on chin, philosophically*

One thing I definitely don’t believe is that there should be a special kind of guilt reserved for mothers. It’s not that I don’t sometimes feel it; it’s just that I know, fundamentally, that it’s not right. I think that’s part of being a feminist, and knowing that while, individually, I am a tosser, theoretically, as a woman, I am the equal of any man (apart, of course, from Jarvis Cocker). This is in many ways why I find the positioning of an article such as Slaughter’s genuinely discomforting (aka totally fucking annoying). She doesn’t seem to say much that I don’t also think (so how come she’s on telly and not me?). Yet it all feels so mummy-centric, so focussed on mummy identities and mummy responsibilities. There does, undoubtedly, need to be a shift in how businesses understand the commitments and responsibilities of employees. If not, it will mostly be women who lose out. Even so, I find myself cringing at assertions such as this:

Being able to work from home—in the evening after children are put to bed, or during their sick days or snow days, and at least some of the time on weekends—can be the key, for mothers, to carrying your full load versus letting a team down at crucial moments.

It’s not just the obsequiousness towards businesses (god forbid that anyone should just take the day off when their child is ill); it’s the demand that women still bear the “full load”, whatever the situation. Apparently it’s not our perception of motherhood that’s at fault; we just need new working hours.

There’s an unpleasant strain of essentialism running through Slaughter’s arguments. She doesn’t want to make workplaces more family-friendly; she wants to feminise them:

I [...] want a world in which, in Lisa Jackson’s words, “to be a strong woman, you don’t have to give up on the things that define you as a woman.” That means respecting, enabling, and indeed celebrating the full range of women’s choices. “Empowering yourself,” Jackson said in her speech at Princeton, “doesn’t have to mean rejecting motherhood, or eliminating the nurturing or feminine aspects of who you are.”

No, it sure doesn’t, whatever the fuck all that might mean. Presumably I need to watch more Oprah and it will all make sense.

I am, I suppose, just really sick of this whole fucking debate and the gender politics and assumptions surrounding it. The suggestion that there is anything remotely new about an older, successful woman turning around and saying “hey, this having it all lark isn’t so easy!” is ludicrous. You get it in the Daily Mail every week (thanks, Lorraine Candy). Sure, Slaughter is trying to be more constructive than that, but it really isn’t helping. Feminists did this, big shoulder-padded career women did that, SAHMs got sneered at, the career women had regrets blah blah blah blah blah. Do you know what really happened? Women tried to make the best of the opportunities offered to them but still struggled to gain ground because a) some people are sexist and / or hold restrictive views about what men and women can and cannot do [see Jackson quote above], and b) businesses are greedy and have been permitted to become even greedier. So it’s bloody difficult to ask them to treat you like a person, whether you’ve got children or not. And if your starting point is “ooh, I’m a mummy, please please please can I work at home and pull my weight while my toddler dies of consumption?” you’re not going to get very far.

Fundamentally, I am sick of mummies being put in boxes – SAHM, career woman, regretful part-timer. We do it for controversy, and debate, and entertainment. It’s become an abstract intellectual exercise. Do you know, it’s reached the point where we’re all so knackered, we’re starting to forget these aren’t just labels; these are our lives.

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