Mean Mum

Have you ever noticed that at an AGM there often comes a time when suddenly every pair of eyes is remarkably preoccupied - staring out the window, looking at a watch, being rubbed with the glasses on the lap... what? You were looking for volunteers?  I didn't notice sorry, I was rubbing my eyes, glasses off - couldn't see, you see.

In the day and age of email, avoiding volunteering is even easier.  You can deny ever having received the email.  It must have been diverted to junk mail.  The kids must have deleted it.  The virtual silence is a lot easier to stomach than the awkwardness of an actual silence.

So, if it's that easy to avoid volunteering via the email, why do I find myself coordinating the 'Pre-Loved' stall at The Blond Bombshell's Kindy fete in a couple of weeks time?

 No really, it's a serious question?

When I realised what I had done I was initially quite annoyed at myself.  I would have to collect, sort, price and sell a bunch of unwanted items belonging to complete strangers.

Then I realised I would get to collect, sort, price and sell a bunch of unwanted items belonging to complete strangers. Cool! I get first dibs on all the cool stuff (I will pay for them obviously) but first dibs!  As a youngest child I never got first dibs on anything.  Moreover, as a youngest child, collecting the unwanted items of other people (ie older sisters) is second nature.

And I could also use the opportunity to get rid of a bunch of my own unwanted items.  Double cool.  All those loud and annoying battery operated toys that I have hated for years.  Gone!  All the unwanted kids clothes I have received over the years.  Gone.  All the crap I have bought from other people's garage sales and school fetes.  Gone.

I feel free and liberated.  Like I have shed 5 unwanted kilos.

I am now so enthusiastic about making this the best ever PreLoved stall that I am personally filling the bags with my own donations.  I even snuck into the Bombshell's bedroom while she was at Kindy and emptied out her drawers. What a mean mum! 

Dear Gentlemen, Please Grow A Pair

Dear Tradies

To all the painters and electricians, handymen and plumbers, garden guys and tilers I implore you:

Please grow a pair!

And I am not talking about a pair of trousers, but what is in them.  Toughen up lads.  If you're tough enough to drive a shiny new ute with enormous chrome wheels and a stereo system that would put GunsNRoses to shame, then you're tough enough to say 'No' to a person you have never met, a person who is not even standing in front of you, who doesn't know your face, someone on the end of the phone.

It's not that hard fellas.  If you have no intention of showing up to give a girl a quote for a job, then just say so.  Don't fob her off with 'I'll give you a call and we'll make a time for me to come out'.  Because you never call back.  You never make a time. 

Let's practice the following sentences:

'I'm sorry but I'm very busy at the moment, and I don't really have time to come and give you a quote'.

'I'm sorry but I can't really be arsed driving all the way out to your place'.

'I'm sorry but I don't get out of bed for a job worth less than $1,000.'

'I'm sorry but your job sounds too hard and I really can't be bothered.'

'I'm sorry but the surf is too good this week and I don't plan on doing any work let alone give free quotes to a landlocked suburb too far from the beach.'

All a girl wants is a little bit of honesty.  If a tradie told me that the job sounded too hard/too small/not profitable enough I would probably reward them for their honesty and give them a call the next time I had a bigger, more expensive quote.  Have the balls to be honest with your customers.  If you're not interested - say so!

This year I have had electricians, who live only a few streets away from me, twice fail to turn up to give me quotes.  The job ended up being worth well over $1,000.  They missed out.  Bathroom Renovators who never returned my calls missed out on a job that ended up being over $5,000.  Painters who took too long to get me a quote missed out on a job worth over $7,000.

Grow a pair fellas.  You'd be amazed how far it could get you.

Why I Hate Dentists (Subtitle: It's my own fault)

I am consciously trying not to clench my hands, instead allowing them to lie flat along my thighs.  It's only when I realise I have hiked my dress up over my knees that I can see I am not fooling anyone.  We can all smell the fear in the room.

The dentist is not looking at my knees though.  She's more interested in the mess in my mouth.

'Suction', she says for the tenth time.  I can tell she's getting irritated with her new assistant, or is she irritated with me, an otherwise rational woman in her early 30s with a very childish and irrational fear of dentists.

'You know you really need to floss, Shannon', she tells me.  'How regularly do you floss?'

Surely she doesn't expect a response.  My mouth is full of cotton wool, doing a poor job of absorbing the saliva that the assistant seems incapable of suctioning.

The sound of the drill is making my heart race.  Writing this now I can still hear it piercing my head, vibrating my sanity, emptying my wallet.

I had the choice of a standard filling or a porcelain one.  The porcelain one would last much longer but at almost $1,000 it wasn't an option.  I actually felt my eyes prickle when I saw the quote.

'Does that start with a 9?' I asked.

The receptionist looked nonplussed. 'Yes...'

They try to disguise the chemicals, the pastes, the fillers they use with a peppermint flavour, as though it will make the experience of having your head drilled more palatable.  It just makes me hate peppermint.

'Are you okay, Shannon?' the dentist kept asking.

Maybe I shouldn't have told her about my fear of dentists.  She probably thought I was going to throw up.

'Almost done now,' she also kept saying, although it was almost an hour before she released me on the promise I would return to get three more teeth fixed.

'Two pregnancies and poor flossing are ruining your teeth.  Sometimes Mums need to put themselves first', she tells me as she pats my arm and shuffles me out.

***

$400 later, and with the left side of my face feeling like it had inflated to comic proportions, I stood in front of the dairy section at Coles.  The only food I could safely eat without accidentally chewing off my own tongue would be yoghurt or creme caramel.

The dentist had suggested yoghurt,

I chose the creme caramel.

McDonalds for Dinner

Each month one member of our Mother’s Group arranges a night out, a catch up strictly for Mums only.  Sometimes we go out for dinner, or it might be Indian takeaway.  Future plans include the movies, yum cha and a rather unlikely but terribly decadent day at the spa.

The other night we went to McDonalds for dinner. Not only did we eat there, but we cooked as well.

Before you throw your arms up and deride us for cutting down virgin forest in South America to grow cows, let me explain.

Most of you would be familiar with the concept of Ronald McDonald House.  Many of the major children’s hospitals in the country have one, and they are designed as a home away from home for the families of sick kids who are undergoing treatment at hospital.  Most of us know they exist, but if you are like me and have never had a seriously ill child, you would probably have never set foot in one.

The Ronald McDonald House at PMH in Perth is not just a suburban house with a few extra bedrooms.  It is a colourful compound with self-contained units, a playground, toddlers TV room, teenagers retreat and a kitchen big enough for the dozens of families which may be staying at any one time.

The weekend house manager told us that sometimes the diagnosis of a sick child can happen so fast that parents don’t even have time to pack a toothbrush.  If they are a rural or remote family, they are sent to the nearest airfield and arrive in Perth, disoriented, probably frightened and sometimes thousands of kilometres from home and family.  The last thing parents want to be worrying about after  a day in hospital with their sick baby is what to cook for dinner for themselves, and often, their other children who have also been uprooted from friends and school, from their normal lives.

This is where the Make A Meal Program comes in.  Almost every night of the week, every week of the year, a group of people come in and cook a meal for all the families staying at Ronald McDonald House.  These are not professional cooks and it’s probably more like an episode of It’s A Knockout than MasterChef.  We were a group of Mums on their night out.  Following us that week would be a school group, a group of friends, a family group, a women’s business group and one of the Perth professional sporting teams.

The Perth Make A Meal Program is the most successful program in Australia, and so popular there is a two month waiting list just to get a place. The volunteers must provide all the ingredients for a two course meal, with different main options.  If the house is full, this could easily cost $250.  Our group of 6 put on two massive meatloaves, two vegetarian quiches, two sweet potato frittatas, an enormous salad, and two huge chocolate self-saucing puddings with double cream.  All up our shopping bill was around $120.

We turned up at the house around 4.15pm and immediately set to work.  The six of us have been friends for years but we had never cooked together.  Jo, who arranged the night was super organised, and had not only provided each of us with shopping lists costing around $20, but also photocopied multiple recipes and organised us into groups to tackle each dish. Half of us had brought along a bottle of wine, and by quarter to six we had settled down with a glass of something fruity and a packet of TimTams while the dinner cooked. 

This was not meant to be a sombre night.  We had a ball and met some fantastic people.  By quarter past six families had started arriving in the dining room, and minutes later one of our group was cuddling a newborn and chatting with the parents.  Dinner was ready by 6.30pm and after everyone had served themselves, we heaped our plates and went to join the families in the dining room.  Even though there was the inevitable awkwardness not always knowing what questions to ask, and the sadness knowing each of these families had a seriously ill child a few hundred metres up the road, ultimately we were all parents and we talked about our favourite topic – our children.

After the families had dispersed, the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher, and the leftovers labelled and bundled into the communal fridge, the manager came to thank us.  Not all groups end up sitting with the families and eating their dinner, they cluster in the kitchen and don’t mingle, he told us.  He was especially grateful that we moved so freely with the families. I’d like to pretend that it was easy to do, but I am sure in the back of my mind I was afraid that the guilt and relief that I felt – because I was able to go home that night, that my children were healthy and safe and tucked up in bed - would be plastered across my forehead like a neon light.   

I doubt the families even think about this.  It’s arrogant to assume there would be any sort of resentment.  Everyone we spoke with, and most of those we didn’t, had smiles on their faces.  Many approached us after dinner to thank us.  A group settled down in front of the television, many headed off to bed.  It could have been any house in Australia, except this one was a little larger, a bit more special.  Obviously I couldn’t see into the private rooms of the families any more than I could see into their hearts, and I am sure there is a lot of pain and grief and anger.  I am sure that sometimes the emotions are not private at all, and they shouldn’t have to be.

But that night, for us anyway, Ronald McDonald House felt like a happy place.  I am proud that we were able to make even a small contribution.  If cooking meatloaf for a couple of dozen strangers doesn’t rock your boat, then I am sure there are other ways to help.  If I had any feedback to the organisers of the Make A Meal Program it would simply be to make available a copy of the menus that had been provided over the previous few weeks, just so we were not unknowingly dishing up the same BBQ or Sticky Date Pudding that families had endured three times in the same week.

Later that night, I stopped and watched my daughters as they slept soundly in their bed and cot.  I’m not the sort that prays regularly, but I am always willing to acknowledge how grateful I am for what I have.  And that night it was fierce gratitude that my children are healthy but also the comfort in knowing that if circumstances changed, there would be a place like Ronald McDonald House just up the road.

Gift Vouchers and Foot Gratings

The first gift voucher I remember receiving was a leaving gift from colleagues when I was pregnant with the Blonde Bombshell.  My plan at the time was to finish work at 39 weeks and spend the following week or so relaxing.

Anyway, like many women having their first baby I began to get a little preoccupied with what to do 'down there'.  Do you shave or wax it all off?  Leave it Au natural and let the doctors decide what to do?  Get them to wax a little arrow pointing down saying 'baby this way'?  I decided to use my gift voucher for a bit of a tidy up.  I thought the doctor might appreciate it.

'Hello, I would like to book in for a bikini wax please'

'No problems, have you been here before?'

'No, this is my first time'.

'That's fine, when would you like to come in?  There's a space on Friday'.

'No, I will be 40 weeks pregnant, can we make it a bit sooner just in case the baby decides to come early?'

'Ummm so you're 40 weeks pregnant and you want to come in for your first ever bikini wax?...'

The rising anxiety in her voice was a bit of a concern and needless to say the following conversation about increased blood flow to the area, and risk of horrific bruising didn't fill me with confidence.  Surely turning up to labour looking like I had already tried to remove the baby with a Dyson wouldn't give the best impression.

I decided to use my voucher for a pedicure instead.

Since then I have received a couple more vouchers for pedicures and I just love them.  I especially love them when they're from my Mum and she provides snacks and babysitting services at the same time.

What I don't love is foot gratings.

I remember being horrified and disgusted when I saw the old lady sitting next to me have her feet shaved during her spa pedicure.  It was as though the beautician had popped out of NailsRUs (or wherever we were), ducked into KitchenWitch and bought a Parmesan shaver and then proceeded to shave layer after layer of grey foot peelings from this lady's foot. I shuddered, thinking that I would never be that old, never be that disgusting that I would need my feet shaved.

About five minutes later when the beautician settled herself down in front of me, I shuddered, realising that I was that old, I was that disgusting.  My feet needed shaving.  The lady tried to discreetly sweep the pile onto the floor, but I could see it.  Through the tears of humiliation I could see it!

Why am I bringing this up?  Well, during my child-free trip to Sydney my friend and I popped in for a pedicure.  My foot-lady automatically pulled out an entire Italian kitchen of shaving and grating utensils, whereas my friend merely needed a light buff with an emery board.  But while we were there a B-grade celebrity walked in for a pedicure, script in hand (it was Balmain, after all).  She's been in television and movies for over a decade, we'd all recognise her face if not her name.  She's famous.  And beautiful and probably rich. 

And she needed her feet grated.

First Day at University - Will This Be on The Test?

Today was my first day back at uni, and I already feel like the archetypal poor student. After coughing up $9.50 for three hours parking I went to a cafe to observe students for a while.  That quickly got boring so I went to find my classroom.

In my small class of about 20 students, I am one of four mothers (including the tutor) and one of four people over the age of 30. Needless to say, the four people over 30 are the mothers.  I think two are even grandmothers! The rest of the (predominantly female) class are young.  Very young.

One of the conversations I overheard included:

'I love your tattoo!'

'Yeah, I love yours too.  Did it hurt?'

'Naaaa. Awww a bit. You?

Many of the girls reminded me of me when I was in my 20s.  They meant well, had big ideas and were terribly pretentious in their idealism and anger. They call themselves 'jaded' and 'feminist' without ever substantiating it and spent half the lesson attached to their mobile phones. One young girl stank of smoke and I wanted to tell her off, but thought it might not be appropriate since I wasn't her mother.

The class I am doing is Creative NonFiction - a hybrid of literature and non-fiction, a marriage of journalism and storytelling.  What you would get if you threw Four Corners and Playschool in bed together.

We did a number of writing activities today but one of them struck a chord so I am going to reproduce it here.  We were asked to write a paragraph about six roles or identities that we play in public or private.

My primary identity at the moment is that of MOTHER.  I have two little girls and it is difficult to escape the duties associated with mothering, although I am still coming to terms taking ownership of the identity mother.  The activities swamp my day and sometimes I feel I don't get to 'play' out any of my other roles, yet it still feels foreign to take on the title.  Being a mother is the single most rewarding thing I have ever done and a primary reason I am here today being a STUDENT.

From today I am a STUDENT again.  This is my 4th degree and I had vowed never to do another one after finishing a Grad Dip of Medical Science (Education) back in 2005.  But writing will be a way of life for me, one that can fit around my other identities especially MOTHER.  If you love it, it's not work.

I have always been a SISTER but since becoming a MOTHER I have felt the pull towards my sister a lot more, especially as she had children around the same time as I.  We have really discovered each other in the past few years and found out we share many secrets and desires.  I am fortunate I get to see my SISTER regularly as part of my MOTHERS GROUP.

As a member of my MOTHERS GROUP I am one arm of a tight group of mums who have been meeting (with and without children) for almost four years.  We are honorary family members, babysitters, gym buddies, Kindy mums, coffee drinkers, recipe and battle-story swappers, someone to bitch about and bitch to. I am the organiser of the group, the list maker, planning all the rosters and parties.  Sometimes I hate that, but I love my group.

Recently I have been a RENOVATOR.  It's a process much akin to getting pregnant and having a child except that having a baby is quicker, cheaper and less painful.  We are about to finish significant second storey additions and I am currently interviewing painters and blind-makers, the finishing touches to our new house.  I am eagerly awaiting my new study, very attic-like and a perfect space for a new writer.

But before all of this I was a WIFE.  We have just celebrated our 11th anniversary and have known each other half our lives.  I met my husband on the first day of university back in 1995.  We have essentially grown up together and he is very supportive of all my roles, especially my becoming a student.  Again.

After I finished writing this I was somewhat surprised to see that I had not included WRITER as one of my roles.  I guess that will come in time.  At least I didn't have any difficulty coming up with 6 roles.  I had half a dozen more on the tip of my pen that I could have included.  At least being a mature aged student comes with some benefits - two of the twenty year olds in my group couldn't come up with more than 4 roles and identities.