Filth

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So, this weekend I decided it was time. To clean the car. For at least three weeks the children have been alternately claiming it to stink of sick/poo/dead animals. And gagging as they get in. Not one to cave in too easily I’ve let it ride (or, rather, let them ride it out) for a little longer than Social Services would find reasonable. But there have been several, erm, incidents that have finally pushed me over the edge of shame and into action.

First there was the trip to the garage to get a new tyre. Apparently I needed a ‘locking wheel nut’ to get the defective tyre off. Wtf is that, I hear you cry. Good bloody question. Apparently it’s some kind of security device that prevents people stealing those oh-so-coveted jalopy wheels. I mean, criminals want to half-inch the tyres off seven-seat given-up-on-life boxes on wheels? Really? Anyway. I uncomfortably concluded my conversation with the man on the desk, realising with a sinking feeling that the item they were looking for *may* have been the alien item I *possibly* put in the bin a couple of weeks before. Not wanting to look like a total twat I played dumb, only to step outside and unexpectedly find no less than six hairy-arsed mechanics ripping my car apart looking for the bloody thing. All of them with looks of disgust on their faces, either at my lack of vehicle hygiene or the array of furry ex-food items they encountered underneath the seats, in the cup holders and squashed into the upholstery. Bad car owner.

Then there was the evening I offered to transport four lovely ladies to the pub for a night out. In their lovely glam going out gear. Ah. The shame as they stepped through oceans of shit to find a seat. And the smell that infused our journey. And the speed with which they exited the shit wagon (which was nothing to do with my driving; really, I was thirsty!) Bad friend.

The straw that broke my iron resolve to stay foul was the ‘back to school’ moment when it suddenly seemed ridiculous to have washed, freshly laundered and re-kitted my children and issued dire warnings about looking smart – only to find at least one of them had sat on a forgotten chocolate button and skipped into the new school year looking like they’d shat themselves. Bad mother.

That’s when I decided it was time. Assuming the usual position for housework, I installed the long-suffering mites in front of Wallace and Gromit – and ventured car-wards with Hoover, antibacterial spray and bin bags. 90 minutes (and a heap of cursing, retching and glowing) later; the inside of the car, at least, looked like a new pin. And the air within was starting to clear from green fog to magic tree clarity.

Only now I’m fretting. Will I be disappointed tomorrow to find it resuming its distinct miasma of re-puked dog sick wrapped in a turd? Will just one in-car breakfast re-carpet the now-visible floor? And, with potty training in full throttle, will Pudding unleash a fresh new fat one to return the gag-wagon to its former odorous charm?

So, with uncharacteristic despair, I ask myself why I bother. Like all my good intentions, the benefit and the intent only last until the next crisis. Which is never more than a heartbeat away.

Binary

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So, am feeling somewhat of a failure. Managed six out of my eighteen months of ‘not working’ and being a stay-at-home mum – and am already considering a return to work (albeit temporarily). Sheesh. Does taking time with my offspring terrify me that much?!?! Am I that loathe to bake, craft, entertain, supervise, organise, join or commit for longer than one measly term? Will I don the working girl, ahem, woman attire and be lost once more in a flurry of endless emails, pointless meetings and late night deadlines?

It’s not that my beautiful, crazy, complex children are sending me screaming back to the relative safety of an office with my Starbuck’s clasped to my perfidious chest. Or that the pull of having people actually listen to me without the need for continual repetition or a sugary bribe is just too good to deny. It’s more the fear that I’ve gone too far into playdate overdrive, toddler group obsession, timetabled homework and oh so many committee meetings; thereby catalysing some sort of treacherous about-turn. Worst of all, it seems I’m hopelessly incapable of being two (proper, decent) things at once.

All of which begs the question – am I forever destined to fail at the one thing all chicks pride themselves on? That quality that we think gives us moral and practical superiority over mere men. The sword from the stone. The one ring to rule them all. Yes, I am talking about the Big ‘M’. I mean Multitasking. Or, to be more accurate, multiple role juggling.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually happen to think I’m great at changing a shitty nappy whilst reciting the top ten football stadiums (stadia) and making loom band iguanas at the same time. But if I try to combine that with the demands of a professional role, someone’s gonna get the wrong stinking end of the shitty nappy/frothy cappuccino combo.

Love it or hate it, I’m like a moth to the flame. Work. Paid work. Has its advantages. Just think of all the blimmin’ almond croissants I can peacefully cram in my face without having to hide in a cupboard to avoid sharing. And the meetings I can attend free from the fear of a toddler unleashing a fat stinker in the middle of item 3. Oh, and the days I can sashay lightly from the house with a single, perfectly-packed bag of relevant items for the job (none of which will have been retrieved from the dirty washing pile five minutes earlier and flattened underneath a child eating a bowl of chocolate biscuits for breakfast on the sofa).

Time will tell but I have a horrible suspicion that I am Binary Mum i.e. unable to reconcile the messy, loud, often calamitous seat-of-the-pants type of mothering I favour with my altogether calmer, endlessly patient (who knew?), efficient (that too), shit-free professional alter ego. In my more positive moments I admit to daydreaming how it might play out if I do, by some divine miracle, manage to combine Binary Mum with Shit Hot Professional Chick. Here’s how it goes…

At Work I would…

  • allow, nay welcome, a free flow of noisy, odorous bodily functions during meetings
  • withhold coffee/lunch/fag breaks until all outstanding actions have been completed
  • impose iPad sanctions for those who spend too much time browsing jobs on LinkedIn
  • offer rewards of sweeties for playing nicely with colleagues who are being arseholes
  • get things done by simply repeating the same instruction again and again and again ad infinitum

At Home I will find myself…

  • minuting the heated discussions about who gets the largest choc chip cookie from the tin
  • performance managing the toddler during potty training with a three-strikes-or-you’re-out policy
  • scheduling weekly progress meetings to review the ‘growing up’ process
  • staying up all night to prepare a three-year strategy for getting to school on time, with breakfast
  • raiding the sticker/glitter drawer for supplies to use at the office

Actually. Come to think of it, perhaps I’ve hit on something here. Call it happenstance. Call it a weirdly successful cross-pollination of all your worst fears and slummy strategies. Or, call it bollocks. But, think of it. The nippers will detest but be unable to resist the arrival of discipline in the house. Work colleagues will rile against yet respond to stricter (albeit childish) sanctions and policies. And stuff will get done. And I’ll no longer know nor care whether I’m multitasking, role juggling or simply being a fairly shit working mother.

Baggage

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So, I’ve recognised ‘a thing’ whilst preparing to head home from holidays. It’s something I’ve kinda recognised about myself for some time, but just thought was one of my own quirky character flaws (oh, I have so many of those – like restacking the dishwasher when the husband fails to get The System). Ahem, anyway, having holidayed with other families quite a bit of late, it’s become abundantly clear that this particular tick is most definitely not mine alone. So what the hell am I on about? Packing. Or, more accurately, re packing. That joyless activity that is agonising enough before your holiday, but infinitely gloomier (and odorous) at the end of it.

The truth is: you simply don’t mess with a packing momma.

This is how it goes… It’s all rather lighthearted to begin with. You start with a bit of mild procrastination – maybe a cup of tea or a quick swim. You fanny about and put it off. But the clock is ticking and the husband is starting to panic, and fume (and might even start throwing a few crumpled items into the bag, or even offer to change a nappy or two instead of you in the hope that you just bloody get on with it). So then you DO get on with it (possibly with the help of a glass of wine). Brain whirrs into action. Mental lists of items not to be forgotten swing into place in front of your eyes – a bit like The Terminator when he’s assessing a particularly killer-robot-heavy situation. You develop a military-like precision of movement otherwise absent in your life (even if sorely needed). That’s when everyone should beware…

Don’t get anywhere near. Don’t offer helpful advice. Or aid. Or pick anything up. Or make suggestions. Or, God forbid, start putting things in helpful little piles. Because that momma is In The Zone. I’ve seen the look in other mums’ eyes, and felt it in my own. You Do Not Mess with a mum who’s packing. They know where their shit is. And they do NOT want your help. You are merely an irritant in what is already a soul-destroying, futile, humourless process. The clothes in the room. The swim stuff by the pool. The miscellaneous items in the bathroom/bar/barbecue. The weird location of all your holiday paraphernalia is known only to you. And woe betide anyone who dares to get in your way. Let alone a ‘well-meaning’ husband, offering ‘helpful’ tips about what’s been ‘left behind’ (it’s not left behind, arsehole, it’s item 53 on the Terminator console). However close you are to departure, stay away. There is nothing useful you can say, do or be to a momma on a mission.

So, ladies, gents, children, just do yourself a favour; slink off for another ice cream and leave us to it. We will get that shit done perfectly well on our own. And no messing.

FOOTNOTE

Whilst I’m on the clearly emotive subject of packing, here’s my helpful list – momma to momma – of things you should never ever bother packing for holidays:

  • Socks for children (they NEVER wear any)
  • Nail varnish/face pack/massage oil (cos that’s NEVER going to happen, right)
  • Half the clothes you take for yourself (you NEVER wear more than a couple of (baggy) favourites anyway)
  • Suncream (weighs a fucking ton, costs you dear in extra baggage, and frickin’ EXPLODES all over your bag before you even arrive)

And then there are the essential things you SHOULD pack but never remember:

  • Toothbrushes (cue a week of chewing toothpaste – if you’ve remembered it – and molar rubbing)
  • Hairbrush (cue elation from daughters who see no issue with cultivating holiday dreadlocks)
  • Swim nappies (cue the ‘going commando’ dilemma, and disappointed shitty optimism)
  • Pants (cue a week of wishing you had brought a bikini instead of one piece halter neck)

Or is that just me?

Naked

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So, how in the name of God can it be possible for good intentions well met to lead to a very public (and naked) shaming?

Yes, I spent six weeks pre-holiday eating nothing but frickin’ lettuce and consuming a seriously bladder-threatening volume of earl grey to slim down to bikini weight for the first time in ten years. Celebrated with a side of cucumber and trotted off to buy hitherto undreamed of two piece swimming costume (having favoured tummy control since the ‘body-enhancing’ appearance of three children) – all in preparation for Bling French Holiday. After settling myself in with five days of rabbit-worthy diet maintenance and the customary tummy control that threatened to squeeze the offending muffin top down to my ankles (yes, weight loss does NOT equal toned beach body – still much wobble to distribute) I finally donned The Bikini.

It was kind of an out-of-body experience emerging from the gloom of aircon bedroom to public poolside, but I did it with nonchalant Slimming World-success-story swagger (not that I ever made it to Slimming World – not sure they’ve invented the ‘starvation and sweets’ diet yet). Took my time to apply suncream (tummy sucked in until I almost passed out obvs) and adjust pants/straps and push up dwindling knockers (so unfair). Then. Jumped. Only to discover I’d over-estimated on size and subsequently found myself breathlessly retrieving errant pants AND stuffing escaped ex-boobs back into push up top, all whilst anxiously surveying the assembled crowd in the hope they had been distracted by Pudding’s timely cry of “I’ve done a pool poo” and therefore missed her semi-naked Rubenesque mother shamefacedly reassembling her modesty.

What concerns me most is not necessarily the naked shaming (which only smarts a little) but the degree to which I will bend (and starve, and suffer) to find a way back to supposed former shape. Much as I adore my children and would not change a single thing about the events that brought them to me, it’s particularly sobering to realise how much we lose before we (re)gain ourselves. It’s taken me ten years to get back to the old ‘me’ and I wonder if that’s because I’m a particularly slow starter (and fast eater) or whether it happens that way for all (non-yummy) mummies. Who knows?

Whatever. Not one to miss a learning opportunity, next year I shall happily prepare for the annual summer flesh-fest by mainlining almond croissants, Pringles and wine gums whilst watching “How to Look Good Naked”. On repeat. So much simpler. And infinitely more enjoyable. Muffins and all.