Its Sunday morning and I am sitting in my pink, fluffy dressing gown at the kitchen table. Having read a few blogs I am now continuing to avoid any actual physical work by writing this ...
I don't know why it is that I have a gnawing feeling of guilt that I am doing nothing productive ... after all its not as though I've signed some sort of contract to be busy at all times, providing nourishment for my children or polishing various pieces of dusty furniture. I think it may be some sort of genetic failing present in most women. For some reason we feel that it is our mission in life to cook, clean, care for, organise ...
Luckily I don't seem to have the full on, OCD type gene. I may have the feeling of guilt when I sit down and do nothing but write, or read, but I don't actually do anything about it. I am aware of a small voice in the back of my head at this very moment telling me "Sarah, you really ought to get dressed and do some washing, or go to the allotment, or tidy your bedroom, or clean the fridge ..." But fortunately I have the strength of mind to ignore that voice and continue typing.
I think that I may well be part of a new generation of women who are moving on from the persistent necessity to clean, cook and generally skivvy about for their family. Or, of course, I could just be a rogue lazy cow.
I remember the very first time I heard that little voice in my head telling me to do something I would have preferred not to do. It was when my first son was about a day old. I had given birth by emergency cesarean and the whole experience had been a far cry from the dream of aromatherapy oils and shangrila I had hoped for. I recall him lying in his clear plastic, hospital cot crying and I knew he needed his nappy changing. I, on the other hand, needed a lie down as my operation scar was killing me and I felt faint. It dawned on me at that moment that there was nobody else around who could help this little baby and that this was my job now.
I think it was the very first time I had ever done something for someone else when really I needed to just go to bed and pull the covers over my sweaty, pain racked brows. I think it was then that the realisation of motherhood and all it meant, hit me. "Fuck"
It has been a long and slow recovery. For the first few years of motherhood I truly believed that I was the only one who could do right by my children and this belief resulted in a combination of huge resentment and an enormous amount of homemade produce. I lost count of the number of cakes I baked, sweet potatoes I mashed and poured into ice cube trays, or curls of hair I framed. (ok I admit that does sound a tad Hannibal Lecteresque ...)
Looking back there was no expectation from anyone but myself that I should do all this. My husband is the most wonderful partner who has no qualms about putting on a load of washing or ironing his own shirt for work. But that gene was rampant in my DNA.
It has taken time, but I now realise that what I do with my life is up to me. If I don't want to hoover my lounge then I don't have to. If I want to spend my day at the allotment, or not, then I will ... or won't. The world will not collapse if we have beans on toast for dinner rather than a three course, organic feast and if my son tells me he is not hungry at lunchtime then so be it. He is old enough to get himself some toast in an hour if he gets peckish then.
Does that make me a bad mum? I don't think so. I think it makes a happier, more relaxed, fully rounded person. I have learnt to ignore that pesky voice telling me that I have to do things. I don't have to do those things right now. They will get done when I want to do them ... or when I tell my boys to do them.
So, I am going to continue sitting here, looking out at my garden and the fence that needs painting. I shall continue to peruse the internet and possibly, in a moment, make another pot of tea.
I don't know why it is that I have a gnawing feeling of guilt that I am doing nothing productive ... after all its not as though I've signed some sort of contract to be busy at all times, providing nourishment for my children or polishing various pieces of dusty furniture. I think it may be some sort of genetic failing present in most women. For some reason we feel that it is our mission in life to cook, clean, care for, organise ...
Luckily I don't seem to have the full on, OCD type gene. I may have the feeling of guilt when I sit down and do nothing but write, or read, but I don't actually do anything about it. I am aware of a small voice in the back of my head at this very moment telling me "Sarah, you really ought to get dressed and do some washing, or go to the allotment, or tidy your bedroom, or clean the fridge ..." But fortunately I have the strength of mind to ignore that voice and continue typing.
I think that I may well be part of a new generation of women who are moving on from the persistent necessity to clean, cook and generally skivvy about for their family. Or, of course, I could just be a rogue lazy cow.
I remember the very first time I heard that little voice in my head telling me to do something I would have preferred not to do. It was when my first son was about a day old. I had given birth by emergency cesarean and the whole experience had been a far cry from the dream of aromatherapy oils and shangrila I had hoped for. I recall him lying in his clear plastic, hospital cot crying and I knew he needed his nappy changing. I, on the other hand, needed a lie down as my operation scar was killing me and I felt faint. It dawned on me at that moment that there was nobody else around who could help this little baby and that this was my job now.
I think it was the very first time I had ever done something for someone else when really I needed to just go to bed and pull the covers over my sweaty, pain racked brows. I think it was then that the realisation of motherhood and all it meant, hit me. "Fuck"
It has been a long and slow recovery. For the first few years of motherhood I truly believed that I was the only one who could do right by my children and this belief resulted in a combination of huge resentment and an enormous amount of homemade produce. I lost count of the number of cakes I baked, sweet potatoes I mashed and poured into ice cube trays, or curls of hair I framed. (ok I admit that does sound a tad Hannibal Lecteresque ...)
Looking back there was no expectation from anyone but myself that I should do all this. My husband is the most wonderful partner who has no qualms about putting on a load of washing or ironing his own shirt for work. But that gene was rampant in my DNA.
It has taken time, but I now realise that what I do with my life is up to me. If I don't want to hoover my lounge then I don't have to. If I want to spend my day at the allotment, or not, then I will ... or won't. The world will not collapse if we have beans on toast for dinner rather than a three course, organic feast and if my son tells me he is not hungry at lunchtime then so be it. He is old enough to get himself some toast in an hour if he gets peckish then.
Does that make me a bad mum? I don't think so. I think it makes a happier, more relaxed, fully rounded person. I have learnt to ignore that pesky voice telling me that I have to do things. I don't have to do those things right now. They will get done when I want to do them ... or when I tell my boys to do them.
So, I am going to continue sitting here, looking out at my garden and the fence that needs painting. I shall continue to peruse the internet and possibly, in a moment, make another pot of tea.
