Lights and Peanut Butter Crusts

I need to know.
I simply must know what makes men so incredibly and unbelievably stupid. Before my male readers take an oath never to read this blog again, you should be aware that this is a genuine attempt to help my very female self understand why it is that what seems so very basic to those of us born sans penis, our male counterparts struggle to comprehend.

Hubby is what I would consider to be an intelligent man. He can explain the minutia of Cold War relations and actually understands – as much as anyone can - Obama's plan for health care reform. However, despite having the intellect to be able to tell a good Brezhnev joke and know why it's funny, he cannot understand why leaving fourteen lights on when you leave the house is a bad thing. Nor can he get his head around the fact that, for the most part, if you want your two year-old daughter to put her peanut-butter sandwich crusts into the bin, you will have to TELL her to do so. Hubby also struggles to grasp the concept that Little Princess will often neglect to inform you that she has mashed those lovely sandwich crusts into the dining room carpet. He believes the highly complex excuse "I didn't see it" is sufficient to acquit him of all charges. Further, he truly believes it is I who am being unreasonable. Expecting him to look either up or down is clearly a mark of my always too high demands.

But Hubby truly excels himself every time his mother is in town. For some reason men who are for the most part, able to function on a normal (albeit male) level are thrown into a spin the moment a ditzy (dyed) blonde who happened to have given birth to them comes into the picture. Now it wouldn't be nice to refer to his mother as Useless-WASP-Who-Has-Never-Contributed-Anything-To-Society-Other-Than-Keeping-Her-Home-Dust-Free, so instead she shall be named Mommy Dearest. Mommy Dearest has never worked. In fact, she believes working is "demeaning" – her words. Mommy Dearest had two children 5 years apart because she couldn't possibly have coped with having more than one at home at a time. Hubby's memories of his childhood include washing his hands and watching Mommy Dearest vacuum – a lot. When our eldest son was born Hubby was astounded to discover that it was okay for children and their mothers to be seen in public and they in fact did not have to always be at home in the throws of domestic bliss. Mommy Dearest washes all the towels and linen in her home every day. In my honest opinion Mommy Dearest has some serious issues.

Mommy Dearest can also be a bit of a bitch. After two days in a car listening to endless rounds of Wiggles music, punctuated by the always loved "Are we there yet?", to visit MD and her new husband, who shall henceforth be known as Sleazoid Nazi (a whole other story), Mommy Dearest enquired what our plans were for dinner. Hubby was off to a Bucks Night to catch up with old school buddies and so it was just me and the kids (in a hotel room, because we couldn't possibly stay in her three bedroom, two bathroom, three living areas home – "Simply not enough room" she claimed, with a straight-face). When I said I had no plans as yet, MD helpfully informed me that there was a supermarket just down the road from where we were staying. Thanks. You're awesome.

But the part that really pisses me off is that MD has zero interest in seeing her grandchildren. She does of course, for precisely 90 minutes every time she comes to Melbourne. At some stage she must have been told that 90 minutes is the minimum amount of time you can visit family and then leave without seeming rude. But I know even these visits are not so much to see the kids, but more so she can report back to her parochial, gossiping friends that yes, she too has seen her grandchildren. All her friends are doing it, and the only thing worse that having to spend time with noisy, sticky children, would be not doing what all your friends are doing. Although she still can't for the life of her understand why my five year old human hurricane doesn't want to sit and have a cup of tea and a nice chat with his nanna. Go figure.

And yet, despite acknowledging that he doesn't like his mother, doesn't respect her, hates spending time with her and has to drink a double scotch just to get through a ten minute phone conversation with her, Hubby will still attempt to move heaven and earth to make sure Mommy Dearest gets what Mommy Dearest wants when she wants it. I, who have stood by him when we had nothing, ate two-minute noodles for months on end because that's all we could afford, carried and birthed him three beautiful children am declared unreasonable for suggesting that MD can simply go fuck herself.

So, I ask, what makes men think so differently to women? Why do they so fear telling the truth? They can start world wars from the safety of an office desk, but they seem unable to say, "Mum, why are you so selfish and self-absorbed? Would it be so hard to boil up some pasta for your daughter-in-law and grandkids?"

I know males aren't born that way – my eldest boy is, at the tender age of 8, far wiser than I am on a number of levels. So, what happens? Is it hormones? Is it societal roles that we just adapt to without even knowing it? Or is it the mothers themselves? Do mothers raise boys somehow differently, expecting more on some levels and infinitely less in regards to others? Or is it about the way some mothers represent themselves? Has Mommy Dearest knowingly raised a boy who has turned into a man who will never tell her the truth because she has marketed herself as fragile and unable to cope?

Whatever the reason I encourage male readers to make two solemn promises today. Promise the woman who continues to share your bed despite your flaws that you will always look up to see if the lights are on and look down to check for peanut-butter crusts.