This afternoon I had to put a wine glass in the dishwasher. Granted, this is not the most taxing job I have ever had to do. I’m aware that there are women across Africa compelled to walk great distances carrying water on their heads in order to ensure their families do not perish of dehydration and in light of this fact, my complaint may seem comparatively bourgeois. However, there is a reason why placing this wine glass in the top rack of my dishwasher has me so peeved. There is a reason why I seethe at the injustice of that relatively small act.
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I'm Sick
I’m sick of picking up after other people.
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Learning Curve
The most amazing part of being a teacher is what you learn.
Last Monday the VCE results came out. Text messages went into overdrive, parents breathed collective sighs of relief and graduates all over Victoria jumped for joy and shed tears of disappointment. I was awake by 6:04am, waiting for the flood of text messages letting me know that either all the hard work had been worthwhile or that I should seek alternative career options.
Some students did better than others. In general the reality is, the more work a student puts in, the higher the grade. However, natural talent, god-given brains and simple DNA also play a part. Salt of the Earth is a wonderful young man. He was not blessed with a flair for writing and he comes from a non-English speaking home. This year he did particularly poorly in his first assessment task. However, instead of adopting the always popular "Fuck it" attitude - something which I am an expert in - he decided to grab the proverbial reigns and spent the rest of the 2010 academic year pushing himself to do better. He listened to every bit of constructive criticism and took on board every suggestion. In the end however, he was disappointed with that little number which told him where he ranked in the subject.
For most students, particularly private school students this is the cue to start the tantrum. "My teacher was an idiot. I worked so hard. I clearly wasn't prepared properly. She never did this, she did too much of that. My school sux..." and on it goes. And I must admit, I felt guilty. I kept thinking about how I could have prepared Salt of the Earth better, what advice I should have given him that I failed to. I so desperately wanted this tenacious young man to succeed, I assumed the fact that he didn't get the score we both wanted him to must have been my fault.
Knowing he had been disappointed by the result on Monday, I checked up on him yesterday. He told me he had also been going over the year in his head, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, what he could have done better. And then he thought about 2009. And then he thought about 2008 and all those years that came before 2010. He acknowledged that while he worked his arse off in 2010, in the years leading up to it he had pretty much ignored the subject. He recognised that considering he only really worked for 9 months, it was a tad unreasonable to expect a better result than the one he achieved.
Salt of the Earth you are an amazingly mature young man. You see the bigger picture and your place it. You don't accept excuses but you're willing to see the reason and acknowledge the cause.
Salt of the Earth you have taught me a great deal. And let's face it, you were in the top 10% of the state. Not bad for 9 months work.
Last Monday the VCE results came out. Text messages went into overdrive, parents breathed collective sighs of relief and graduates all over Victoria jumped for joy and shed tears of disappointment. I was awake by 6:04am, waiting for the flood of text messages letting me know that either all the hard work had been worthwhile or that I should seek alternative career options.
Some students did better than others. In general the reality is, the more work a student puts in, the higher the grade. However, natural talent, god-given brains and simple DNA also play a part. Salt of the Earth is a wonderful young man. He was not blessed with a flair for writing and he comes from a non-English speaking home. This year he did particularly poorly in his first assessment task. However, instead of adopting the always popular "Fuck it" attitude - something which I am an expert in - he decided to grab the proverbial reigns and spent the rest of the 2010 academic year pushing himself to do better. He listened to every bit of constructive criticism and took on board every suggestion. In the end however, he was disappointed with that little number which told him where he ranked in the subject.
For most students, particularly private school students this is the cue to start the tantrum. "My teacher was an idiot. I worked so hard. I clearly wasn't prepared properly. She never did this, she did too much of that. My school sux..." and on it goes. And I must admit, I felt guilty. I kept thinking about how I could have prepared Salt of the Earth better, what advice I should have given him that I failed to. I so desperately wanted this tenacious young man to succeed, I assumed the fact that he didn't get the score we both wanted him to must have been my fault.
Knowing he had been disappointed by the result on Monday, I checked up on him yesterday. He told me he had also been going over the year in his head, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, what he could have done better. And then he thought about 2009. And then he thought about 2008 and all those years that came before 2010. He acknowledged that while he worked his arse off in 2010, in the years leading up to it he had pretty much ignored the subject. He recognised that considering he only really worked for 9 months, it was a tad unreasonable to expect a better result than the one he achieved.
Salt of the Earth you are an amazingly mature young man. You see the bigger picture and your place it. You don't accept excuses but you're willing to see the reason and acknowledge the cause.
Salt of the Earth you have taught me a great deal. And let's face it, you were in the top 10% of the state. Not bad for 9 months work.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Merry Christmakkah Marilyn
So apparently my husband loves me. He really does. He just needs me to change a teensy little bit. All he needs is for me to never scream or yell, never criticise or nag, be consistent with every thought, word and deed I express, never complain or say or do anything that may result in conflict and never bring up the past. Above all I must always be happy. That shouldn't be too hard, should it? Hopefully I'll be getting a lobotomy for Christmakkah and then all will be very Stepford indeed.
Hubby believes he has cornered the market on being reasonable and rational. He sees himself as the bar that we should each aspire to reach. Gosh I wish I was more like him. Emotional repression looks like so much fun. The key to being reasonable, I have discovered, is never raising your voice. You can be as cruel and as emotionally distant as you want as long as you don't yell. Maybe that was why Hitler got such bad press. All that yelling at those rallies was certain to eventually offend those genteel WASPs. If you're going to murder millions, at least have the decency to do so quietly, thank you very much.
I, like most other Jews, was raised in a house of yellers. My mother yelled, my father yelled, my sister yelled, I yelled. And guess what? We all still yell. And I don't think that's such a bad thing. I don't believe that because I will occasionally raise my voice that I am a bad person. I don't believe that yelling equals irrational. Yelling means, "LISTEN TO ME GODDAMNIT! I AM SICK OF SAYING THE SAME SHIT TO THE SAME PEOPLE OVER AND OVER AGAIN. YOU MUST TURN YOUR ATTENTION AWAY FROM RIVER COTTAGE AND PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT I AM SAYING" or something like that.
According to hubby his wishes for me to change reside in his desire for us to be 'happy'. And that's not a bad thing. But the reality is you're not always happy and at those times I want honesty and truth. I want anger and sadness and whatever else is making you feel miserable. I want the mess of life and emotions, with all the tears and tantrums that come with it. I don't want civilised cups of tea on a white linen couch. I want the rollercoaster. I am the rollercoaster. And I want that to be okay.
Marilyn Monroe once said, "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." Well I say, Merry Chistmakkah to you Marilyn! I suspect underneath all that coy, heavy lidded flirtatiousness was one hell of a yeller. I suspect that you too found that in the end men wanted not the woman you really were, but their version of you. The toned down, somewhat muted and, in all probability, far less entertaining Marilyn. I hope you never allowed them to press that mute button. I hope you saved your best for you and for those who truly accepted all of you. I hope that in the end you told the men in your life who couldn't handle you that it was their weakness that was the problem, not your strength. I hope you told them to take their reason, rationality and refinement and stick it up their incredibly tight arses.
But then again, look where you ended up.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Style Alert
Recently I have noticed the emergence of a new trend. Actually, it’s not entirely new. To be honest, it is a fashion that has been around for quite a while, but it has recently made a big comeback. Huge. Unfortunately, it’s not a style that suits most. Ladies and gents, the latest craze that seems to have taken the world by storm is that gaudy, flashy, over-the-top, but nonetheless seemingly irresistible touch of narcissism.
Now while I believe that there are many out there who actually need an extra-helping of self-love, I have encountered a few of late who may want to consider taking a step back and pondering others. You know, just for a moment or two.
Narcissist No 1 – Manic Fairy is actually quite a lovely woman; unfortunately the person she is most lovely towards is herself. She has one child. She does not work. Her husband does not work. How these people manage to put food on the table and keep a roof above their heads is one of our universe’s greatest mysteries. Granted, Manic Fairy has been through some tough times lately and she is quick to acknowledge that she has survived in part thanks to her friends. Manic Fairy is vibrant and beautiful. She is one of those individuals who can make a friend in a room full of strangers. I think if they had got her to have a quick chat with Saddam she probably could have managed to convince him to reconsider the whole oppression of his people plan and be well, just a little bit nicer. And so, when Magic Fairy asks you for a favour it’s hard to say ‘no’. Well, at least it’s hard for me to say ‘no’. And so she asks, and I do, and she asks and I do, and she asks and I… you get the picture.
The last time she asked me to have her child for a day I really didn’t want to say ‘yes’ but it’s hard to say, “No, I can’t help you out because my life is really hectic at the moment, and besides my kid hates your kid.” And so, using the wonder that is a passive-aggressive response that generations of Jewish women have perfected, I replied, “Sure. I mean I have a mountain of work to do, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” I’ll be honest, I was expecting a “don’t worry about it” or at the very least, “if you have my kid Saturday, I’ll take yours Sunday”. But alas, Manic Fairy simply thanked me for my offer and wished me the best of luck with my work.
On reflection though, the biggest issue with Manic Fairy might be me. Her highly evolved sense of me, me, me may just be here to teach me how to say “NO!” something I think many women feel quite frightened of – myself included. Her responses make me consider whether it is in fact a lack of self-love on my part that is the real problem.
But, not all narcissists are the same.
Narcissist No 2 - Now, I have acknowledged Manic Fairy is lovely and beautiful, friendly and engaging. Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me is not. In fact, when I first met Little Miss IAAM my gut told me to stay away from the bitch. I need to learn to listen to my gut.
Little Miss IAAM is one of the most self-absorbed human beings to walk the planet. She does nothing for anyone unless she is able to tell the world how amazing she is for doing it. This is a woman for whom publicity is key. She regularly tells people how many friends she has on Facebook – yes, I’m serious. You didn’t think people actually did that, did you? Her mission in life this year has been to capture the highly un-coveted role of Parent Association President. She has yet to realise it’s all hers – mainly because nobody else wants it. Her tactical plan of how best to secure such a lofty position is to regale all who will listen with tales of her greatness. “I’ve managed to get such amazing prizes for the raffle…”, “I’ve convinced someone to give us this and that..”, “I just don’t stop…” She’s right. She doesn’t stop. Poor girl, hasn’t anyone told her that all she needed to do to be elected Pres is put her hand up?
I am just disappointed that no network has realised what an amazing reality television show this woman’s life would make. Think about it, you could have the close-up footage of her public, grandiose promises and then a quick cut to the scene of the promise unfulfilled and her looking on, totally blank faced. What promise? Huh? Have I told you how popular I am lately? No, really, have I told you?
This woman actually had a fund-raising event postponed until she returned from holiday in the honest belief that only she could fill a hall. “You know, I am quite social…” Lost for words doesn’t even cover it.
This kind of woman angers me to the core. There are hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of women out there suffering from a lack of confidence. Women who continually perceive their best to be just not damn good enough. Perhaps it is women like Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me who have stolen the self-love. They are hording it, keeping it locked in a box somewhere while us ordinary women lie back at night and ponder every mistake, faux pas, and possible fuck up we have made that day.
A little bit of self-love is a great thing. It’s something most of us need more of. But I guess it’s kind of like wearing something bright and garish. A touch of something bold brings you to life, makes you stand out for all the right reasons. Like all other fashions though, too much ‘me’ and eventually you’ll be thrown into a garbage bag destined for the Salvo bin.
Now while I believe that there are many out there who actually need an extra-helping of self-love, I have encountered a few of late who may want to consider taking a step back and pondering others. You know, just for a moment or two.
Narcissist No 1 – Manic Fairy is actually quite a lovely woman; unfortunately the person she is most lovely towards is herself. She has one child. She does not work. Her husband does not work. How these people manage to put food on the table and keep a roof above their heads is one of our universe’s greatest mysteries. Granted, Manic Fairy has been through some tough times lately and she is quick to acknowledge that she has survived in part thanks to her friends. Manic Fairy is vibrant and beautiful. She is one of those individuals who can make a friend in a room full of strangers. I think if they had got her to have a quick chat with Saddam she probably could have managed to convince him to reconsider the whole oppression of his people plan and be well, just a little bit nicer. And so, when Magic Fairy asks you for a favour it’s hard to say ‘no’. Well, at least it’s hard for me to say ‘no’. And so she asks, and I do, and she asks and I do, and she asks and I… you get the picture.
The last time she asked me to have her child for a day I really didn’t want to say ‘yes’ but it’s hard to say, “No, I can’t help you out because my life is really hectic at the moment, and besides my kid hates your kid.” And so, using the wonder that is a passive-aggressive response that generations of Jewish women have perfected, I replied, “Sure. I mean I have a mountain of work to do, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” I’ll be honest, I was expecting a “don’t worry about it” or at the very least, “if you have my kid Saturday, I’ll take yours Sunday”. But alas, Manic Fairy simply thanked me for my offer and wished me the best of luck with my work.
On reflection though, the biggest issue with Manic Fairy might be me. Her highly evolved sense of me, me, me may just be here to teach me how to say “NO!” something I think many women feel quite frightened of – myself included. Her responses make me consider whether it is in fact a lack of self-love on my part that is the real problem.
But, not all narcissists are the same.
Narcissist No 2 - Now, I have acknowledged Manic Fairy is lovely and beautiful, friendly and engaging. Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me is not. In fact, when I first met Little Miss IAAM my gut told me to stay away from the bitch. I need to learn to listen to my gut.
Little Miss IAAM is one of the most self-absorbed human beings to walk the planet. She does nothing for anyone unless she is able to tell the world how amazing she is for doing it. This is a woman for whom publicity is key. She regularly tells people how many friends she has on Facebook – yes, I’m serious. You didn’t think people actually did that, did you? Her mission in life this year has been to capture the highly un-coveted role of Parent Association President. She has yet to realise it’s all hers – mainly because nobody else wants it. Her tactical plan of how best to secure such a lofty position is to regale all who will listen with tales of her greatness. “I’ve managed to get such amazing prizes for the raffle…”, “I’ve convinced someone to give us this and that..”, “I just don’t stop…” She’s right. She doesn’t stop. Poor girl, hasn’t anyone told her that all she needed to do to be elected Pres is put her hand up?
I am just disappointed that no network has realised what an amazing reality television show this woman’s life would make. Think about it, you could have the close-up footage of her public, grandiose promises and then a quick cut to the scene of the promise unfulfilled and her looking on, totally blank faced. What promise? Huh? Have I told you how popular I am lately? No, really, have I told you?
This woman actually had a fund-raising event postponed until she returned from holiday in the honest belief that only she could fill a hall. “You know, I am quite social…” Lost for words doesn’t even cover it.
This kind of woman angers me to the core. There are hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of women out there suffering from a lack of confidence. Women who continually perceive their best to be just not damn good enough. Perhaps it is women like Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me who have stolen the self-love. They are hording it, keeping it locked in a box somewhere while us ordinary women lie back at night and ponder every mistake, faux pas, and possible fuck up we have made that day.
A little bit of self-love is a great thing. It’s something most of us need more of. But I guess it’s kind of like wearing something bright and garish. A touch of something bold brings you to life, makes you stand out for all the right reasons. Like all other fashions though, too much ‘me’ and eventually you’ll be thrown into a garbage bag destined for the Salvo bin.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Zero Tolerance
You may have already noticed that I'm not your lollipops and sunshine kind of girl. Recently I have endured a spate of attempting – quite purposefully – to be more... well... 'happy' I guess is the right word. I decided to endeavour to constantly see the positive – in people, in situations, in my life as a whole. And this exercise was certainly useful. I discovered I have far more choices than I thought were available to me. I learnt that I am in the right profession – for the moment anyway – and if I want a change there are options. I took up weekly exercising with two friends to try the whole 'healthy body, healthy mind' shtick. My husband and I enrolled our eldest in a different school for the upcoming academic year rather than leaving him in a place that I know in my heart of hearts is no longer the right place for him. I have a workman coming over this afternoon to give us a quotation on converting our never-used garage into a kid-zone so hubby and I can have more peace. I am not caught or stuck. My life is, to a large extent, what I make of it.
However, at base, I am not a positive, silver lining in every cloud chick. I am sarcastic, cynical and it takes me a while to trust anyone. I do envy those women who have that magic charisma, the ones who everyone loves, most often born out of them being nice to everyone. I am not nice. I'm not mean (most of the time), but I don't think anyone would ever describe me as 'nice'. The one attribute I have always thought I possessed however, is tolerance. I consider myself to be quite a tolerant individual – in part thanks to my own children and in part thanks to the students I have taught over the years. I have taught sixteen year old convicted rapists, believing that everyone makes poor choices at some point in their life and we all deserve a second chance. I have friends who still drive around in a car with 'Kevin 07' stickers plastered across the back and those who are actually considering voting for Abbott. Having a younger son who is now officially 'on the spectrum' has made me amazingly tolerant of personal ticks. My husband is, at this very moment, donating sperm in an effort to impregnate his lesbian sister's partner, with my blessings. So on the whole, I consider myself a pretty tolerant human being.
That being said, there is one thing that I have zero tolerance for – stupidity. No matter how hard I try I simply can't abide it. Stupidity is not making a mistake – we all do that. Stupidity is continuing to make the same mistake over and over and over and over again.
Let me tell you the story about a principal of a very small school – a school desperate to build numbers. And let me tell you about her reaction to the current President of the Parents Association when she asked said principal if it was possible to give parents seven days notice for any upcoming events in which their children were performing so parents could endeavour to be there. This request came as the result of multiple occasions in which parents were notified the night before of a student performance the following morning. This was not a new problem. This was an issue that had been discussed many times over recent years. Said principal did not respond to an email requesting this. She did however respond in 37 minutes to an email from this same woman informing the school that her eldest son would not be returning to the school in 2011. When the woman approached her personally the principal blamed everyone else – it was this person, that person, the situation, the way it was handled by others, she had no choice, blah, blah blah. In the end the parent was forced to walk away saying, "Forget it. It doesn't really matter." This woman said this because she realised it didn't matter what she said and how many times she said it – the fact is this principal is an idiot. She is an idiot for not valuing her parent body as a whole, but playing favourites to an elite few. She is an idiot for making it abundantly clear why she is such a poor leader – good leaders don't blame their underlings, they inspire those working for them to do better next time. She is an idiot for crystallising for this woman why she is pulling her eldest son out of the school and making her wonder why she is keeping the other two in.
Do I wish I was able to be more tolerant of the many morons who litter our world? Certainly. But I told you, I'm just not that nice.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Let the Sunshine In
Recently friends and I have become increasingly intolerant of a fellow Grade 3 mother who a fellow blogger has aptly named 'Helicopter Mum'. Now, as a teacher I have certainly encountered my fair share of insane parentals. There was the couple who elected to throw an A-Grade tantrum complete with threats to my personal physical safety if their beloved little boy did not achieve a specific score in the subject I was lucky enough to teach their equally insane offspring. On the other side of the spectrum was the mother who decided that the best way to communicate her passion for her son to achieve a perfect score was to hold my hand through an entire Parent Teacher Interview - just a tad awkward. There was also the mother who looked deep into my eyes and declared, "My son tells me EVERYTHING..." – a little creepy considering she was referring to a seventeen year-old.
So, while I have witnessed bouts of over-protectiveness from a range of parents in my professional life, I am now coming face-to-face with them in my personal life as well. And let me just say these sort of people drive me nuts. I firmly believe they have much to answer for – raising a generation of insipid, mollycoddled, scared of their own shadow, where's my mummy, tantrum throwing, overgrown babies being the first charge. I am a big believer that in 99% of cases kids will bounce back from whatever is thrown at them as long as they have a strong and stable foundation. Most of the time our children are a hell of a lot more resilient than we are and certainly a lot more resilient than many give them credit for being. This particular Grade 3 mother would disagree vehemently. She sees protecting her children from this big, scary world as her most holy of missions and in the process of fulfilling her destiny, she has been driving me (and many others) progressively insane.
Now, perhaps this is my own fault to a certain extent. I was warned. Many attempted to tell me that this well-meaning, non-aggressive and incredibly vague woman was in fact completely and utterly intolerable. Let me be clear – Helicopter Mum is not a bad person. I do believe that she really does want the best for her children and for those around her. She is very vague – so vague that for years I assumed she was constantly stoned. I now realise she is just really slow. But while I find this frustrating, I cannot condemn her for this flaw alone. I can however condemn her for being the most depressing human being on the planet. For a hippie, she lets in very little sunshine. Helicopter Mum focuses constantly on the negatives – the school we send our children to is "very ordinary", the art teacher isn't creative enough, the classroom teacher in Grade 2 was too lenient and the Grade 3 teacher is too harsh, blah, blah, blah. Her daughter is interested in going to summer camp and she's trying to work out a way to stay at the campsite over the course of the week because Precious "won't cope on her own". Precious will cope fine. Precious is actually an awesome kid, surprisingly well-adjusted despite the insane smothering. Helicopter Mum is the one who wouldn't cope.
However what I am beginning to realise is the helicopter phenomenon begins long before the child enters the school gate. Recently friends have had their first child. Well, they say they have. I cannot confirm this fact because neither I, my husband, nor most of our friends have as yet laid eyes on the baby in question. A lovely mutual friend was recently blessed with "a window of between five and ten minutes" with which to come and visit the newborn. Translation: Drop by and hand over the pressie. Now leave. I would like to officially christen this particular new mother Vapid Princess. Apparently, she has found the stress of moving into her new McMansion so overwhelming that she finds basic hospitality simply beyond her. Is it the fear someone will breathe on Vapid Princess II? Break her? Or might a visitor mistakenly drop crumbs on her custom made shabby chic white linen couch? Has, Vapid Princess in fact had her little bundle of joy without reading the fine print of the parenting manual – you know the bit that says having children is a messy business, filled with vomit and shit and lots of crumbs on your all white-interior. If, at the age of less than one month VPII is being shielded from the horrors of the real world what hope does she have?
But I really do wonder, who are these helicopter parents protecting with all their hovering? Is it really their children? Or is it themselves? By claiming to be 'protecting' their young ones are they really just attempting to legitimise wanting to keep their own heads in the clouds? Is it in fact these parents who are terrified of the real world?
Being a parent is scary. There are so many variables out there that one cannot control, things that can potentially hurt and harm those little people we love so much. But hovering doesn't cause those potential dangers to evaporate. The world can be scary. But it can also be an amazing, exciting place full of infinite possibilities. Helicopter parents need to think about what their hovering is really shielding their child from. Often, all that hovering simply prevents young people from seeing that bright blue sky above their own heads.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)