Working Mum

Am traitor to silly bint (name escapes me) who threw herself in front a horse, so I could be a working mother. Have nothing but deep-seeded irritation towards women who starved themselves to death so I could work myself six feet under.

 

Am bad employee, rushing in late too work because I forgot small boy aged four needed to wear red to school on Friday in honour of Valentine’s Day on Monday, which I had also forgotten. So bad mother also. However, I redeemed myself halfway by taking lunch hour to watch small bay aged 8 play cricket. Except that said cricket didn’t end at 2pm as advertised in red note, but at 4pm, so had to go back to work and miss batting. Also, ended up watching wrong child play, because they all the same in white with blue helmets. A good mother can spot her child from a kilometer away.

 

Refuse to accept sub-standard government education for my children so work all day and most of the night trying to squeeze money from a stone. I am starting to realise that my contempt of stay-at-home moms – Mommies, with a capital M – is actually thinly-veiled envy. I want to drop my kids off a school in a high-end European sedan, then do a quick circuit at the gym, sip a latte with my girlfriends and go the spa, before rushing off to pick up kids, patiently do homework before maid feeds and bathes said kids. I’d settle just for having a latte with a friend. Do I still have those? I doubt it as social life has been kicked off the backseat and out of the bus.

 

Studies show that children with happy mothers are happy adults and achieve at school. What does this mean for me? If I stay home and not work, I will become certifiably mad and turn into irritating Mommie with nothing to talk about and be unhappy. Hell, I couldn’t even make through maternity leave for 2 weeks before begging my boss for work. If work, I carry the burden of guilt of being a bad mummy, but I can send my children to overpriced snob school. However, exhaustion and guilt make for an unhappy mummy. I cannot win. It seems my children can’t either.

 

Threw up high-profile advertising job in global agency for freelance and contract work. More pay, less glory. Now am faced with 6 week hiatus due to disk replacement operation and need to earn enough money to tide me over the break. At least I have cool car – a 1976 VW Kombi called Bella. When I pick small girl aged 4 up at school (PS. Must remember to delay birthday party for friends and bake 45 cupcakes for school on Friday) she hugs the car before me. I guess Bella, with all her idiosyncrasies, offers more security than a mother who is shackled to her Crackberry.

 

Ah, the curse of the Crackberry. 24/7/365 connectivity. What that means is that if your current employer has a Great Big WOW Idea at 2am and wants to share it with you; he gets perturbed if you not reply with enthusiasm. Note to self: Change voicemail message to stress that calls between 5pm and 9pm will NOT be answered. If someone has died, they will still be dead later, or better yet, tomorrow. And as for emergencies, I have 3 small children to feed, bath, check homework, read story to and get to sleep – so bugger off and call someone who gives a damn, like 911. Anything else is not an emergency; it is life throwing you a curveball so suck it up and deal.

 

Bugger, have now lost one hour’s working time equating to about one side wall of doll Wendy house for small girl aged 4’s birthday, without which she will just die! Note to self: Set Crackberry reminder 2 months prior to birthdays to organise party, gifts and invitations. Also – remember to organise present shelf like good Mommy so today’s embarrassment of forgetting present, because running too late to pop into Toy R Us. Also, don’t forget to sell extra Wii Guitar Hero that online store delivered too late for Christmas, necessitating Christmas Eve late night rush to shopping mall – the den of Satan.

 

GAH! Just remembered today’s birthday boy’s Mummy, saying, “Oh, I am so glad to meet you, you know our boys do karate together.” No, I didn’t, because I bloody work to pay for said karate. Mummy continues, “It’s so nice, because, you know, we haven’t seen you at our little get-togethers. You simply must come to have a morning brekkie with the girls.” In my head I know she is just being nice, but in my heart it sounds like a condemnation. Like the way the Mommies look at you if you bring a bought birthday cake to school from Woollies.

 

Know what I mean? Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink? Know what I mean?

 

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