Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

 

WE ARE ONLY HALF WAY THROUGH OUR SUMMER HOLIDAY and I am in bad, bad form.  Mind you, 4 weeks as a half-way point and I haven’t lost ALL my marbles yet, but regardless of ridiculously sad achievements, I am hurting.

Words have been buzzing around in my mind for the last fortnight, especially now that most of the girls’ friends are not around anymore, and I have become their personal (un)Barbie doll/Lego box /sandpit.

So far I have: taken them shopping (once); been to 4 different parks; taken them swimming (twice); attempted to let them help me bake biscuits; have taken afternoon naps on at least every alternate afternoon after we have read a bit (*). They have (on their own): dressed themselves in my scarves at least once a day; turned my lounge and their bedroom into tents with my sheets; managed to whittle away at play-doh jars (without too much being embedded in my carpets); watched a few Disney & DreamWorks movies en français; danced while watching Katy Perry music videos and lastly watched a few too many hours of Looney Tunes, while I lie in my bed, reading a book, or the newspapers online. It turns out this is NOT how a Stay-At-Home-Mum (SAHM) operates.

A few months ago, on a beautiful early spring Wednesday, a group of us International School (Yummy) Mums took our kids to the park for a big group play-7 mums, 12 kids aged 3-9. At the time, I was the newest SAHM, and with the exception of the one working mum (who doesn’t work Wednesdays anyway), we were all ex-pat, ex-professionals: a lawyer; a vet; a violinist/teacher; another chef; a graphic designer (and not one of us actually French). At one point, somebody asked the question: What do we think of the great debate raging between SAHM’s and Working Mums, AKA Mommy Wars? The truth is, being an ex-pat gives us an entirely different insight into the debate, and since we are all smart, mature ladies, the conversation petered out and turned more to how to deal with rebellious second-child state of affairs.

I had to Google “Mommy Wars” before writing this, to get a better idea of what the big issues are.  At the surface of it, it boils down to those ladies that are set on retaining their professional identity, and those that want to be everything that they can be to their developing little treasures.  I do wonder if this is an easier decision to make in America, England, Australia, New Zealand or Europe, but for 90% of South Africans, we don’t have the luxury of a single income family.

We certainly didn’t.  Our employers bled every single last ounce of passion and energy out of us in our 9-5, and while I learnt to double-crumb a brine-injected chicken breast to make it look bigger than 125g at work, the only thing I learnt about being a mother was how to keep my babies peaceful and ready to sleep.

Once upon a couple years back when work was my biggest focus, I made the mistake of questioning the decision made by one of my dearest SAHM friends. I was in no way entitled to judge- and I’m not sure I ever apologised. 

I can’t help but wonder if what I said out was of jealousy, because let’s face it- your professional career is bound to have pressure if you are doing it to the best of your ability.  

Anything other than waking up at 5h00, being the brains behind 20 other people, standing on your feet half the day, followed by an afternoon sitting in an un-ergonomic chair in front of a temperamental computer program, that I was not fully equipped to use- well, it certainly sounds better to be kissing your dearest at the door with 2 ankle-grabbers bleating for a bottle of milk.

As I hung up my chef jackets last June, a few friends asked me what I would be doing to fill my days. At last, my coveted dream of being a SAHM had finally come true.  I would spend the next few months learning how to live in a foreign country, help my children settle in, we’d all learn a new language, learn to be a family, and do things that we’d never really done before, like eating dinner at the dining room table.

But aside from that, I had no real idea what it would be like to have my days filled with childish chatter, settling squabbles, fighting for nutritional food intake.  I had no idea that I would spend time stressing about the cacophony of toys strewn across every inch of floor space.  I had no idea that most bath times would evolve into scratching fights or water fights because all I wanted was 20 minutes alone to cook dinner.  I have fought with myself over the merits of play-doh after I’ve discovered teeny tiny pieces stuck in my Iranian carpet.  I have had to stop myself from throwing my own tantrum after discovering koki-pen elegantly etched on the edge of a piece of paper, forming a neat geometric blue and red frame on our (brand new) Ikea couch.

And here is my big confession:  I’m not cut out for this job. 

Perhaps this begs the question “What does it take to be cut out for being a full time Mom, and is anyone cut out for it?”. 

I believe that you have the in-bred nature to be able to do it- like teachers, day mothers and nannys do- or you have to learn how to do it. 

I spent 17 years learning my craft as a chef, and although I had much more to learn, I was pretty good at what I did (except for tightening profit margins).  Now my real job, my only job, is to raise our children, and the expectation is that this is by far the biggest, most important job I will do in my life.  Your children should be a reflection of you, so essentially I would like mine to be well-spoken and fairly eloquent, patient and kind, respectful of everyone, they should have courage, and humility.  They must have passion that sparks interest enough for them to be eager to learn.

One of my newer friends here in Strasbourg is a real SAHM- she stopped work when her eldest son was born (and he was born in the same month and year as Alex).  She is amazing- they have a playroom full up with every kind of toy a child could ask for.  Her and her husband spend time with their boys, in comparison to me reading a book while Alex and Beth pull at each-others hair. 

Observing this recently, my ego took a huge dive- try as I might, my levels of patience will never get there.  I’m not even going to try- the black psychology of my shortcomings will kill me quicker than my frayed temper.

That being said, I had tea with a French friend this week, with her (single child) daughter.  Since I’m reading the book “French Children Don’t Throw Food” at the moment, my psyche is at the same point as the author- investigative parenting techniques- I asked C her stand on parenting skills.  Turns out she too generally encourages her daughter to play on her own, and that in France, the child is not The King, and life at home does not revolve around him/her. 

What is the happy medium?

So much of me feels that being a SAHM is a thankless job, and while I would like my own income from a job, as well as the immediate sense that I have achieved something, I do not particularly wish to return to a normal life consuming job. Does this make me lazy, or is it actual motherhood that makes me feel this way?

The one thing that really does get to me is this:

Parenting should not be a solo job (unless in the more obvious sense). In my darkest moments, all I seek is assurance, and be safe knowing that I am not alone.  The measures of success vary from family to family, and there is no standard to which you can set your immediate goals to.  As a SAHM, I need Anton to help me.  I don’t want the responsibility of these two beautiful girls to be mine and mine alone.  And that is fair right?  But what about the situation that he works all day?  Where do you divide the day-to-day chores if one parent is a worker, and the other is not, without falling into a pit of resentment?  It is such a fine line that we walk to avoid adult conflict, and each marriage needs to find the balance.  Sometimes marriage and parenting is so consuming that we forget to have respect for one another.  If we are not careful, we might find we live in a world of trying to clutch at something that is our own, and not something that God created: shared loved.   

In a last-ditch attempt to take ownership of what I fear I have lost, I think I’ve lost the ability to be grateful.  So often I find anger surfacing, and then in times of content, it’s lost before I can express gratitude for what I DO have.

My love, I know you are reading this, and in part, it’s a love letter to you.  Thank you for being able to read it, understanding that sometimes it’s just easier to write, than to talk.

To my dear friends, Moms, Dads, Grannies and aunties alike, thank you for being there to allow me to clarify my thoughts.  I hope that in another year these issues won’t play out with such vivid drama in my mind.

Bonsoir et a bientôt,

Moi,

Xxx