Can big girls be beautiful?

A recent Twitter conversation got me thinking about the impact of how we, as a society, judge people based on how they look. If you’re ‘too thin’ the thinking seems to be that you’re shallow and overly concerned with how you look, emotionally damaged and anorexic, and something of a control freak. If you’re ‘too fat’ you’re clearly lazy and undisciplined, emotionally damaged and a comfort eater, and have no control to speak of.

While I’m willing to concede that this type of prejudice is just as hard for skinny girls to deal with as it is for those of us who tip the other end of the scale, I find it hard to believe that the ‘too thin’ crowd is forced to deal with the same sort of all-embracing limitations as big girls.

For big girls, it isn’t just a matter of being judged for our size. We are also forced to look unfashionable and like our clothes were made for geriatric elephants. Apparently it is impossible for bigger women to look sexy, so why bother making anything that would make them feel it.

As a larger women in South Africa, you can pretty much forget about finding anything fashionable in your size. It doesn’t really matter how much you’re willing to pay. In fact, the more expensive and exclusive the boutique, the more likely they are to only stock things for women who look like clothes hangers. And we’re talking wire hangers here, not the good and chunky wooden kind.

While YDE may stock a fabulous selection of hot and trendy pieces by equally hot and trendy local designers, know that this store is not for you if you wear anything bigger than a size 12. Since very very few of the local boutiques or designers* will stock your size, you will be forced to shop in places like Woolworths (but not the designer ranges). Here you will find things in which your grandmother would feel frumpy and staid. Expect shapeless dresses and shirts, gathered everything and elastic in places that elastic just shouldn’t be. Now and then you will find flat-fronted pants in a cut that doesn’t turn your thighs into sausages. However, they will gape so badly at the waist that everyone will be able to see your plus-size knickers. (More on that later.)

If you have read a single fashion magazine or watched a single TV show about looking your best, you know that everyone from Oprah to Gok Wan will tell you that your underwear is the most important part of your outfit. Unfortunately, if you’re on the larger end of the market in South Africa, you will find it close to impossible to find attractive, comfortable underwear of good quality at a reasonable price. If you’d like your undergarments to be beautiful as well as functional, you may as well start a savings fund simply to be able to buy a few good pieces every few years. If you’re lucky. Otherwise, be prepared for underwear that has the sex appeal of a large beige military tent.

Do not look for lace or silk underwear that fits well. It is hopeless. Apparently, large woman only want to wear ugly ‘shaper’ knickers in shiny synthetic beige and black fabrics. Never fear though – you’ll definitely be able to find an ugly firm-support bra to match. (Perhaps the assumption is that this is all we Should wear: things that try to make us look thinner. Who cares if we’re hellishly uncomfortable?)

If you’re willing to shell out R300 and upwards for a pretty bra, you might (and I say Might) be able to find something at one of the underwear chain stores like La Senza. I don’t even know whether the seriously expensive boutiques stock larger sizes because I can’t afford to spend R1000 on a bra and prefer to avoid torturing myself by browsing beautiful things that I can’t have.

To add even more insult to injury, it would seem that all South African stores believe that if you’re large, you must be tall. Apparently, the existence of a short and heavy person is inconceivable. If, like me, you are under 2 metres tall and wear something larger than a size 10, prepare to spend a lot of money getting alterations made to everything from skirts and dresses to pants. I have bought many a pair of pants that have had to have 20 centimetres chopped off at the hem. Go into a Levi store and try to get a 38 waist, with a 30 length. I challenge you. While you’re in there, try to get a pair of jeans in a size 40. No can do. Unless you want to wear something from the ‘Eva’ range, which consists of about 4 styles that all look the same and for some inexplicable reason have shiny embroidery all over the back pockets. Because if you’re a big size with a big bum, you really want to draw attention to it. Obviously.

Even shirts will be made infinitely longer as the size goes up. This means that all shaping that is meant to happen around the waist will sit somewhere around your hips. This is a lovely look. My suggestion is to invest in lots of belts. However, if you want a wide belt that clasps instead of buckles, be prepared to give up on the dream or wear one that cuts off circulation to the lower half of your body and creates a delightful muffin-top effect.

If you don’t believe me and think that shopping for larger sizes in South Africa is anything other than an exercise in futility and frustration; go into a store – any store will do, but those that stock designer labels (imports are the worst) are particular winners – and have a look at the available sizes. You will find plenty in the super-small to large range. If you’re lucky you’ll find a few things in an extra-large. If you want anything bigger than that you’re screwed.

I just don’t understand this. Do South African stores get sent the tiny sizes that don’t sell elsewhere? Surely there are people in other countries wearing Diesel and Benetton** who are bigger than a size 10? Surely?! Or are local buyers stupid enough to think that only thin chicks want to wear designer togs/have cash/care about how they look?

Now I know what many of you are going to say – anyone with dedication and commitment can diet and spend hours at the gym, whittling themselves down to an acceptable size.

But what if I don’t want to.

Maybe, just maybe, I am comfortable with being a big women. Maybe I don’t think that my worth, beauty, sexiness or ability to look fashionable should be linked to the size on the back of my pants. Maybe I don’t want it to be 10 times harder for me to look good than it is for thin people.

I want to buy clothes that fit – and fit well. I want to buy clothes that make me feel sexy and attractive. I want shopping to be easy. Most of all, I want to stop being forced to shop in shitty stores where I am treated like a second class citizen just because I want something bigger than a size 12.

* My apologies to Amanda Laird Cherry and Stoned Cherry. Two of the few SA labels that make bigger sizes and – more importantly – cuts that suit larger figures.

** Diesel and Benetton are at the top of my shit list when it comes to importing a variety of sizes. Benetton doesn’t stock anything bigger than a large. And their large is a normal person’s Barbie Doll. And I am yet to find anything bigger than a size 10 in a Diesel store.

Writer’s block: Getting over the hump

Writers block is kicking my ass right now. Its not that I don’t have anything to write about, because I have a number of ideas kicking around in my head. I just can’t get down to actually writing them. I have sat down in front of my computer countless times to write something for this blog and each time have ended up browsing knitting patterns – my own personal opiate.

With most of these ideas, I simply cannot commit them to the page because they’re too close to my heart and writing about them would be to expose such a personal piece of myself that it fills me with dread. Intellectually, I know that I should work through this fear because these are usually my best pieces. They come from a place of honesty and self-reflection that somehow makes them work really well. I am usually most excited about writing these. Yet at the moment I cannot bring myself to do it.

I am going through a fairly intense time at the moment, with lots of things happening in my life and lots of change on the cards – both good and bad. Since I usually write about what is happening in my life, I feel like I would bore and/or depress everyone to tears were I to regale you with tales of the rough time I have been going through for the last few weeks. I’m totally in favour of spreading the love when I’m happy, but really dread turning this blog into one of those awful self-indulgent whine-fests. I’m going to try to just suck it up though, because I know that nothing but writing will get me over my writer’s block.

So why am I so stressed?

First, my family lives in Christchurch and hearing about the earthquake but being too far away to actually ensure their safety and well-being has left me completely freaked out. I know that, even if I was with them, I would be unable to do anything that could realistically keep them safe. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. I feel like I need to be there to provide them with support. Unfortunately, this just isn’t an option at the moment. I know that they have been left shaken by the experience. (No pun intended – oh ok, I thought that was funny and have used it a few time this week. I have to latch onto the little things…) I also know that it would make them feel a whole lot better to see me. I so want to give that to them. And myself. It is immensely difficult and stressful to know that your loved ones can’t even trust the ground beneath their feet and not be able to be there for them.

Second, I am in the final stages of securing a full-time job and expect to be joining the ranks of the permanently employed very shortly. I am fabulously thrilled and excited about this, which is what seems to be the problem. Every day I feel a little guiltier about the fact that I am so ready, willing and eager to abandon my son to the care of someone else. Someone who will be a stranger, since I am yet to find a suitable nanny. That’s another thing – I have a ton of admin to do in the short space of time before I start working and this is really stressing me out. Trying to figure out what the best child-care option for our family is and then getting it arranged is a task that sits heavy on my shoulders and heart.

Third, the burglary has really left me feeling fragile. It has left me feeling so vulnerable and exposed that I feel like I have to do everything in my power to safeguard myself and my family. This makes it a terrible time to be thinking about leaving my son with a nanny every day and extends to a fear of exposing myself through my writing. This is not a good head-space for a writer to be in.

So bear with me, dear readers, as I figure out my crazy life and get myself into a more positive zone. I promise that soon, my blog shall be heavy with the weight of new musings.

My Brilliant Dream Goes Bung

I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot lately. Not the ‘go to sleep and fly’ type, but the ‘one day I want to’ kind of dream.

When I was young, I was obsessed with the written word. I read a lot and I wrote a lot. Pretty much all I spoke about was books – they were my passion. I loved everything about books – their musty-old and peppery-new smell, the smoothness of the paper, the patterns that the words make on the page. Being a pretty lonely and nerdy kid, I loved their ability to transport and transform. I know that its a teen lit cliché, but books were my best and most constant friends.

I dreamed that one day books would be my life. My profession. My career. I had plans. Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. I was going to write and write and write until I finally produced a great novel.

I dreamed about being the kind of writer that reached people. That touched them. That let them know that they are not alone and that what they are feeling is ok. Unique to them, but all part of the complex human experience. I wanted to make people laugh. I wanted to make them cry. I wanted my writing to be an expression of who and what I am, but also of who and what we all are. I really thought that I would get there one day. Because back then I was Confident with a capitol C. At least, I was confident about my writing ability.

But somewhere along the line that dream began to fade and doubt made its stealthy way into my mind and heart. I’ve been trying to figure out when and why this happened.

At first I thought that I began to let go of the dream at varsity; where I discovered sex, alcohol and a heady independence that meant I could stay in bed all day if I wanted to. But when I think back on that time in my life, I realise that I was just as passionate and naïve about a career in literature as ever. Sure, I was completely distracted and did nothing to take me closer to actually accomplishing the dream, but it was still alive and visible through the alcoholic and post-coital haze.

I think that the reality has more to do with the fact that it was at varsity that I began to truly doubt myself. Suddenly everyone seemed smarter and more talented than me. This is probably why I dropped out of the university that I had spent my teens dreaming about. Well, that and the fact that I never went to lectures. But even after I’d left the dear little university town that introduced me to a host of new experiences, the dream lingered.

Then life took over. I started making more and more compromises and sacrifices. More bad decisions. I kept changing my goals to suite what was expected of me. What was normal. What was reasonable. Until one day I woke up to realise that I was a stay-at-home mother who had lost her dream.

Sure, I do write today and it does pay me. But I’m not writing what I expected to be. And that great novel is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the writing I get paid to do is about products that I often find it difficult to get excited about. Sometimes I am lucky enough to write about something that does resonate with me, but for the most part I write its just work. Instead of writing about the things that should and do matter to humanity, I write about things that don’t. I write for businesses and help them make more money. My writing has come to be about greed instead of giving; spinning and massaging the truth, instead of honesty. And when you surround yourself with those words all the time, they become your reality. Because words have power. I understood this as a kid, why do I understand it less now? I think my teenage self would be a little disappointed. She would wonder what had happened to get me to this point. I don’t think I’d be able to give her a satisfactory answer.

Its difficult for me to say that I regret any of my decisions though, because I love my life, I do enjoy my job and I adore my family. But I do still find myself wondering what happened to that dream of contributing something meaningful. If I’m honest with myself I can admit that its still buried somewhere deep down inside. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line I decided that it wasn’t possible for me. The dream became unattainable in my mind and I gave up.

I let go of my dream for things that seemed more realistic and reasonable. It was worn away by monotony, routine and the need to put a roof over my head. I wonder if that is just the reality of life and growing up, or the saddest thing in the world? I think its both.

So what do I do now? Is it too late? Sadly, I’ve lost confidence in my ability to contribute to the literary world. The dream is kind of blurry and because I no longer have a clear picture in my head I no longer know if I can do it. I don’t even know if I should – if I have something important to say. I’m not sure that I can reach out to people in the way that I would like to, or that I even have a story to tell.

I suppose that’s the great thing about being young – you think that everyone wants to listen to what you have to say because you are so convinced that it Is important. As an adult, you realise your own insignificance. You understand that your story has been told before, and you realise that the world isn’t really all that interested in listening to it.

Title adapted from “My Brilliant Career goes Bung” by Miles Franklin.

Is crime damaging my child? Cos its sure damaging me!

At about 5h00 this morning our house alarm went off. J got up to switch it off and make sure that everything was OK. As it turns out, everything was not OK.

Some nasty little frakker had broken into our home and stolen both our mobile phones and J’s MacBook. As soon as he realised that the stuff was gone, J charged out of the house and ran down the street to look for the scum and/or the private security company. In his underpants. Which would be funny if it wasn’t so downright scary.

I keep thinking about what would have happened if he Had found the guy. Would I be dealing with even more trauma right now? He didn’t find the culprit, but he did find one of the local security companies’ patrol cars. He notified them of the burglary and asked them to search the area for the guy, which they did. No luck though.

This is not the first time that this has happened, so we were prepared and familiar with the process that then started. About 15 minutes after the alarm, our security company arrived (with big guns) and searched the property to make sure that the criminal was no longer on the premises. They examined the criminal’s access point, took a statement and called the cops.

Standard procedure for our security company is to call after they receive an alarm signal to find out what the problem is. Because our phones were stolen, they were unable to reach us. So they called J’s mom and told her that our alarm had gone off and they couldn’t contact us or gain access to the property. I cannot imagine how scary it must have been to receive that phone call. Obviously, she freaked out and rushed straight over.

A while (about 3 hours) later the police arrived. With even bigger guns. They then searched the property, examined the site of the break in and took statements.

Thankfully, E slept through all of this and didn’t have to witness the parade of security personnel with large firearms. This time. He has been witness to this before though. More than once.

I hate guns. I hate the look of them. I hate what they do and I hate the fear that they inspire. I really hate that they seem to be a necessary evil. More than anything, I hate that when the men with big guns arrive, I feel safer. Most of all I hate the fact that guns, and the big guys in bullet-proof jackets that carry them, are a fundamental part of my son’s reality at only 3 years old.

I was one of Those parents. You know the ones that won’t even allow toy guns into their homes? But how do I maintain this ban on weaponry in the home, when E has seen men with the real deal tramping through my house in the early hours of the morning on more than one occasion? I don’t think I can, because weaponry in some form is becoming a part of our every-day lives. Like a friend said this morning, I can keep him away from the movies and video games. I can keep him away from the violent TV shows. But, short of drugging him when we have a ‘security incident’, I can’t keep him away from the harsh realities of life in South Africa. I am so angry about this.

It would appear that I’m angry about a lot of things.

While I’m extremely grateful that he is safe, I am angry with hubby for running out of the house and risking actually finding the guy. I am angry at our government and police for not making sure that I am safe in my own home. I am angry with myself for not being able to protect my son and for feeling so helpless. I am angry that that he has to grow up in a world where the bad guys can actually come into your home, take your stuff and get away with it. This sort of anger can’t be healthy to carry around.

More than that, I’m afraid. So very very afraid. Once the police left, J had to go out to get the phones sorted. I was too afraid to be left at home alone. I recognise that this is a slightly paranoid reaction, but the fact is that my sanctuary has been violated for the umpteenth time and I simply do not feel safe in it.

Each time we have a break in (and this is about the 5th time in the 2 and half years that we’ve been in this house) I feel less and less safe. I feel more stressed and paranoid. And I have no idea what to do to feel safe again.

My electric fence is not enough. My alarm system and private security company are not enough. My dog (who kept E company and slept through the experience) is not enough. The padlocks and burglar bars are not enough. What is? What do I have to do to sleep soundly at night?

Every time this happens, for at least a few weeks after the event, J and I have trouble sleeping and startle at every little sound. We just got E out of our bed and I have been so pleased about that. But I know from experience that for the next few weeks – perhaps months – I will want him in my room because I will be completely paranoid about someone breaking in, but coming through His room. I am constantly running through various possible scenarios and what I would do in each eventuality to ensure that my family and I stay safe. I am becoming increasingly distrustful and jaded. I am afraid to let my son out of my sight for even a moment. I obsessively check that doors are locked and the alarm is armed. Not that this seems to make any difference whatsoever.

I know that it was just stuff that was taken (well, that and all the IP and data stored on the devices) and, as is the norm in South Africa, we have had the usual stream of messages saying “At least no-one was harmed”, “At least you didn’t get held up/stabbed/shot/beaten” etc. I appreciate the sentiment and that people want to make us feel better. But I can’t help wondering and worrying about how many ‘free’ passes we get before someone Is hurt.

Besides, the fact is that I WAS harmed. The stress and emotional distress of having this happen on a regular basis is starting to take its toll on me. How is it that, as South Africans, we have become so good at down-playing the trauma of having someone invade and brutalize our personal space.

I’m really beginning to believe that this ongoing exposure to crime and the threat/fear of it becoming violent is causing me to experience some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Wikipedia sites the diagnostic symptoms for PTSD as:
“re-experiencing the original trauma(s) through flashbacks or nightmares, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, and increased arousal – such as difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger, and hypervigilance. Formal diagnostic criteria require that the symptoms last more than one month and cause significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.” (http://tiny.cc/jycvp)

Pretty much all of those apply to how I live my life. I don’t think that I am naturally a paranoid person, but I do feel as though I am being forced to be. I have been told (by people older and wiser than me) that I get to choose my reaction to this situation and I believe that to be true, to a certain extent. But I also know that because it has happened so often, I feel incredibly dis-empowered so it is difficult to feel in control enough to choose a positive approach to the stress.

And if this is how I, as an adult react to crime, what sort of impact is it having on my 3 year old son? I don’t know the answer to this question, but the possible answers terrify me.

I Want to Break Free: The Secret Musings of a Bad Mother

Lately, I have been feeling like a really bad mother and wife. I’d like to pretend that this is because there is so much pressure on me to be a superwoman and perfect wife/mother/friend, but the truth is that I’m feeling more than a little depressed, lazy and disconnected. I spend a fair amount of time thinking about escape – both passive and active. This is not a good combination for effective parenting.

Since I’ve been sick for the last couple of days, I’ve been spending a lot of time lying on the couch feeling like a cruddy mom, so I’ve also had a lot of time to think about what actually makes a bad mother, well, Bad. I’m not much closer to a definition because there seem to be so many and yet so few definitive character traits.

What I can definitely point to are the things that have me feeling like I deserve the title of world’s worst mother and wife.

1.The little guy recently slept over at his aunt’s house so that J and I could have an entire night to ourselves. We got dressed up. We went to a friend’s 40th birthday party. I drank too much. It was awesome. It reminded me of my salad years. This was not what had me feeling guilty though. What made me feel like a terrible mum is the fact that, the next morning, I felt no desire to rush off and collect my son. In fact, all I could think was, “Just a few more days. Just a few more”.

I really miss being young and free with limited responsibilities. I miss spontaneity. I miss romance. I miss sleeping late, reading my book in bed and having midday sex. I miss my friends. I miss my husband. I miss me. I’m not sure if I’m the only one who feels this way, but whether I am or not, I feel really guilty for it.

Strike one for the bad mother.

2.I haven’t cleaned the house, done the laundry or cooked a meal in a week. Anyone who knows me also knows how much I hate housework but I can usually bring myself to load the dishwasher, tidy up a little, make sure everyone has clean underwear and serve at least one moderately nutritious meal a day.

Not so lately. I cannot bear the thought of spending another moment in that kitchen, whether it is to load the dishwasher, cook a meal or wash a pot. I just can’t face it. Because I know that no matter what I do, I’m just going to need to do it again in less than 24 hours. I also know that even if I trudge through the house collecting all of the dirty clothes that have been left on the floor and draped over various pieces of furniture, I will just have to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

As a result of my housework hiatus, poor J has had to work, clean the house, do the laundry and organise meals. Sometimes I cannot fathom why this man stays with me or what I did to deserve such a keeper.

Strike 2 for the bad mother and wife.

3.I am beside myself with boredom. So much so that I can think of nothing worse than spending another month as a SAH mother. When I think of it I want to weep and sob. I am frustrated and grumpy and this makes me feel so guilty because, despite how amazing they are, I snap and shout at J and E all the time.

I know that I should feel grateful that I get to spend time with my child. I know that I should be making the most of these moments. But knowing and living are two very different things for me at the moment.

Right now, the reality is that I really don’t want to do another puzzle, read another book or admire another unrecognisable drawing. The thought fills me with an inexplicable sort of rage. This makes me feel worse.

Strike three for the bad mother.

I think that means that I’m out.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and son dearly. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t I want to run away and escape this whole parenting and marriage business by having a glorious, spontaneous – and most of all, solo – adventure.

At the same time, I want to cuddle them, go on holiday and share adventures with them. I want to never let them out of my sight for fear that I miss some precious and important moment.

I want to lie on the couch and watch season 2 of Glee back to back until my vision blurs. But I also want to be an involved mother. I want to paint and spend time crafting with my son, I want to chase him around the park and lie in bed playing tickle games with him.

I want to spend wonderfully romantic alone time with my husband, but I also want to be left alone on an island with nothing and no-one but a small chalet, a few good books and a barman to keep the Mojito’s topped up.

What kind of parent and partner feels this way? What kind of mother and wife wants to run away? Surely only the very very worst sort? Maybe not.

Maybe, every now and then, we all want to get away from it all. Want to recapture our care-free youth. Want to be responsible for no-one but ourselves. Want to not care about whether there is clean underwear because going commando is so much more fun anyway.

But if its normal to feel like this sometimes, why the hell didn’t anyone warn me?

Then again, maybe it isn’t normal at all and you’re all quietly gasping in horror as you read this. Let me know.

The business of being a stay at home mum – its not for wimps!

A little while ago, I read an article about ‘high functioning women’ and their propensity to burn out. In many ways I agreed with the article, because I know loads of women who feel that they have to do and be it all – have a successful career, be a hands-on mother, an attentive wife and a good friend with an active social life. I understand that this can be exhausting and leave one feeling spread way too thin.

What I didn’t appreciate though, was the implication that women who choose to be stay at home mothers are any less susceptible to the same feelings of burnout. Sure, we may not have to haul our weary selves to an office every day, but that’s only because our offices follow us Everywhere We Go.

I’m sure that many of the ‘Do It All’ mothers – or DIA mums – would scoff at the idea of equating being a captain of industry with being a stay at home mum (SAH mum), without realising that its no walk in the park. Even when you’re walking in the park.

In my experience, DIA mums tend to have a lot of help and support – partly because they can and do pay for it and partly because there is a general recognition that what they are doing is difficult. They even get articles written about them.

SAH mums, on the other hand, are expected to cope with limited resources and help because, after all, all they do is sit at home all day. This is unfair on so many levels. First of all, I have never met a more harried and hurried group of people than SAH moms.

Imagine, if you will, being responsible for every single aspect of your teams/employees’ lives. You need to feed, dress and bath them. You have to make sure that they know how to go to the toilet and then ensure that they actually go before disaster strikes. On top of that, you have to entertain and educate, as well as take sole responsibility for their intellectual stimulation and development. Your team will not help in making your task any easier. In fact, you will need to repeat each request for action at least 3 times.

In addition to managing all team members, you are also responsible for all office facilities. You need to manage and direct the cleaning and ground staff (should you be lucky enough to have any on the payroll). You are responsible for any and all disaster management, from equipment failures to emotional crises. You need to ensure that all buying is done, as well as manage and man the cafeteria. You are the main point of contact for client (read: family and friend) relationship management and, as such, are the PA to all team members – fielding calls, taking messages and managing their diaries.

Now imagine doing all of this while physically exhausted, because your team members don’t sleep very well and wake up at least 3 times in the middle of the night – needing you to sit with them until they fall asleep again. Or insist on climbing into your bed for a story and cuddle.

You will have a business partner who will also require attention. You may not have to ensure that he dresses himself, but you will need to make sure that all clothing and sustenance is prepared, clean and easy to find. If not, you will have to find and place it in a pre-arranged place. Then you will have to inform your partner of where that is. Repeatedly. You will need to provide emotional support to your partner. You will also have to organise relationship-building exercises with said partner on a regular basis, arranging for team members to be otherwise occupied. This will not happen as often as you or your partner would like and will sometimes leave you feeling like your connection (and reason for going into business in the first place) is a distant memory. This memory, however, will have to be enough to sustain you through the rough times such as recessions, new ventures and the arrival and induction of new team members.

If you are lucky you will have a partner who is happy to take sole responsibility for the major issues like generating revenue. If you are super lucky he will also help with minor ones such as getting team members to school on time in the morning. Despite your luck, you will feel guilty for relying on this partner for assistance because you have been trained and conditioned to believe that the minor issues do not fall into his job specification and that any requests for help indicate a failure to achieve on your part.

You will sacrifice and subvert many of your own needs in favour of the greater good of the team.

Imagine how you would feel if you did this job with no feedback or job review mechanisms in place. There will be no performance bonus, because – even though the world at large feels comfortable sitting in judgement of your performance – there is no equation to measure your results. So you never know if you are doing a good job or not. As a result, you will always have the sneaking suspicion that you are not, in fact, doing very well. You will think that team members are under-stimulated and under-educated because you can’t spend enough time reading to them/playing with them/arranging interesting and educational activities for them. You will feel that you are adversely affecting their long-term health by not feeding them the right types of food 6 times a day.

Stretch yourself and imagine that, despite doing your job to the best of your ability, you will feel guilty All The Time. You will feel guilt for not contributing to the businesses revenue. You will feel guilty for wanting to abandon your team members to the care of another so that you can go out into the workplace (and add to the businesses revenue stream). You will feel guilty because sometimes, just sometimes, you want to escape to a quiet corner and do something for and by yourself. If you do carve out time for yourself by arranging an activity for team members and your partner that doesn’t include you, the guilt will most likely quadruple.

As with anyone who isn’t receiving feedback, you will experience fear. You will fear that you are undermining the businesses goals and mission by not contributing more. You will fear failure. You will fear what will happen in the event that your partner leaves this mortal coil. You will attempt to manage this fear and guilt on your own, because the popular opinion is that SAH moms have it easy. Very few people will stand up for you and other SAH mums and try to refute this belief.

Imagine that, even though society will tell you that you do one of the most important jobs on Earth, very few will ever congratulate you on a job well done or offer to help. There will be very, very few articles about how strong/awesome/deserving of accolades you are. In fact, you will face judgement for your choices and field hurtful assumptions that you are a SAH mum because you have nothing better to do/never had much a of a career anyway/are too lazy to get a job. No-one will even consider that just as working mums sacrifice the joy of being at home with their kids, so you sacrifice the joys of working. The stimulation, the lack of boredom and repetitive routine, the interaction with other adults, the validation.

Finally, imagine how much it would piss you off to have it implied that you are not susceptible to burn out because you do not qualify for the high-functioning women’s club.

Man vs Woman vs Cricket

There is cricket on at the moment. I don’t know if it’s a single test match or a series. To be honest, I don’t really know what the difference is. What I do know is that nothing highlights the difference between my husband and I more than cricket being screened on the telly.

First off, how is it that an intelligent man can fail to understand that the players and commentators can’t hear him? The only person who can hear him yelling “Morkel you beauty!” is me, usually as I try to steal a few minutes of quiet time. Also, how can he not know – after almost 15 years of being together – that no matter how hard he tries to sell the excitement of Hashim Amla hitting a 6, I will Never Be Interested. I’d understand if he actually wanted to take me to the stadium, where I could enjoy the atmosphere (and a beer in one of those giant plastic cups), but on TV it’s just a bunch of tiny guys in green standing around (in dodgy sunglasses).

Secondly, why does he need so many snacks?! And why can’t he go to the kitchen to get them himself? Do his legs fall off when the broadcast begins? He Says that he doesn’t want to take the chance of missing someone taking a wicket (I think that’s the term), but that certainly doesn’t stop him from falling asleep all the time.

And what is up with the falling asleep? Is this something hard-coded into male DNA? I suspect so, as my son – who never sleeps – is out in minutes if you put him in front of the cricket. This has to be a fundamental difference between men and women. When a woman is as interested in something as my husband claims to be in the cricket, we actually Watch it. You never catch me falling asleep in the middle of House. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally in favour of and grateful for the sport’s soporific effects. It has provided much-needed ‘me time’ on many occasions. I also plan to record a match and use it as the world’s most effective sleep training tool. I just don’t understand why I’m not allowed to change the channel or watch a movie, just so that he can fall asleep on the couch. If he’s tired, surely a bed would be more comfortable? Although I do understand that watching cricket on TV is so boring that it takes the strength of Hulk to Not fall asleep. All I’m saying is, do it on somebody else’s furniture and let me watch re-runs of Supernatural.

Lastly – and I don’t know if all men do this or if it is just my husband – how can he go on and on about the ‘special effects’ but still not think its worth it to go and see the new Harry Potter at the cinema. Now Those are special effects. Not the batsman’s wagon wheel. Or those multi-coloured line thingies that show where the bowler has thrown the ball. I will admit that its pretty cool when they slow things down into bullet time. They just don’t do it nearly often enough to keep me interested. Even if they did, I’d just be watching a cricketer hit a ball really slowly. And let’s face it – cricket is boring enough without having to watch it in slow motion.

Suffice it to say, I cannot Wait for cricket season to be over. Although I’m sure that that just means the start of the rugby and/or soccer season. Sigh.

Edited to add: I’ve just been told about the Cricket World Cup. I might have to convert the dining room into a second lounge, with an extra TV.