I’m not usually of the bra burning brigade but sometimes I think it’s quite healthy to have a good old female rant.
Sometimes I feel inadequate.
Baby crabb is now one and I’m not back to work. I’m not back to work because I didn’t have the option of returning to work on a part-time basis. So I sometimes feel inadequate; I feel I have to justify, to myself and others, why I’m not working. (I am doing a couple of days supply teaching ….. you see, there I go again, justifying myself) I sometimes feel guilty if I go out for a nice day in the sunshine, a picnic in the park or have lunch with a girlfriend when my husband has been stuck in the office all day working so we can have a beautiful house, a nice car, a holiday etc etc.
Everything in society seems to have a price tag attached to it, something to quantify its worth; I don’t really earn anything so what value does that put on me?What right do I have to buy a new dress or another pair of shoes so I feel good about myself? I sometimes feel inadequate in comparison to the women my husband works with, the women who spend their days on the phone to foreign clients, the women who hold court in the board room with their intellect and the women who use their six figure salaries to dress like they have just stepped off the film set of The Devil Wears Prada (when I sometimes look like the cleaner who has just stepped off the film set of The Devil Wears Prada!). But then it hit me, I think it hit me at about 5am this morning, (I did got to sleep with this on my mind and must have been subconsciously thinking about it in my sleep) it hit me that the reason I don’t get paid or don’t have a business card with a fancy title that goes on and on (and on!) is because my job is priceless and my job title wouldn’t fit on a business card. I am working and I actually think I’m working pretty hard. I’m working as a mother and I’m working as a wife. My house is clean, my ironing is done, my husband is fed and my baby is blossoming. But why do I sell myself short? (I’m sure I’m not the only one …..?)
So I don’t keep up to foreign affairs. I don’t always know what’s going on in the news (the myth that mums sit and watch tv all day …..?) I’m not even going to pretend that I understand all the political references that underpin the stories in programmes like House of Cards, but does that matter? Does it matter when I have other factual information in my head like which brand of wet wipes get weetabix off baby crabbs face when it has dried like cement? So I don’t sit at a desk crunching numbers, working out budgets and strategies for the year ahead; however, I can count how many of baby crabb’s breadstick crumbs I have picked up off the floor on an hourly, daily or weekly basis. I’m pretty certain I could actually manage to put these into some sort of chart, all be it a handwritten, self decorated version which is probably more suited to being pinned to my (homemade, floral fabric ) notice board in the utility room rather than hung on a flip chart in a board room!
Then I look over to baby crabb. I look over to him as he toddles across the kitchen and turns to look at me with a beaming smile as he reaches the other side; he’s proud of himself and I’m proud of him and I’m actually a little bit proud of myself. We’re a team, we’re a great team. Its been said many times before and I know it will be said many times again, but being a mummy really is the best job in the world but it’s also one of the hardest.