and another thing

Ok, I've put down my broom for a moment (really! I was sweeping, not flying) to say this - just because I'm a mother doesn't mean I'm everybody's mother.

I've noticed lately that not only do lots of people relate to me as though I have nothing better to do than look after children - mine, theirs, them (whatever age they are) but my life is common property. What else could explain the sudden appearance of extra children, requests for unpaid taxi-drives to airports, shopping etc and the unsolicited running commentary on how I do everything from cleaning the skirting boards to running my finances?

Yes, I'm having a whinge, I do feel very much like a mummy-machine right now (why can't I have the blissful-pregnancy-and-breastfeeding hormones NOW, because I really need them since the novelty of helping out a new mother has worn of for most people)

November must have been 'Tell Dan What She's Doing Wrong Month' and no one told me.

Of course no one told me. But what they did tell me was that I doubt myself too much, I don't clean the house enough, I need to 'do something' with my life (and stop having babies), that every time I get close to success I 'get myself pregnant' (all by myself - imagine that!?) and that I'm not setting a very good example for my daughters with my disastrous relationship choices. Apparently I'm not strong enough (that's from the baby's father who tells me I need to get used to being alone), not driven enough, not flexible enough (oh that's from the father of my other four, who changes his access weekends without telling me, let alone asking), not using my brain enough and have low self esteem (from my Dad, who also commented on my skirting boards) and from one friend - not selfish enough. Three people told me I should have my tubes tied.

Added to that, just when I announced to everyone 'this is the month I'm finally writing that book' and kindly requested that all my loving people give me support to do so - life became more hectic, less supportive and 'opportunities' (aka distractions) to do all sorts of things popped up out of nowhere.

For example, my lovely sister and her daughter moved to town with her daughter and needed somewhere to stay until her house and furniture situation settled. OK, a couple of extras in the house should be easy enough to accommodate, right? Er, wrong. Writing my 1600 pages each day got a bit lost in the big production dinners every night (I planned on cheese toasties and fruit salad, and variations on the theme for the entire month) and extra housework. Lots of deep breathing, mediating arguments between daughters who'd swapped beds and vigilance around the morning bathroom routine. Days I had set aside to pound out my dazzling best seller became comedies of error involving flying sofas on freeways (don't ask). Exhausting.

I'm so glad they are here, but December would have been better for me.

Determined not to let life circumstances become excuses for failure, I pushed on with my novel, getting big chunks written and feeling exhilarated, working through the usual writerly challenges. That was a good week. My target of fifty thousand words started to look ambitious but I felt I could still turn a trickle into a steady stream and let the river flow.

Mid month the 'business opportunities' started, then my oldest daughters school teachers wanted to speak to me about problems she'd developed for the first time ever (why now? why why why???), while the other daughters of mine suddenly had awards ceremonies, class productions and the like that demanded my attention. Play dates that were owed were suddenly called in.

Friends from Uni who 'hadn't heard from me' for a while (duh - that would be because, guys, as I told you in October, I'm writing my book!) came over unannounced right when conditions seemed perfect for getting a chapter on the page, settling in for tea and sympathy and ignoring my subtle and often not-so-subtle hints that now really isn't a good time.

Oh, that's not all, but you get the gist.

So, here I am, on the last day of November - the month that should have been a triumph over my past crappy decisions and one in which all the good things I have accomplished acknowledged via cups of tea, supportive silence and the help of my family finally come home to roost.

Should have been, but wasn't - and I realise something - that asking for help and support and telling people what I need just isn't enough. People will assume that because I'm a mother I am also a martyr and will sacrifice my own needs for theirs.

And, I now realise, that if I have the nerve to try to break out of my little pumpkin shell and be something other than the victim-martyr-mother then I am open to criticism and I need to have a much thicker skin. In fact I need spikes, armour and a big fence around my house.

I really have had enough. Because its all true - all of the well-meaning advice, including some stern words about getting myself out of the deep hole I apparently have fallen into financially (all of the not-so-well-meaning advice too, but about whom, I ask you?).

I really have sacrificed my own needs for those of my children, for the needs of the fathers of those children. And I rescheduled my life-saving creative urges for the sake of relatives, friends and even strangers. Not to do so is to be called a witch, a bitch, a bully. Not to do so is to go against consensus and to cause stress, which is not conducive to creativity and success either. So my book is not written, my skirting boards are spotless, my children are all taken care of, I have no money, satisfied friends, and a whole lot of decisions to make.

So, for December I am declaring 'Dan is No Martyr, Keep Your Darn Opinions to Your Self Month'.

Now, where's that broom?

shadow mother

I'm not sure how I got so sidetracked but my original intentions for this blog seem to have gone to seed.

I was reminded this morning when I ran into a local woman pushing her two babies in a pram - sweet little blue-eyed cherubs covered head to toe in texta-coloured scribbles. We talked about how children love to draw on themselves and I mentioned a book I'd read that talked about adornment and the development of self esteem in girls.

Only five minutes before I'd been sitting with my coffee writing my morning pages and asking myself what my purpose is - why is my life where it is today and what direction is it taking?

It was good to talk about these things and it pulled me back into myself and my passion for archetype, ritual and culture - in particular about the mother archetype and its shadow 'the witch'.

It also reminded me that four years ago I wanted to write a book about motherhood, about raising girls in particular - and not just because I had four of them of my own at the time.

A series of events and circumstances had shown me something I'd previously pushed aside - something I refused to see. I'd found myself in a trap, caught in the complex seduction of ideas and illusions surrounding relationships, marriage and lifestyle.

It wasn't just that I woke up one day and discovered that I was a woman in my thirties with four young children with a man (at the risk of sounding spiteful I do use that term very loosely) who appeared to refuse to take any of the responsibility for the work of our relationship.

It wasn't just that I just couldn't stand pretending to be a 'happy family' anymore - that I felt like nothing more than an unpaid babysitter for a man who would take all the credit for the beautiful home, the beautiful children and the beautiful life we supposedly made together.

It wasn't just that when I left - packing the children up in the car my mother had bought me for the purpose of having some independence from my 'beautiful husband', leaving behind all the 'beautiful things' that I was now told didn't belong to me - I found that none of my 'couple friends' wanted to know me.

And it wasn't just that I didn't have a better excuse, a solid sense of my own self-worth or any idea of how important the work that I do raising my daughters is. I wasn't depressed, although my doctor would have me believe so (I later found out I'd had glandular fever). My sense of alienation was never from my girls, or from my own strength, or from men and fathers.

I just knew - and still do believe - that without a doubt there is an undercurrent of anger surrounding motherhood, mothering and mothers in general. And its not just overworked, unappreciated and undervalued mothers who are perpetuating it.

I set out to find out why it is that the world hates mothers.

You may now ask me 'what do you mean the world hates mothers?' What a load of rubbish! The world loves mothers, we idealise them if anything. Mothers are essential - without them the human race would be extinct. Raising children is the most important job there is, right?

Er, yes. That's all true too - on the surface.

Maybe I only feel it - this undercurrent of anger and hatred - because I'm a single mother - and even though there are a damned lot of us women raising children alone, we aren't exactly part of the ideal.

Being without a partner or husband means not being 'legitimate' and it means that you find out in no uncertain terms just how much value the work of a mother has in this world. You find out, not just in dollars and cents, but also how much of what you do as a mother is tied up with the currency of being a wife - and how much you 'contribute' to the macro and micro economies of society,community and household.

The first man I dated after leaving my husband was a social worker for the department of family services - he's the guy who extracts kids from homes where there's domestic violence and abuse of all kinds. He told me he found my approach to parenting unique;

him; wow, you're great at this - you should work with children.
me; I do work with children, I have four of them
him; no, I mean you should do it as a career
me; I do - this is a career
him; No, I mean you should get paid for it
me; I do get paid for it, its not all that much, but I get paid.
him; no, I mean it should be a proper job.
me; (withering glare) right.

Even a social worker, a professional in the 'caring' field doesn't see that mother-work is actual work that warrants status as a 'career'. He gave daily witness to the direct manifestation of the anger of and against women and children and couldn't be educated to my point of view. We didn't date for very long.

So, anyway, four years ago I set out to answer The Question and then write a book about it. Along the way I found my answers, and a whole lot of other questions - the subject is HUGE. I began to feel like it was all too much, and that I was too small, not qualified enough, not opinionated enough, just not enough - to even begin to write a book about it.

I went to some of the most highly qualified people I knew - my professors at university, all women, all mothers, and they didn't know where to begin either (and they had no time as they were winding up the Gender Studies department and heading to Canberra to lobby for better pay and conditions for childcare and aged care workers, ironically).

I read books and articles and scoured the internet. I talked to other women. I got my big Answer and I felt defeated.

I still do. I have five daughters now, and two men telling me I don't deserve any child support. The children are my choice, I'm told. Suck it up.

I'm getting fired up again.

Speaking with my father yesterday, he tells me that forty percent of Australia's children are being raised by single mothers. Forty percent! Alarm bells are ringing but the fire brigade aren't coming.

So, I have something to say to the world about the work of being a mother - and a renewed sense of purpose beyond blogging fiction and treading water until my children grow up and I can be a woman again (yes, there is a difference between being a woman and being a mother).

Its time to start placing a great deal more value on what we do, raising children. Its time to let go of the victim-martyr and 'not enough' mentality that takes over when it gets rough. What's not enough is to say 'the world hates mothers' and 'I'm angry about it' and leave it at that - its time to do something about it.

Starting with me, here and now.

five reasons to smile

apologies

i am experiencing technical difficulties...

sing in me...

Muse..

The Un-Named One leans into the shallow pool toward the reflection of fruit hanging overhead from branches of a Pomegranate tree. His knobby brown hand dips into the water and scoops from it one perfect ripe red globe, splitting it off its stem and opening its waxy skin to reveal its flesh.

“Ah, fruit of the underworld.." he coos, stroking it lovingly. "So very misunderstood..hm?"

"Humans are just too literal.” He declares in his best Pompous Narrator's voice, and laughs. Always a performance, even if only for a pomegranate.

Lowering his mouth to its open wound he sucks theatrically at its sweet pink pearls, groaning with pleasure. As he eats he admires his reflection – dark almonds for eyes above wide cheekbones and an almost-too-large nose. A goatee and moustache outline full - rude- lips and black unkempt hair flops across his forehead hiding horn buds. His naked body is oiled and loose after his night of preparations.

“so goddarn beautiful.” He says to himself, turning his head this way and that, enjoying the full irony of the compliment along with his reflection in the pool. He allows his attention to drop below his waist;

“what a shame to have to let these go” he drawls to no one in particular, nodding toward his goat legs and hoofs and sighing at the inefficiency of human feet, “but this time I’ll have to walk”.

Discarding the husk of his little feast, The Un-Named One spends a moment in serious contemplation of his task. One hand drifts up to tug on the tuft of hair between his lower lip and his chin, eyes narrowed in concentration.

The story needs to be told but he’s aware of the danger of planning it out in his mind before it even begins – for him doing things that way is never as good. A quick fuck, over before he knows it and not worth revisiting. No, this has to unfold as it must.

“and she needs me” he tells himself, brightening considerably.

Standing now, the Un-Named One stretches out in his new human form, getting the feel of his legs. With a grin he reaches between his legs to assess the condition of his manly parts.

“Ha!. Not so like a mortal after all!” He shouts, laughing and delighted.

He looks back down at the pool and sees her standing by and open window, the dark red curtain of her hair lifting slightly in the breeze revealing one white shoulder. He watches her watching something in the street outside and waits for her to notice his eyes on her skin. Slowly she turns away from the window toward the mirror, green eyes opening wider, lips parting as she takes a sharp breath in –

“You!” she whispers.

So it begins.

trickster direct

I'm back! I won't go into the saga of what happened to this site, but it was horrible, involved days of wandering lost and alone in the desert of cyberspace, many emails (before they, too, went missing in action) to tech support staff who all seemed to be from another planet, or on their way back there. Enough said.

*sigh* its so good to be home again.