Mummy guilt

I have been thinking recently about guilt (she says darkly and mysteriously). One of the main ways I come across guilt is that syndrome known to all us mummy bloggers: Mummy Guilt. Here is what I think we should all do about Mummy Guilt (and I include myself as a prime culprit): stop it!

Mummy Guilt is actually a misnomer, if you think about it. It’s not really proper guilt, is it? It’s not guilt as in “I’ve done something that is ethically and/or morally wrong, and I feel remorse” is it? It’s an indistinct sense of inadequacy. It’s the feeling of being not good enough. And… (drum roll at this point, as you all wait for Iota’s pearl of wisdom to drop from your computer screen and roll across the table onto your lap)… of course we’re not good enough, because that is part of the human condition. In fact, here is a paradox (ooh, I love paradoxes). If you were the perfect parent, you wouldn’t be a good parent, because you wouldn’t be preparing your child for a world where people are imperfect. Ta-da! Mummy Guilt solved.

I think we English speakers need a few more words to cover the guilt spectrum. I’m told that in other languages, there is a bigger vocabulary for the thing that we gather under one guilt umbrella (though of course we are good at gathering things under umbrellas, what with our climate being the way it is). Guilt, inadequacy, shame… we tend to put it all in the same basket. The basket that’s keeping dry under the umbrella. So Misnamed Mummy Inadequacy gets in with proper “I’ve committed a heinous crime: guilty as charged, M’Lud, life sentence coming my way” guilt. That’s a bit of a pity, if you ask me. Just makes us mummies feel even worse, labouring under such a weighty term. So, if you’re a passing linguist, perhaps you’d like to toss in your ha’penny worth. In the murky recesses of my memory, I catch a glimmer of a recollection that someone once told me that Russian is good in the guilt arena. Any passing Russian-speaking bloggers?

This is what I notice about Mummy Guilt. We confess to it for random irrelevant things. Things like not taking home-made mince pies to the school Christmas party, or helping your child do her homework ten minutes before you have to leave for school because you forgot about it the night before. Everyone knows that shop-bought mince pies taste nicer, and that you are doing your child a big favour if you are developing in her the ability to produce a piece of work quickly at the last minute and make it look like you spent hours over it. That is an indispensable life skill, if I ever saw one.

Here’s another thing I’ve spotted. Mothers feel bad about not always putting their children first, and sometimes putting themselves first. They know, however, that they must bring up their children to be sensitive to other people’s needs and wants, and not to be selfish. Another paradox. Yum! Why does pursuing the first half make us feel guilty (ie putting ourselves first), and not the second half?

I have plenty more to say on the subject of guilt (dark, mysterious) but I’m going to stop now, because it is 10.30pm on a Sunday night, and I’ve had at least one glass of red wine and am ready for bed, or at the very least a hot bath, and still haven’t come to a satisfactory conclusion on whether 13-yo can do soccer AND tennis in the last quarter of the school year, or whether one sport is enough, and whether we are going to be able to be fair to the younger two children and treat them all the same as they grow up if we set the bar as ridiculously high as to allow for TWO sports as well as TWO musical instruments, and talking of setting the bar high, would perhaps track (that’s 'athletics' or 'field events' to you British readers, at least I think so, I can't really remember any longer - it's not something I ever talked about very much when I lived in the UK) be a better option than tennis anyway since the school has recommended it as a help in transitioning from the middle school to the upper school because the two teams train together? and thinking that whatever we decide, this one issue will seriously scar them all, the three of them, for life, and therefore I am a TERRIBLY BAD MOTHER.

Google, Blogger, my dishwasher, and my ill child

Am I the only one who is getting fed up with Google? (Oh yes, you can always rely on me when it comes to being up there at the vanguard of blogging technology.)

First and foremost, I never know whether the word should have an initial capital or not. And is it different according to whether it's a noun or a verb? Do you write "I looked on Google" or "I looked on google"? Do you write "I Googled an old friend" or "I googled an old friend"?

Then there are the glitches. My Google Reader (ooh, initial caps there, it seems) now opens two copies of the blog I want to read when I click on it. I have no idea why. I didn't change any settings. It just started doing it. I'm annoyed.

A few days ago, again for no apparent reason, the format of my gmail page changed. I can't sign out from it. The words 'sign out' used to be in the top right hand corner, but where they were, there is now my name. If I click on my name, I get a drop-down list, which does have 'sign out' on it, but it won't let me click on it. If I try to, before I can get the cursor there, quick as a flash, it whisks the words away and reloads the page. I'm annoyed.

Blogger is full of glitches too, and they're getting worse. Does anyone else think so, or is this just me? I sometimes get an email notifying me of a comment on my blog, but that comment doesn't appear on my blog itself. I'm guessing that for every time I notice this, there are several when I don't pick it up. Life is short, Bloggy Peeps, and when I'm reading comments from my email account, I don't bother to go to my blog to check that they're there. It's just that I've noticed a few times. I'm annoyed.

Plus, our aged dishwasher needs new baskets. The plastic is all peeling off, leaving sharp rusty stumps, which I've cut myself on. The cutlery basket has holes in the bottom, so that if you don't stand the cutlery up in just the right way, it falls through. Because the model is such an old one, it would cost us $280 to replace the baskets. That's $150 for the bottom one and $130 for the top one. We can buy a new dishwasher for that. I'm annoyed.

AND... when children are off school because they are sick, you have to pick up work for them. There's always loads of it. Loads. It's like the teacher feels the need to punish you for letting your child get ill. (Note I say "you", not the child - because where do you think the burden of this task falls?) It's bad enough for one day, but if your child has been off for three, they pretty much have to write a couple of theses as they struggle back to health. I'm annoyed.

The age of democracies

Well, we've had quite an airing of the practice of telling off, haven't we? I've been reminded of - amongst others - being given what for, being for it, being chewed out, and getting a talking to, a roasting, and a dressing down. I think the most usual American equivalent to telling off is scolding, a word which sounds very Victorian to British ears, (and which I've always found uncomfortably close to scalding).

Now, here's someone to whom I'd like to give a telling off. President Obama's speech writer. The one who put in the line in Obama's China speech that referred to America as "the oldest democracy in the world". Oldest democracy in the world? Excuse me?

Last time I talked about history, I displayed my woefully inadequate knowledge by asserting that Britain doesn't have a written constitution, and apparently we do. It's the Magna Carta. So I don't want to embarrass myself by quoting from my stock of limited historical facts, but surely America isn't the oldest democracy? Come on guys! First up, there's Britain. How can you not count Britain? I suspect it's because you think we're a monarchy and therefore not a proper democracy. And yes, the Queen does sign every Act of Parliament, so I suppose technically she could veto any she didn't like. But it's still a democracy. Trust me. I've lived there. I've voted there.

Even if you don't count Britain (and I can feel a certain rising of the blood pressure as I write that), I think you'll find there have been other democracies, in other times, in other places, which pre-date America's. I'm thinking Ancient Rome. I'm thinking Ancient Greece. I'm thinking I should shut up at this point because I really don't know much about how those societies organised themselves, but I'm pretty sure they elected their leaders.

What about France, for heaven's sake? They had a revolution way back when. They even used three consecutive numbers to make the date easy to remember: 1789. Well done them. Didn't that give them the vote? "Aux armes, Citoyens", and all that. No... no... not Citroens... Citoyens! We're talking democratic rights, not the auto industry.

Perhaps Mr Obama was including Native American democratic practices in his reckoning. If so, I think he overlooked a few teensy weensy facts, because the transition from existing Native American democracies to modern day America's political system wasn't exactly seamless, was it?

So, Mr Obama Speech Writer in the White House in Washington - yes, you standing in the corner with the dunce cap on your head - consider yourself on the receiving end of a right royal chew-ass tongue-lashing roasting what for.

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Being told off

When I was growing up, if you did something naughty, you got a telling off, or a ticking off. Nowadays, being ticked off has a different meaning. English children still get told off, though (at least I think they do).

In Scotland, children get a row. "If you don't eat all your peas, I'll give you a row." That kind of thing. It adds a whole new dimension to the nursery rhyme Row, row, row your boat.

I've been thinking about what phrase is used here in the US, and I can't say I know. How can that be? Has the subject never come up in discussion with any of my friends? Surely I must have heard someone mention it, even if only in passing. The only equivalents I can recall having heard are putting children in time-out, or giving them a consequence, (a consequence, not a punishment, mind). But those are actions, not speeches. A good old-fashioned telling off is a speech, isn't it? (Mine usually begin "I've told you before...")

Can anyone tell me if Americans 'tell off' their kids? What is the phrase?

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The eyes have it

Enough already with the tea! (See how American I'm becoming. Not only do I know the lingo, but I can bring myself to express a sentiment that surely, surely no honest-to-goodness Brit would ever genuinely feel.) Yes, time to move the blog on to other matters. Life through the eyes of a first grade girl.

Husband and I are very short-sighted. Physically, not metaphorically. Well, probably metaphorically as well, since we moved to America with neither the intention of staying long-term, nor any return strategy. Americans call it 'near-sighted' if you're talking about eyes, and 'short-sighted' if you're talking about a plan. I think we Brits use 'short-sighted' for both. I don't think we really use the term 'near-sighted'. Oh my goodness, the tolerance that you lovely Bloggy Peeps have for the useless trivia on this blog never fails to astound me.

Anyway, any old way, where was I? Yes. Husband and I are both short-sighted, so no surprise then, that our oldest is already in glasses (he of the perfect teeth, but you can't hope to have everything). 10-yo, has good eyesight, but 6-yo has been complaining about having blurry vision, so I thought we should get her eyes tested. I did take the blurry vision with a pinch of salt though, since there's no evidence that she can't see perfectly well (and her teacher confirmed this). It also just so happens that her best friend's Dad is an optician (or whatever the longer, more complicated term that we're meant to use these days is) and her best friend has just got glasses.

In fact it turns out that glasses are all the rage for girls in first grade. They are desirable, sought after, coveted, fashionable. We have come a long way since my day, when glasses were to be dreaded, and delayed until no amount of screwing up of your eyes could get you to make out the teacher's scrawl on the blackboard. But then glasses are so much better. No more those heavy lenses in unattractive NHS plastic frames, where your only choice was pink, blue, white or tortoiseshell. These days, glasses are lightweight, comfortable, attractive - easy on the eyes in all senses.

So we went along to the optician, and 6-yo had the full range of tests, one small part of which, these days, is reading some letters off a display. When it got to that part, 6-yo managed the big letter at the top confidently, and then stopped. The optician clicked to make the chart bigger... and then bigger... and then bigger... but even when the letters were all huge, 6-yo sat in silence. "Uh oh", I thought, "she's foxing. She really does want to wear glasses. How are we going to get past this?" The optician tried another set of letters, and again, 6-yo managed the first letter, but stalled at the second row, and sat in silence, no matter how much larger the optician made them. She tried one more chart. Still the same pattern - the reading of the first letter and then no more. At this point, 6-yo gave a small shrug and said "I don't think I know these words".

Because in first grade, they're still doing words like about, and under, and should, and they haven't got onto more difficult ones like zfdax, and lvceno. Shame on them.

Well, it turned out that 6-yo has a very slight prescription, but only very slight. The nice optician said they could certainly make up glasses for us, but he said that quite honestly, our best bet was to go to Claire's in the mall, where you can buy non-prescription glasses for $10.00. So that's what we did (and in fact they were $8.50). The upside of this strategy is that we have saved probably a couple of hundred dollars. The downside is that 6-yo now knows of the existence of Claire's, a knowledge which so far I had deliberately kept away from her innocent mind. However, that aside, it was a happy solution. The frames are dark blue, with tiny flowers on them. 6-yo is thrilled with them, and I nearly die of cute attack every time she puts them on. She wears them to school, having sworn me to secrecy on the fact that they're non-prescription (which is the term we prefer to the unkind and metaphysically incorrect 'not real'). She's made a sneaky discovery since she's had them. Turns out that at least one other bespectacled first grade girl is wearing non-prescriptions too. Sshhh...

“You must come round for coffee”: Part ll

I’ve just watched the film Made in Dagenham, and – perhaps I’ve been away from England too long – I was struck by just how often the people offer each other a cup of tea (except the Secretary of State for Employment, who offers sherry – I expect the film-makers were trying to make a point, though I can’t think what it is). Great film, by the way. Well worth going to see.

Here is Part ll of my attempt to make sense of this phenomenon for Americans.

When we Brits make conversation, there are some subtle differences to the way you Americans do it. You pick these up as signs of us being reserved, or unfriendly, but I don’t believe they are. Not usually, and almost certainly not, if someone has invited you into their home. You make so much more eye contact than we do when you talk. In my early days in the US, I felt mildly uncomfortable all the time in conversation, because people were holding my eyes far too much. I probably came across to them as very shifty – always moving my eyes to left or right, or dropping them. Often I still find conversation with a new person a bit intense. It feels to me not so much like a chat, as an interrogation. We British women need to let our eyes wander, and you see, if we have a cup of tea in our hands, it makes it easier. We can lose eye contact regularly, when we take a sip. Even if we’re not sipping, the cup we’re holding provides us with an easy place to divert our gaze. It just makes it more comfortable for us. Saves us having to wander our eyes round the room.

What about those embarrassing silences? We need a distraction for those. When there’s a silence, we take a sip, or we give the drink a stir, or we warm our hands round the mug, maybe clinking our wedding ring against it. It turns the awkwardness of the silence into a companionable moment.

Another reason we need a prop is this. It’s because we don’t know what to do with our hands, if they’re not holding a cup (and thank you to Michelloui for pointing this one out to me). Knowing what to do with idle hands is something you do well. We don’t. If I’m sitting talking without something to hold, I invariably fidget with my hair, or my clothes, or the chair. In a formal situation like an interview, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my hands still in my lap. You don’t seem to have this problem. I’ve observed this in your children. They are comfortable standing with their hands by their sides when they’re on stage singing, reciting, or just watching and listening. That was always something that felt so awkward to me as a child. I always wanted to clasp my hands in front of me, or behind, or put them in pockets. I’ve observed it in your teenagers too. They don’t fold their arms in that classic defensive posture that ours adopt. How do you manage to feel so at ease with your manual appendages? Have mercy on us, when we need a simple mug to occupy our awkward hands.

American ladies, I hope I’ve helped you understand the whole complicated deal behind the hot drink compulsion. It’s our equivalent of the toddler’s comfort blanket. We just feel lost without it. No doubt you could wean us off it, with a sticker chart on the fridge door, or by telling our friends and neighbours in front of us what big girls we are now. But it would be kinder just to let us continue. There are worse habits. Think of it this way: at least if a hot drink is on offer, there’ll usually be a biscuit for you too.

For more on this subject, please go to Michelloui's blog, The American Resident, where she has posted an answer to my reflections. And then for a pithy one-liner which will make you laugh, try this link here.

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“You must come round for coffee”: Part l

I recently enjoyed this post by Michelloui, who blogs at The American Resident. She says “when I came to Britain where hot drinks are so common they’ve invented a quick source for boiling water (the electric kettle, woo hoo!), I gradually came to understand that when people offered you a cup of tea they would be uncomfortable if you didn’t accept”.

It has spurred me on to write a post that I’ve been meaning to write for ages. Since I read quite a few blogs written by Americans in Britain, I know that the practice of being offered a hot drink when you arrive at someone’s house seems an oddity, so I thought I’d try and explain.

If you meet another mother at a toddler or school event in America, and you want to get to know her (let’s just suppose you’ve moved to the area from another continent and you don’t know a soul and you’re going absolutely bonkers in your isolation… for example…), the key phrase is “let’s get the kids together”. In Britain, the same invitation would be “you must come round for coffee some time”. If you take the British woman up on her offer, you will find that you are offered coffee or tea, but no-one says “you must come round for tea some time”. I’m guessing this is because tea is both a drink, and a meal. It’s too confusing to invite someone for tea, because they won’t know whether you mean them to arrive at 10.30 in the morning, for an hour and a half of chat while the children play, or to pitch up in the evening with an empty stomach. (To further complicate it, the Brits can’t even agree on what the meal ‘tea’ is. To some, it’s a post-school snack; to others it’s a full evening meal.) So to avoid confusion, we just stick to “come round for coffee”. Either way, the clue is in the phrase. The event will involve a hot drink.

A word of warning. If when you get there, you say you’d like coffee, this will most likely be what you call Nescafe. Don’t expect anything with a taste that you recognise as real coffee. At this point, I’d like to apologise, on behalf of the British nation, for instant coffee. It is, I now see, an abomination, and should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. So, assuming you want to avoid the coffee, you’ll go for tea. This will be what you know as ‘black tea’ (we don’t really do green tea in Britain), and unless you ask otherwise, it will be served with a small amount of milk in it.

So much for the beverage details. Now on to the more important issues. It will help you if you know you are not really being offered a drink. When your hostess asks if you’d prefer tea or coffee, please don’t say you won’t have either. You have to understand that she’s not worried about your hydration levels. She’s not offering you an opportunity to quench your thirst; she’s offering you her hospitality. Making you a cup of tea is code for making you welcome. She’s not really saying “would you like a drink?” She’s saying “this is my home, and I’ve invited you into it, and I want to make you feel comfortable here”. So just say yes. Then she’ll be in a familiar pattern of what to do next. If you say no, the ritual goes awry. What to do? It doesn’t feel quite right to go and make herself a drink if you’re not having one, but it feels even worse to sit down and converse without a drink. More about that in my next post.

I’ve been trying to think what a comparable situation would be for an American woman. It’s not a direct equivalent, but the best I can come up with is this. When you are invited round to someone’s house for dinner, you always take a dish with you. If it’s a potluck dinner, you do. If it’s not a potluck dinner, you still do. Imagine a scenario in which you turn up to dinner with your side dish, and take it into the kitchen, and your hostess says “oh, we don’t need an extra side. I’ve made a bunch of food for everyone. You can just leave it here on the counter top, and take it home with you when you go” (and yes, oh British readers, an American hostess might well talk about “a bunch of food”). See what I mean? There’s no logic to these things. You didn’t really think that you and the other guests would go hungry if you didn’t take a side dish with you. It’s just what you do. It’s a cultural norm. Just as you would feel that it was odd of your hostess not to accept your food, so we feel it’s peculiar for a guest not to accept a hot drink. Does that help explain?