by Victoria Smurfit
Work or children? Work and children? No matter which you go for, you’re bound to upset someone. For the last eight months I have been treading the delicate tightrope of the Working Mum (WM). I have learned to manage my expectations. My sleep. My success. My time.
Can you picture your grandmother whinging about her struggle to maintain her work/life balance? It’s a problem we created for ourselves because we want it all. Or maybe because we’re expected to have it all. We have plenty of choice, thanks to the battles fought by those wiser ladies who came before us. My mother’s peers were settled with 2.4 children by 21 – children having children. Those unhappy with their lot campaigned to last a bit longer as an independent. And now, here we are.
Jobs, travel, people and places keep us busy through our 20s. So by the time we come around to making long-term decisions, we are doing it with our eyes open. Aren’t we? We have tasted work success. We know what it’s like to be financially independent, to have control over our destiny. But for me, anyway, having it all – including kids – is a lonesome fate in which Guilt is the only constant companion. (In person, Guilt is a six-foot blonde with pert bits and a Masters in physics. She is bitchy and she laughs at my attempts to juggle work and family life.)
As a working mum I vacillate madly between two states. Sometimes I’m WM, a superhero who can take on anything that comes her way. She can work a 15-hour day, make sure the kids are happy, stay on top of the nanny, run houses in two countries, have riveting conversations with her husband, pay bills, take everyone out for treats and write a column. The fabulosity! But other days, when Guilt gets her evil way, I feel like I’m not fulfilling either of my roles properly.
To survive as WM or Homemaker, you have to pity the Other. Sly digs all round.
The Working Mum: “And the US Federal Reserve will throw liquidity into the market to free up the inter-banking interest rates... Oh, wait, what am I talking about? You don’t need to know that to play trains, do you?”
“Oh, so true,” the Homemaker spits back pleasantly. “Now tell me, did Consuela take a picture of little Johnny’s first steps for you?”
So no one wins.
When Sir Alan Sugar shared his opinions on women in the workplace earlier this year, he enraged a lot of sisters. But at least he was being honest. Since an employer is legally not allowed to ask about a woman’s home life during an interview, Sugar says he would think twice about hiring a female of childbearing age. My inner feminist roars at this, but I have to temper the rage with reality. He has a point. It is bloody hard to stay superwoman, and no matter how brilliant we are, sometimes, something has to give.
Recently, I was shooting in a disused hospital in Chiswick. The sun had gone in and the director of photography was delaying us all by creating his own sunshine. Stretched out in bed was a beautiful actress playing ‘sick’. In rushed ‘Mother’ in a fur-wrapped fluster. Dialogue, dialogue, gesture. I stood by as the inquisitive detective. Cut. Print.
My friend and driver on set, Andy, popped his head around the door, face ashen. Something was wrong.
“Jesus. The girls?”
We raced to his car. I was debriefed by the doctor on the way. On arrival at the real hospital, the only thing that could distract me from the stench of vomit was the plaintive moans of unwell kiddies. In the corner sat my angel, white and wan. (Much quieter than her giggling sister, who was busy unpacking a stranger’s handbag.) I wrapped myself around her, more for me than her, I think.
The irony of being in a ‘real’ hospital looking at my ‘real’ child sick was not lost on me. (The doctor’s coats are never as clean as in TV land, by the way.) We stepped over a whinging four-year-old who was being held by his own WM, be-suited in Prada, her Blackberry pinging. I could almost hear her blood pressure rising as she swatted away another wave of guilt. Or was that just my own Guilt?
So is there any solution to the working mother’s dilemma? Not that I can see. My kids need love, but they also need a happy mother. It’s part of a superwoman’s job to be content with whatever choices she makes, and just get on with it.
Unbeknownst to Guilt, I am finishing out my contract in a few weeks’ time and heading home to dust off my Homemaker hat. That should keep her quiet for a while.
And you know, some days all the drama I need is right at home.
I can't imagine my grandmother whinging, and certainly not whingeing. Be grateful the four-year-old was only whinging too, as whingeing is really annoying to hear.
Posted by: Herb Fowler | February 17, 2009 at 04:38