As much as I am an absolute supporter and cheer squad for women who achieve brilliance in their lives, excel in their chosen pursuits and smash some ceilings, I wonder sometimes, who is cheering for the other kinds of amazing women?
Tag: middle age
Mrs Weird of Weirdsville
I was stuck in a room with my 15 year old son for 4 days. He was beyond thrilled to say the least.
CF has landed him back in hospital for a bit. Topped off nicely, was the fact he developed a cold so a Covid test was needed….Then lockdown hit so we weren’t going anywhere. Mr Lucky had me within arms reach for a longer stint than we planned.
During our iso situation, he made a comment after I hung the phone up from speaking with the ward clerk.
“You’re weird” he said.
After he got told to get stuffed, I dug a bit deeper…
“Weird how?… like scary weird or quirky weird or what?” I asked.
“Or is it just because I’m your mum and every kid thinks their parents are weird.” I added.
“Na… you ask any of my friends and they all rekon you’re a bit weird”.
This was also confirmed by my almost teen daughter when she looked at me, screwed her nose up a little and sympathetically replied to my inquisition with “well… yeah, you kinda are”.
Excellent. That’s what everyone wants to hear.
I would have happily settled for any other description than weird.
Clearly I’m not the cool mum, the laid back mum, the strict mum, the mum with the best pantry snacks mum, the handy mum, the smart mum, the chatty mum, the quiet mum, the funny mum, the friendly mum, the kind mum, the cranky mum, the “insert any other adjective you can think of” mum. Nope….I’m the WEIRD mum.
But look, if teenagers think I’m weird then I’m pretty ok with that because there’s some seriously weird shit going on in the land of the teen.
Weird is taking photos of a quarter of your head, writing “streaks” across it then sending it to all of your friends on Snapchat as a form of entertainment and connection.
Weird is not using a phone to TALK. Alexander Graham Bell would be quite miffed.
Weird is wearing socks and slides.
Weird is the ability to text at 300 wpm but the inability to get clothes INTO the laundry basket.
Weird is the resurgence of the 80’s mullet and somehow making it even uglier. Just stop it.
Weird is knowing every AFL player trade but not knowing how long to heat something up in the microwave. Like ever.
Weird is doing the SAME ANNOYING CRAP EVERY SINGLE DAY and then acting completely shocked when I lose my ever loving mind.
Weird is having a tanty after being asked to empty the dishwasher after a hard morning of sleeping until lunch time.
Weird is not being able to see something that is straight in front of your face.
Puh-lease. Spare me the lecture.
So me and my weirdness will just be over here living my best weird life being Mrs Weird of Weirdsville.
I would really love to hear what word your teens use to describe you as a mum? And if it’s “loving and kind” you can quietly go and live on Liar Island with the pizza guy.
Come at me fellow Weird mums. I can’t be living in Weirdsville alone?
Yours forever in the gloriousness of weird.
M
The slow walk to Old Lady Town.
A couple of weeks ago, I tripped up a step and landed like a drunk hippo. There was no time to prepare for this “fall”. No warning, no tripity trip weird little arm-flailing dance before my demise. It was harsh and quick, and not in a pleasant way. I fell smack bang in my driveway. My knees are still recovering and I’m grateful that the school bus full of kids at the end of the driveway didn’t witness my demise.
My question is, when does the phrase “I fell over” get changed to “I had a fall” and who decides when that happens? Somehow the word placement changes the whole vibe.
Saying you “fell over” incites that you were playing sport or being active or whimsical or drunk on the dance floor. It’s youthful and often doesn’t end up in major injury. If you topple over getting out of a chair or lose your footing putting your undies on does that count as “I fell over” or “had a fall?” Is there an age bracket or is it classed by activity or injury? I’m still sporting scabby knees and a bruised ego, but if I’d broken a hip or a wrist would my incident be reclassified to the old lady term? Would I be starting the slow walk to Old Lady Town? If I ever fell over again, would it be a case of… “oh my god, she had another fall, bring in the zimmer frame….STAT!”?
I have a friend who falls over quite frequently. It amuses me more than it should. She’s had a few rippers. I’m thinking she is definitely heading towards the “had a fall” category. She hasn’t done any major damage to herself yet, and she’s often taking the dog for a walk when she flies tits up, so maybe she is safe for now. We were chatting on the phone once and I heard a weird noise followed by my friend’s voice yelling out “I’ll call you back in a minute”. Yup… tits up again, sending her phone launching into the air as I merrily chatted away to no-one.
While I’m on the topic of ageing. Why is mother nature turning me into a man? Actually, she’s turning me into my 15-year-old son. Pimples and random chin hairs. Who knew that I would have so much in common with my firstborn? “Pass me the Clearasil and shaving cream will you darl? Mummas got a mess going on”. It’s not quite that horrific yet but be warned… At some stage in your 4th decade, you will go to bed with a face as smooth as a baby butt, and wake up with an inch long hair growing out of your face. And if you’re one of the blessed ones, it will sprout out of a mole and your tears of angst for your lost youth will roll right off that hair of disgust and fall into your morning coffee. It happens. Even the most hairless of us cannot escape our destiny of carrying tweezers in the car glove box for a quick pluck in the rear-vision mirror.
Life can be cruel in the most disgusting ways. It could always be worse though. At least us women-folk don’t need to worry about being in ownership of a drooping scrotum, where every day the distance between that precious parcel and the toilet water becomes forever closer. Live with that fear. Give me chin hair any day.
Until next time, stay upright and hairless.
M
Just Call Me Karen
I think I got talked about by the nursing staff at hand-over. I rekon theres a high chance I may have been referred to as a “Karen”.
Well, buckle up. I’m a Melissa.
Here’s a bit of a back story and update:
We’re heading into week 3 with number one son in hospital. Usually it’s a stock standard 2 weeks of IV’s… bug dead.. see ya later. Didn’t quite happen this time. Anyway… he has an inhaled med he does with his chest physio, and because it can cause a bit of lung irritation, it’s being diluted to half strength… all within the orders written up by the Dr etc etc blah blah.
Time comes to have this medication. I remind the nurse that he’s having it half strength.
Nurse returns telling me he’s been having it full strength, because that’s what’s been signed off on the drug chart so that’s what she’s brought in.
She told me this THREE times, because each time I corrected her, her ears must have imploded and she couldn’t hear what I said.
I reiterated my point AGAIN and politely but assertively suggested that it may have been signed off incorrectly on the drug chart by the physios and can we just have it mixed the way I’ve asked….please and thankyou very much, for fucks sake, Amen.
Now this is where I shall intervene and just hit up anyone who is embarking upon a career in the health or caring industry.
LISTEN TO YOUR PATIENT’S. For the love of god, even if you think they’re complete cretins and dumb as a bricks….listen to them.
They’re not always going to be right, but the chances are that when you question those who live with chronic illness, they probably know what they’re talking about. I might even be so brave as to say that the PARENTS of children with chronic illness know more about their disease than you, and sure as hell know what the fuck is going on in the room of which you weren’t present when the bloody mediation had been given.
Gah.
I don’t think in anyway that my exchange was aggressive or rude, I just had to repeat myself until she actually listened, and by the third time, I may have had a tone in my voice that resembled “Karen wanting to see the manager”.
Also, I was tired, so I wasn’t my usual delightful self. After all, I’d been sleeping on a bed the devil himself designed and quite frankly, since I’ve hit my 4th decade, the idea of making others a bit uncomfortable doesn’t destroy my thoughts or conscience as it once did. I’m over pleasing people who aren’t pleasant. It’s exhausting.
What was interesting was that the next morning the day staff mentioned something about the conversation slash exchange I’d had with the nurse the day before. This nurse was older, more experienced and appeared supportive. She empathised about how she is aware that parents know what’s going on with their children’s health blah blah blah…but during our chat she used words and phrases like “argument”, “good for you”, “tiger mum” and “speaking out”.
Ummmm….What!?
And what exactly is a tiger mum..?
I asked the Google machine and this is what it said.
I’m confused because I’m obviously not Chinese and I don’t know Amy Chau so I think she meant being a mum “like a tiger”.
This is much more accurate, plus the father reference is much more relatable too…
Please bare with me while I pull up my feminist knickers here as I ask…
What is the male equivalent of a “tiger mum”?
Who is the male equivalent of “Karen”?
And why are women seen as difficult, argumentative or speaking out of turn when they make others uncomfortable or question something or god forbid….disagree?
I may be wrong, but think I can pretty safely say that if I had a dangly thing between my legs and was in the same situation, I wouldn’t be seen or described in the same way. I’d probably be seen as confident, strong, knowledgeable and interested. We don’t use these words for women enough. We assert them to be difficult, bitchy, sassy, opinionated and up-themselves.
Plus our names get changed to Karen.
Well I love Karen’s. I know a few awesome ones too.
I think we should all find our inner Karen, and I mean that in the most wonderful way possible. We should demand more than the bull shit we’ve been dished up over the generations.
Question the nurse. Speak to the manager. Ask for more information. Disagree. Speak up without fear of how is “looks” or “sounds”. Assert your point when you’re not being listened to. Don’t be afraid to cause someone just a little bit of discomfort.
It’s taken me over 40 years to be okay with the idea that I may offend someone or cause an eyebrow raise by just asking a question and that it’s NOT MY PROBLEM.
Fair chance the people we make uncomfortable are under 25 years old who think they know everything there is to know, can’t differentiate between you’re and your and lack the ability to count back change without a calculator. How’s that for stereotyping?
Their time will come though. They’ll hit their 40’s and feel the freedom of age and wisdom. They’ll want to talk to the manager and ruffle a few feathers because they’re old and sick of everyone’s shit. They’ll do this and look back remembering the Karen’s of yesteryear. They may even smile, shake their head with a knowledge that they have now become the Karens they eye rolled in their twenties. They will embrace this change and their new found title.
Without further adieu, I present to you the “Jessica’s”
And in 20 years time, they’d like to see the manager.
M
*disclaimer.. I adore nurses. They do one of the hardest job in the world and don’t get paid nearly enough for what they do. I was a nurse for a while too, and this is definitely #notallnurses