Raaaaagh!

It's the Easter Weekend. How do I know this? Well, two reasons really; traffic to my blog has halved (you all obviously have much more interesting things to do than sit inside and look at the computer), and it's been snowing. I mean, of course it has. It's nearly the end of March. Oh yes, and if I see another chocolate egg I may implode. Or just eat it. No telling which.

I am at my parent's house in Somerset with the family, stealing a few moments to feed my internet addiction, whilst Boy 2 naps and Boy 1 entertains his grandmother and great-grandmother with stories of flying skunks. (No, really. It wouldn't be so bad, but he has taken to illustrating the skunks' abilities with real life smells of his own at the relevant points - for authenticity's sake, you understand. Luckily his great-grandmother hasn't noticed - or is just too polite to comment. And there's not even a dog to blame it on...)

If this post turns out to be a little short or rather odd, it's because I'm using my parent's apple Mac and am struggling with it. I like to think of myself as creative, but am clearly an accountant underneath as I find these things impossible to use (where is the hash key? What's with the moving around of the @ sign? Why can't I maximise the screen? Where is the 'end' key? Etc... Bring back my pc!)

For those of you still interested, Thursday evening's foray into my past life went pretty much as expected. Husband was late home, (knew I should have booked a babysitter) I spent the hour before I left dodging the ever-present trail of snot from Boy 2, and Boy 1 demanded to know why I was prettied-up, and if I was going to a hotel. As I always do on a Thursday night, clearly.

Then it rained between the tube and the bar, and having left my umbrella at home in the interests of appearing less mumsy (which was rather beside the point since I was still prepared for all eventualities, with handkerchiefs and wet-wipes spilling out of my handbag), I arrived looking less polished than I had hoped for...

Once there, of course the main question on my ex-colleagues lips was "What are you doing now?" I toughed it out and answered truthfully.... "Staying at home with my children".

Cue pause.

In some cases, quite a long one.

The women (both with and without children) clearly thought I was mad, whilst all the men were impressed. The gender divide is alive and well, I'm sorry to say....

What was interesting, however, was my reaction to both points of view. With the women, when they waxed lyrical about time spent with the children, being a good mum etc, I played up the down and dirty side of being a SAHM. Snot was mentioned. Pooh may have been referred to. Crushing boredom may even have been touched on. And the toilet door joke (see my profile) popped out more than once. I mean, whilst I strongly believe I've made the right choice for our family to put my career on hold, I'm very much aware that for most people it's simply not a financially viable option. Whilst I complain incessantly on this blog, underneath the bluster I believe that I'm very fortunate, frankly, that I have the chance to do this. So the last thing I wanted to do was to rub the noses of women who couldn't make that same decision in the fact that yes, my being home is working out well for us.

With the men, my 1980's feminist conditioning - and the double vodka and tonics I had been drinking since I arrived - took over... After an evening of platitudes, nodding sagely when middle-aged men misted over at the thought of mummy greeting them at the school gates, and holding my tongue mainly because if I ever want to go back to work, I will probably be reporting to them, I had had enough. When some poor young, unmarried guy reminisced about how his mum stayed home and did 'the most important job in the world', I couldn't help it. I pointed out that when he reached that stage, (never mind the 'if' he reached that stage), he and his partner may not be able to afford to survive on one salary. That the mother of his child may not want to stay home. That it is not always the best option for the happiness of the family. And mainly, why assume it should be her in the first place? Surely he would be just as capable of changing a nappy? And so on...

Luckily, he was a) quite drunk (which if I'm honest, so was I), and b) not that senior. I think I got away with my rant.

And then I left the party a little early to sway home on the tube, in order to make Tesco's before it closed to pick up the milk for the boys.

Well, somebody had to.

I am woman, hear me roar...