I consider myself the mother of girls – as I only have Miss 8 and Miss11goinon16 this is not an earth-shattering assumption.
To extrapolate that out, this is what it means to me:
- I have to wash their hair and brush it out (a mean and tiresome task that involves much yelling from the Brushee and hence verbal abuse towards the Brush-er), this also means that the Brush-er in order to avoid abuse from the Brushee spends an inordinate amount of money on expensive hair products – from salons not supermarkets – to help circumvent this occurrence. This then results in the Brush-er getting even more abuse from The Big O who does not see the correlation between spending $90 on a bottle of shampoo that in the end does not result in less yelling from the Brushee to the Brusher.
- I am responsible for all things shopping – if there is a sale at Country Road, we must be present and accounted for in the queue with some key pieces in hand to get our 30% off. With Miss11goingon16 discovering Supre my Amex charges have reduced just as the average age demographic increases by 30 years in a Supre store the minute I step through the door. I also have to ensure that regardless of climate change, time of swimming squads or traffic issues (where the fuck do you park in Kings Cross at 5pm in the afternoon?) if a pair of Converse All Stars, black 12 hole are needed, nothing on this earth is going to stand between a child and her shoes – rangers and taxi zones be damned.
- For all school camps a trip to the hairdresser prior to straighten the hair is another mandatory task so that Miss11goingon16’s BFF is able to do her hair for 4 days and is not stressed by dreadlocks and does not get abused in the Brushee/Brush-er context(refer to first point above).
- Any trip to Westfield Bondi Junction must culminate in a session at Max Brenner where we consume enough chocolate to change the balance of blood/sugar running through our veins, resulting in us lurching deliriously to the car in a sugar crazed stupor.
The other side of the coin is that the one thing I don’t consider myself responsible for is soccer season and the games associated therewith. That’s a boy thing that Miss8 does and hence the responsibility of her dad (referred to earlier as The Big O). While I happily do the practice sessions where I am more of a mobile changeroom/taxi driver, the games are not my domain (as selfishly you will find me on a spinbike on a Sunday morning – and nothing in heaven or on earth is going to change that routine). This is a great source of amusement to the soccer dads – who are under the impression that the poor Accountant is getting the raw end of the stick here. Yeah right. Cry me a river Boys, cry me a river.
As it turns out, this Sunday the game was at 2pm and the sun was shining (have I mentioned my aversion to wind, rain and anything less than 25 degrees Celsius?) and there I was front and centre at the first soccer game of the season. My bum was firmly entrenched in my portable fold up yuck green chair (even that doesn’t work for me) and I was preparing to launch into a full-on moan on Twitter when I glanced up to see Miss8 running her heart out alongside 11 other little girls from her team and 11 others from the opposing team. The passion and enthusiasm was beautiful. Just plain beautiful in a non-Hanna Montana, anti-Justin Bieber kind of way. And before I knew it I was one of those hoon mothers yelling madly from the sidelines and using the right terminology to boot! (bad pun, I know). Whoever thought I would know to screech – kick it down the line!!!!! Tackle, tackle! Or say to the mother next to me – “For God’s sake can he blow the final whistle already so our team can win?” Yup – 1-0 baby – first game of the season, first win.
I probably won’t be committing to every game regardless of wind, rain or shine but when I’m there, I’ll be there- with my mobile phone in my bag and my game switched on. And while I thank the Big Man Upstairs every day for making me the mother of girls (snails and shmails and puppy dogs tails are not quite as appealing as Sugar and Spice) I guess it’s not all about Max Brenner, shopping and shampoo. Here’s to my future Matilda – many goals may she score. Ole ole ole ole…………….