Memoir of a single mum

Often it is good to revisit past places of happiness. I remember buying my son his first small yacht. It was slowly dissintegrating on a stand at a local yacht club. Under the tutorship of three wonderful older men, this boat was stripped, repainted, re-sealed, patched and readied for sailing, proudly carrying the sail number 123 on a faded pale blue sale. It was a minnow named White Knight after the confectionary and we left it so.

She had a magnificent old polished wood mast whilst other newer craft had aluminium ones and this made for ongoing maintenance issues for an eight year old and his non-sailor mother. Another kind male mentor found us a free second hand alumnium mast and my son set sail amongst the red group of the sail training fleet at Blairgowrie Yacht Squadron.

Each summer weekday, we would end school days here. Meeting at the school gate to collect him, rigging her up and him sailing happily until sunset. I set up and cooked the BBQ on the yacht club deck or lawns, whilst he showered and readied himself for home and night-time routine.

When we could not afford to purchase the next sized yacht, a Sabre (then $3,000, used and in need of TLC) we sold White Knight and my son never sailed from BYS again. They also changed membership fees at that time that I, as adult could not be a non-sailing social member without an adult sailing member. My son's annual junior sailing fees were worth every cent, just for the closeness we developed through these years.

The lack of sailing, the lack of access to a Sabre, then subsequently the lack of a Laser, meant a particular moment in mother son relationship was no longer able to be that special part of our shared family history. This is turn meant the reliance on cheaper , 'more macho' team sports which at least offered more male mentors... but from that moment on my son and I began the inevitable drift away from each other as he neared adolescence.A distance which remains today with even the hint of blame in my son's judgemental moments, the blame of being a non-working Mum with an income and being responsible for his infrequent visits from his father.

This brings me to the first year after my son had sold White Knight we strolled the lawns for old time's sake and he actually cried (not a young child) when he saw that the new owners had t-boned her and crashed her causing scratches and dents that remained unattended to as she sat on her rack, with the season drawing to a close. He and I could not cope with the lack of respect and love shown this craft that meant so much to us. We stopped going near BYS.

Late one recent Friday evening, I returned for the first time in over ten years. I found what I believe to be White Knight on a rack, still scratched, gunwall needing much TLC on under side. The proud BYS sticker and sail number no longer on her stern.

I felt tears welling up again. Money can buy kids anythings these days but it will buy back our days sailing White Knight (adults can but my son no longer wants anything to do with this rich person's hobby). Nor can I save White Knight. She is slowly rotting away and I am sad that I cannot buy her back, restore her again and keep her cocooned for any grandchildren I may (or indeed may not) ever have.

She did not deserve this after all the years of pleasure she gave the girl who owned her before my son (at RYC) nor now. I wish I had the money to buy her back. I know adults sail minnows but that is a part of my son's life he left behind when the reality of the Australian class system confronted him for the first time, face to face. I think I will post this thread on the BYS site... if they have a blog or at least link to it (which they do and I couldn't).

I felt the Board and Management needed to know how important a part this special place played in the youth of one small local boy and his full-time mother.

Hotel room heaven

Yep that's right, I am saying that a hotel room can be heaven. It is not as salacious as that first seems.
Just imagine that you have spent the last twenty years caring for your child's needs every hour of every day. Your entire emaotional state is concerned with ensuring that your child fels secure, loved, and valued. You are the emotional sounding board, in sync with the child's fluctuating moods. When he is happy, you are happy. When anxious you feel pressure to 'make things better'. After all it is 'your responsibility'... or at least somewhere you have taken this imperative as true. The whole living through your child (called emeshing) is a psychological aberration yet when speaking to mothers, I have been privileged to share these revelations. They too feel the same. I am not a pathological weirdo damaging my child by over-investing emotionally. I am just like everybody else.

Not that this is a healthy thing. Indeed I can testify that this is actually draining and emotionally damaging to yourself. You lose yourself as your self-perception is that of [the child's] mother, and your needs and wishes become subsumed by guilt... guilt that you SHOULD not put your needs ahead of your child's.

It makes no sense at all, I know, but it is a powerful 'should'.

We know what should happen to 'shoulds' and 'musts'...

But we are fallible and living in s disconnected society where mothers often feel isolated and unsure of what is the 'right' way to behave as a mother.

There are also very strong calls that "by making time for yourself you are able to be more relaxed, less unfuilfilled and able to be there for your child in a more effective and happier parent-child relationship."

Well this is all very well if your economic circumstances do not require balancing needs between family and self.

Mothers seem 'hard-wired' to put everybody else first.

Since my child has reached adulthood I now feel I am permitted to attend to my own needs and not feel selfish. Meeting my needs is supposed to be part of my wellness routine, and by being well I can feel better about myself.

I can forge an identity of my self that stands apart from my socially constructed identity as mother, sole-parent, welfare mum, dole bludger, perennial student, lazy wastrel, etc... This identity can be 'mature woman'.

As a mature woman, I deserve and need privacy. It is about time that my bedroom and my bathroom (and indeed my study) are my sacred places, not thoroughfares where my son can corner me to gain exclusive attention.

I mean, even the household cats corner me in the toilet assuming that is the perfect place for feline attention! As for putting on make-up, forget it... I almost always jump sky high when either son or cat suddenly enters the bathroom.

I guess that is all my fault by having that '70's attitude that the human body should not be hidden and people should not feel ashamed of their natural body... yeah great call Carol! Especially since I have been ashamed of my body now for over 20 years and avoid mirrors at all costs. How did this lapse of privacy continue through this period?

Not only does my son not recognise doors and doorways into my living zones, to a lesser degree neither does his aged father. At least my bathroom is off limits, and the bedroom MOSTLY.

The excuse to over-ride my need for privacy seems to be a 'need' to pet the cats. If they happen to be on my bed (even if I am in it at the time)... it is supposed to be okay to enter and pat the cat/s!! Since when is this acceptable? Also when a cat is comfy and curled into the armchair asleep behind me in my study whilst I type away, it seems that this is another signal that 'cat patting is allowed'.

Am I being unreasonable here, when I feel that a man who has had no part in my life since conceiving THE CHILD can now assume , just because we share a house
(a large one with three separate living zones), that privacy and Carol's spaces are 'open all hours' when a cat is present?

And why is it that I have that special magnetism over the bloody cats? I didn't go and collect them to give them a home. I said 'no'. I was over-ruled by the two adult males, yet the cats come after me for affection and companionship.

It is all so cliched. Lonely single woman with pet cats as companions. Perhaps because there is truth in the connection between cats and single women. Hey even that spunky beautiful thirtyish blonde detective in Cold Case has a cat living with her in her apartment.... so it should not be seen as a stigmatising symbol of ageing womanhood.

Is that connection with witches and their familiars the problem here? Are older women dangerous in their liberation and raw female power?

Okay then, I am proud to be a cat owner! I am mobilising a subversive identity... but this particular 'witch' cannot summon up enough power to defend her own private space... Ah I only I had a broomstick I would regularly fly off to be alone...

The nearest I can do, is to lash out every so often, when the hotel rewards schemes are offering bonus points, or double point offers, or as was the case last week a $60 plus points night in a 4 star hotel.

I could not wait to book.

Why?

Some would say hotels are tacky, featureless, and devoid of any saving graces. But for me, they symbolise privacy and freedom. I am free to not worry about cleaningbathrooms, laundering linen and making beds. I can make coffee without leaving the widescreen TV. Room service is tempting with bottles of wine and snacks. I can drink a bottle of wine and fall into a spacious bed without worrying about keeping my alcohol level to under 0.5. I can avoid driving by being in the city centre.

I can look at the city lights from my window, the reflections of those fireballs in the darkened surface of the Yarra. I can stroll across and buy chocolates, Chinese, French, Italian, strong coffees and delectable cakes and Danishes... anything that takes my fancy any time I desire it.

I can even ignore it all but still feel free because I have the option to do what I want, without needed to justify it or explain to anybody!

And what's more I can concentrate on writing and using the hotel WIFI, the business centre, or doing laps of the outside heated pool (which nobody uses in winter), and the gym. I can use the yoga mats, the wonderful machines that I adore (without the fear of meeting lycra-clad gym junkies).

I can pretend. I can pretend I am on holiday. I can pretend I am here just for the mid year sales or the theatre, or concerts, galleries or any of the wonders Melbourne offers in winter.

I can just be me. No explanations, no justifications, no demands, just freedom (and no kids or cats).

They become my special places. I am my one and only priority... for at least one night.

I leave feeling recharged.

Yep, those tacky chain hotels are my heavens... at least while the dollars are in my debit card account!

The two BIG days are nearly over for 2010.

Well, Mother's Day has come and gone and I have managed to not suffer depression. (Remember Depession is merely anger without enthusiasm! Thanks to Good Quotes.com) See I can't even dredge up the energy for my own witty repartee! Unlike my dear mentor Maxine I did not resort to a bottle of wine, or indeed any alcohol. That would have been a dangerous move, especially given how fraught the household has been lately. I was given my favourite gift and am really grateful for it, but it strikes me that my son's father popped in the shop and parted with the cash... The card just doesn't seen like the usual ones selected by my son... (they tend to have very sharp sarcascastic yet funny tag lines)... this one was a tad soppy!

So I guess my son saying he HATES birthdays and all the other celebrations, decided to include Mother's Day in his boycot this year. What is about males that can't see that even token gestures are better than none at all? And despite the commerialism, as a Mum, it is actually the one day of the year when we can be thanked for just being there. So much for that idea.

So, without getting drunk, how did I celebrate?

A television marathon of crap. Foxtel didn't even schedule one single women's movie or chick flick... I guess only LOSER MUMS would be sitting at home with the TV.... Yep, that sounds about right.

Add to this no specially-prepared meals. My son played his usual MRPG game schedule and ate in his room, and I alone in the lounge... not alone I was with the cats... How clicheed is that? Cats and TV?

the best bit...Mother's Day watching three hours of Love's Labours Lost from the Globe Theatre in London... oh well, I could pretend I was in London if nothing else.

Even the night didn't pan out. I had hoped to go to see a comedy benefit in Brunswick to raise funds for battling racism against asylum seekers but I could not motivate myself to go out alone.

So early to bed... after watching the last episode of Stephen Fry in America.

His doco on Bi Polar is on again on Wednesday on the BIO network. I wish I could watch it again as I usually come away motivated and determined to live well... but wouldn't you know Wednesday night is supposed to be the delayed 21st dinner with son, his father, his ex-boss and wife.

Great, after the last verbal tirade I am really looking forward to Chinese food I mostly cannot eat (seafood anaphylaxis) and me the designated driver. Oh fun!

Which brings me to the second andEVEN BIGGER DAY. Today, my son turns 21 and of course didn't want a party, or any such waste of money. He did willingly accept the iphone a few weeks ago, I notice... and the ongoing monthly prepay account. Hmmm..."methinks he doth protest too much."

Then this morning just so he didn't have to go to his TAFE without so much as an acknowledgement of the day, I rose and had a small token gift for him to open. He was too late and shrugged... when I come home eh? So much for that.

This will not go well either. I bought some clothing from a surf shop and now that shop has closed down. What were my son's sizes some weeks ago seem to be one size too small now! Great, let's remind him he has put on weight. Great call Mother! Also added a book he would have loved in another career incarnation... but not now.

Missed the whole thing really, so tonight will again be fraught... perhaps alcohol is the way ahead on this occasion.

His father is not home and has already done the... "poor me... to think I am here to see him turn 21... I thought I would be dead by now". Instead of great, we both (son & I) knew you would make it, I looked at him in disbelief... yep WE WERE BOTH THERE when the heart surgeon announced six months in 2001 and we went into debt to get the males to Italy for the big family goodbye!

Speaking of being self-obsessed... over this last fortnight I have put on 1 1/2 kgs!!! Emotional eating! So I feel like shit. Bring on Wednesdays hypnotherapy... I need you Caroline.

Tonight son and I are on our own for THE 21st (with FAT CLOTHES!) which seems actually more realistic and logical... but I am unsure whether to go all out as it would be me 'wasting money again' like the 'illogical c..t' I was called last week.


As a fall back I have made chocolate mousse... please set!

Remember when you look at the suburban houses with their manicured lawns, a dysfunctional family like mine is probably sheltering inside behind the drawn curtains.

"Suburbia - where they cut down trees and name streets after them."