The BBC reported last week that:
The working mother who cannot be at home to cuddle a distraught child can relax - her voice on the phone soothes as much as a hug, a study suggests.
Don't worry. I am not going to write another lengthy critique of studies that show things. Oh, really, you would like me to? Are you sure? You have time? Well, we'll see. I had thought to do a short post, experimentally, as it were. Just to say I can, you know?
I have spent some time lately checking out various blogs - I will one day create a guide for the uninitiated. I wrote a guide to swings in the parks and gardens of the east coast of Australia in 1980. It never really got read or noticed but it was useful to have the record at the time... Nevertheless, what I have seen is that most blogs are really quite short. Some are pictures or links to videos. Some involve linking lots of other people's things. That seems to be rather a good way of saving time and effort so I will have to try it at some stage. I like to think that the side bar area will accommodate quite a few links or recommendations, in time.
But I am eager not to compromise my own standards as a blogger, so for now I will continue with the story telling approach in the main. I am not as yet a "professional" blogger, I hasten to add. I am learning that such is an occupation now. Good luck to those enterprising and tenacious writers. You will notice that I am trying to monetise my musings with my little link to Amazon in the side panel. I apologise if you find this mercenary. It is a bit of a sell-out, especially since I want all of you and all of your contacts to buy my book from my publisher, thereby supporting the little, independent writer and publisher industry. I can say though that Amazon makes it very easy to link to their stuff and to make it look nice and presentable, which is also very enterprising.
Given I wanted to see how it feels to be brief and succinct, I had best focus on my topic now.
A mother's voice.
I guess it is good to know that science has proven that a mother's voice can be calming and reassuring and result in increased levels of the hormone oxytocin. I know about oxytocin from my child bearing experiences (sounds foreboding doesn't it?). Don't worry - I will never enlarge on those experiences here. Suffice to say, oxytocin is associated with bonding as it is released in lactation - just look it up if you are curious. Anyway, it supposedly gives rise to feelings of calm and contentment.
However, rather than putting 60 girls aged 7-12 under stress in order to test the theory, the study people could have had a quick look at my phone bills circa 1995 - 2009. I was single handedly keeping One-Tel afloat there for a while with my calls to my mother in Brisbane (from London). I was enjoying soaring oxytocin levels every week after those lengthy chats, whether I was stressed before or not. It was like shot in the arm: love, comfort, sympathy, unconditional acceptance, humour, wisdom, optimism, news, perspective, challenge.
My mother was something else though - she could provoke all of that as well as adrenalin, guffaws, joy, frustration, longing...
And I am not the only one. So yes, it is great to have the proof now that 60 little girls have felt a similar hormonal surge following contact with their mother, after a stressful situation.
What was the stress? Giving an impromptu speech and solving maths problems. (Come on, have a heart. They were just little girls.)
I will not go to town over this; merely raise a couple of questions.
I wonder why they did not carry out the tests on any boys. Do boys not find impromptu speeches and maths problems tricky? Maybe it depends how much telly they watched at age 2. Or do boys not have oxytocin? Or respond to their mothers? What do we really know about men and women and how they respond to stress?
Does the child get the rush of oxytocin if the mother asks how many sums they got wrong, or what they said in the speech, what the panel seemed to think of them or how they did their hair for the event? Is there a corresponding surge in cortisol (stress hormone) when so interrogated by the mother? If oxytocin suppresses cortisol then they must not easily coexist. So which one is stronger in real life, where the mother has not been primed to let her child get stressed and then offer kind platitudes over the phone or a personal hug?
So the next big question is - where are the dads in all of this stress and bonding? Are they at work? On the golf course? Does a physically present dad's comfort give rise to any, more or less oxytocin that an absent mother on a phone? What about step-mothers, aunts, sisters, close female friends?
Does it work if the stressed child is shown a picture of its mother? Or a recording of her voice saying comforting things?
Now this could revolutionise the way women work. Rushing home for dinner and homework and stories? No - just record your voice and have some stranger play it to them each evening!
So, typically, I am looking for the learning for me in this piece of news.
Springgirl's to-do list:
1. Buy each of the off-Spring a phone.
2. Get a job.
3. Find some friends to go out with after work.
4. Record myself saying soothing things.
5. Record myself saying non-soothing things on the grounds it may do nothing for them but would help my own levels of oxytocin to not have to harangue, pester and shout the same instructions every day - I could perhaps record myself saying them in gentle and soothing tones -
"Oh Sweetheart, dearest, will you brush your teeth, pack your bag, finish your breakfast, stop fighting/spitting/speaking with your mouth full/annoying people..."
(Just realised that 4. and 5. amount to Hormone Replacement Therapy for kids! No more cortisol inducing scolding episodes over the homework or the chores. Oxytocin on tap! if we can find the role the mother can play in suppressing adrenalin damage, insulin issues and even excessive testosterone (that can cause acne among other things), imagine!)
6. Give some thought to monetising the recorded mother's voice idea.
7. Stop blogging and get more sleep.
8. Spend more time remembering my mother and our chats.
9. Get more links into the blog.
10. Accept that slow-blogging, like slow-cooking, slow-dating(!), slow-golfing and best of all, slow-parenting, is here to stay.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Announcing: Quality tv - Apprentice meets Super Parent!
A newspaper reported last week:
.. watching television makes toddlers fatter and stupider at primary school, according to new research.Scientists who tracked the progress of pre-school children found that the more television they watched aged two-and- a-half the worse they were at mathematics, the more junk food they ate, and the more they were bullied by other pupils.The findings, which support earlier evidence indicating television harms cognitive development, prompted calls for the Government to set limits on how much children should watch. American paediatricians advise that under-twos should not watch any television and that older children should view one-to-two hours a day at most. France has banned shows aimed at under-threes, and Australia recommends that three-to-five-year-olds watch no more than an hour a day. Britain has no official advice.
Take a moment or two to mull this over...
So, what do you think about that?
I am bemused, and a little confused. And yes, a little cross.
This is of no particular concern to me. I have managed to offer a range of amusements to the off-Spring that include occasional tv watching and thus far have not discerned any extraordinary evidence of junk food eating (another relative concept), victimisation or mathematical dysfunction. I may be speaking too soon. We are by no means out of the woods. Should any of them struggle in these areas though, perhaps I would be pleased to be able to blame it all on CBeebies. It would be preferable to thinking the kid was born dumb or a glutton for junk food, or that something I did or did not do, other than switch on the tv, was to blame.
Right now any such damage could be lying dormant, waiting to erupt and ruin their lives. Turning off the tv now would be shutting the gate after the horse has bolted. Thank goodness for the off-Spring and me, these findings have only now been published. Admittedly, for the past 6 months we have enjoyed no tv viewing apart from a little bit of some alien oriented cartoon at a friend's house. The cold caller from British Telecom will be dining out this weekend on the fact that he tried to sell me their vision package only to be told we do not own a tv. He was silent for a few beats and then said "have you ever had a tv?". I said "oh yes - we are just exploring life without and so far it is all going quite well." Silence.
"Well if you should decide to get a tv, maybe you should consider our great packages."
"Will do!"
Well not anymore Mister BT Vision. What if the study is wrong and the age for not watching tv is actually not 2, but 4 or 7 or 10 or late 30s? It would be a terrible shame if one's life was ruined so young by something so seemingly benign. And I am not defensive because off-Spring number 1 watched Finding Nemo every day for the first 6 weeks of his brother's life. Needs must, as they say. Sadly, he remembers so little of those times before he was 3, anyway. In fact, I suspect as they get older much of life before 6 becomes a blurry half dream of teddies and long drives and bedtimes stories and grown ups talking about them ad nauseum. Who really recalls what they were up to at three? Also, if something is going to ruin your school years you would want at the very least to be able to remember it.
Before I get to the heart of today's post - new concept for a reality tv show - I just want to throw in my two cents worth on this topic.
My view, for what it is worth, is that the study sounds like cr-p for several reasons. Please note, I have not read it so I am only commenting on how the study was reported by the newspaper. But that must be ok, because the intent of the reporter and newspaper was not for us to run off and download the study and give it full and comprehensive analysis (are you kidding - in an age where these newspapers twitter and "feed" the news in 51 characters, there is no contemplation of detailed consideration occurring) - it was to sensationalise the issue of toddler tv viewing and scare a bunch of easily influenced, second guessing, trying very hard to do it all and to do it as well as they can, parents, into feeling guilty and harassed and switching the tv off and buying, or working harder to afford to buy, ever more stimulating entertainment for the little ones since the 42 inch flat screen is now responsible for the three biggest failings we can face as parents of small children. The dreaded trinity of being bullied, being no good at maths and eating too much junk food!
This is just too much to bear! You see the tv was the fall-back, the saving grace. Sure the pesky little questions were always in the back of our mind - How much tv is too much? Should I watch with them and put off doing the ironing longer? Is Dora the Explorer good or bad? How many DVDs does a 4 year old need? But we consoled ourselves with providing age appropriate pseudo-educational programmes like Big Cook, Little Cook with colour and song and healthy food and even some maths thrown in. What else were we to do when the phone rang and the client needed a few minutes, or when the husband came in and just had to download his day straight away and the kids were screaming for attention, or when the little beggars were so overtired at 5 pm, so ready to beat each other senseless with the Meccano, so sick of not eating the play-dough and their dinner was still not made? Could we really have been expected to settle down with a good book or a grimy and wet and freezing walk to the park to slop around in puddles of mud and come home and fight until bath time?
But returning to the study. I want to know a few things.
First, how old are the children they have tracked? How many, from where and what sort of home environments? What sort of diet have they had? How much discretionary spending did they enjoy and what were they watching at 2 and a half ? Also, what have they watched since? What exactly is JUNK food? How many kids did they study? Did the kids never watch tv apart from at 2? Was watching tv at 2 the sole distinguishing feature of the bullied dummies who ate junk food? What is too much tv? Who tells the truth about these things anyway - so how do they know what they really watched? Is it worse to be bullied than to be the bully?
Seriously. How can they make these statements? What if it turns out that the kids in question have predominantly watched Sesame Street and the like; fun learning programmes that generations of toddlers were raised on? What if the junk food problem flows from underexposure to salty, sugary, artificial rubbish in their pre-school lives? What if they were spoiled rotten with electronic toys, too many activities or play dates and over-anxious parents who solved all their problems, played with them all day - apart from during tv time - and never enabled them to develop resilience or a capacity to amuse themselves. What if the bullied kids are more sensitive and regard the odd smiling tease from their best friend as intolerable?
I wonder if any of toddlers in the study were raised on a diet of Baby Einstein (have you watched any - so boring), Life on Earth or classical orchestras in concert? Of those who watched tv at 2, how many were underexposed to other developmentally challenging or interesting distractions/toys? Like an emptry box? Or a blade of grass? Or an old shampoo bottle?
In other words, what else was going on then and since? Of the tv addicts at 2 how many actually ate their tv dinner in front of the box while failing to learn how to count the chips on their plate?
Also, show me a child in the "developed world" who does not love junk food and I will personally do a study on him! Chips, pizza, cup cakes and sweets (treats) are revered. Let he who is without junk food bribery guilt cast the first set top box.
However, even if there is a correlation between excessive tv viewing and challenges at school then perhaps the issue needs to be explored in more depth.
Could it be that exposure to too much advertising is partly to blame for an interest in junk food, Barbies and fun parks? Perhaps too much time spent inert and passive contributes to the development of passive or reactive coping mechanisms. Perhaps tv watching children tend to be better at subjects other than maths - art, science or languages? Why did the study not highlight any of the great things tv can do for the child - like knowing all the colours really young or all the hits ever sung by Hi-5, or raising an awareness that there is a huge, amazing world beyond one's own house and street and nursery school?
Do you see what I am saying? This study raises a lot of questions.
Could it be one of those studies that is carried out in order to prove a point that is already presumed to be true. I hate to denigrate the survey writing people or "monkeys" as they are called on the internet - but most surveys ask a bunch of questions where the most accurate responses are simply not provided for. Have you ever seen a box for "well sometimes, but it just depends on the situation"? No. There you are. Perhaps these studies are skewed.
Maybe I will do one of my own. I will ask all the parents I know to tell me how much time their children spend:
a) bickering;
b) fooling around;
c) making mess;
d) refusing to eat healthy balanced meals;
e) whining.
Oh gosh - I did not supply a category for "other" in my survey. Oh well, negligible, de minimis, won't worry about it as it might skew the results I need to get.
Perhaps I will come at this from a different angle. Rather than ask questions of parents, I could ask children. Oh no, if it were not confidential that might cause some problems.
Maybe the answer is tv after all. And the fame and fortune it offers. A test of mettle, perseverance and skill in a high stakes quest to find The Parent Extraordinaire (imagine the Apprentice meets Super Nanny meets Big Brother).
The results may be staggering.
Finally, returning to the study, why does Britain offer no official advice? Or are the British busy creating quality kids tv that teaches maths, social skills and healthy eating habits to the under fours?
And rather than ban tv for under 3s, why don't the French make watching it compulsory - is it not better to let everyone have the same chance to be hopeless? And why do those Aussies have to be so democratic. Surely 30 minutes of Bindy the Jungle Girl is not the same as 30 Minutes of MTV or the Wallabies live at Murrayfield?
And before I finish, could someone please commission a study into the impact of Youtube and facebook on these same children?
Better go - need to catch my favourite show on demand and eat my daily fix of chocolate. It has to be better than being bullied on those discussion forums I follow.
Note to self - set some extra maths homework for the off-Spring.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Left, right, left, right - march it out - easy walk...
I have always struggled to remember which side of the brain is responsible for which type of thinking. This is topical because following on my foray into the world of Daniel Pink last week I ordered his book "A Whole New Mind". At risk of sounding churlish, I should let you know that I emailed Dan and invited him to comment on my post of 6 May (what motivates us). He very decently responded to say he would look at it when he had internet access - he was on a plane. I did not ask why he could receive emails but not read a blog - there must be a special internet for best-selling authors or people who travel up front... Anyway, I was delighted to have his interest and am waiting and waiting for his comment. He still may be on the plane of course.
I don't mean to suggest he is not a man of his word. I am sure he is busy. I just hope he finds a moment before I make it big and my blogs emerge on the humour pages of the New York Times...
I am quite comfortable with the fact he is busy. So many of my friends and acquaintances are busy. I am in a unique place much of the time in that I am seldom particularly busy. I used to be busier, it is true, when I worked for someone else and had to be in places they needed me to be. But self-employed writer and coach is not too bad. People say; "how are you?" and I say: "good, keeping busy," in an animated sort of way with a slight upward inflection on "sy". It's not usually true. I mean, I am occupied. I am not twiddling my thumbs, as it were, but my days are not quite "ER" meets "The West Wing". Some days I realise I am rushing everywhere, but rushing does not correlate with busyness. In my case I rush because I get too involved with something and underestimate the time it takes to get the coffee I ordered, to get the off-Spring where they need to be (they are not very busy so it is only school or home usually), to buy things in supermarkets (what a mammoth waste of time), to wait for and ride on buses and to give directions to strangers. I always try to be prompt, so I burst blood vessels and look like a menopausal mess arriving places in a slight lather only, invariably, to be kept waiting 10 minutes anyway, as the person I am meeting is busy and delayed in another meeting (m. at toilet or on phone to wife/hubby).
So yes, most people are less available and as they are so busy, definitely more important and needed than me. The great thing for busy people is never having to apologise for not replying to emails or invitations to have a coffee and catch up. They don't need to return phone calls or observe other social niceties. Being busy is better than being happy and whole and relaxing, that's for sure. (As an aside I think there might be a book in the inverse relation between social networking and social skills.) Busy people are a little scary. I just wonder what on earth they are doing? Some people can't meet on weekends due to "chores" or "errands". I would love to be a fly in their handbags and see what they do and where they go. Busy people are like a secret society of special people who have meaningful and relevant lives. I sometimes feel like some poor country cousin (no offence non-city dwellers) interloping on the fringes of a cool clique waiting to hear the secret password to give me access to the big-time. "Dammit," they must be thinking - "will have to avoid Springgirl. She is always hanging about with time on her hands looking for a coffee or a conversation. Doesn't she know we are busy. Where is the diary? Is that a text? I have to twitter that I am busy."
Sometimes people say to me, kindly, semi-indulgently: "where do you find the time to do so many things?" and I say - "oh, I am not that busy, you know - just seem to have more time than most people".
Perhaps "busy" is another of those relative concepts - like weight loss, fitness and being good-looking. I am struggling to think of absolute concepts. Today, for example, the relativity of fitness was proven yet again as I altered my routine (I gather from the crime books I read that if you alter your routine you are less likely to be a victim of crime), and attended a TBC class at a different gym from my usual one. TBC stands for Total Body Conditioning. Depending on who is taking the class it can also mean This Bloody Crap or Tired Beyond Compare or occasionally Tanned Buff Chest. Today's was Toned But Cute meets Tough Boot Camp. Anyway, not far into the 469 wide legged squats and 84 burpees, it was clear to me that I am still not fit. I seem to think I am an athlete because I go to the gym. I am essentially quite delusional about it.
The other day I did a BC class (that's non-contact Body Combat). Now, on a Saturday at the usual gym, I hold my own. I can do as many push-ups as the next chick my age; though it is challenge to tell ages in some cases, as the Body Combat face paint - I mean make-up - would throw Max Factor off. Full night-club eyes! One lady even does that thing where the eyeliner goes into a point way off to the side of the eyes - out on the edge of the eye-socket. It is Saturday at the gym - and not even cool super expensive one - not part way through a day on-set!
Nevertheless, as most of you know now, I am competitive by nature so I nab a good mirror spot to keep an eye on the others. I can see that I am in the top 10 (out of 40 or more) in terms of force of jab and upper cut. Some of them do not sweat. These women are forces of nature - they come in and really work hard and leave looking fresh and relaxed, not an eyebrow hair out of place. Others barely sweat because the barely moved other than to snarl up the corner where the mats are kept, chatting about what "he then said!". But, the fact that I am a contender for teacher's pet in Combat - my high knee moves are very good (many don't lift above usual thigh height!), my 128 jabs and crosses at the end are strong, in time with the music and consistent in force and direction, I laugh at the jokes and have even mastered that professional athlete hand on hip breathing thing between tracks (rather than the bent over double gasping for breath routine of former times) - means nothing on a weekday lunchtime, it seems. There is a whole different level of fitness happening in TBC, TBS (to be sure) at 1pm on a Tuesday.
Humbling.
Indeed, humiliated is how I felt mid-burpee when the skinny, veiny guy next to me was still going strong as I heaved my sorry leaden legs up once more (having already misplaced those pesky weights during the lunges and retied my laces twice), heart rate in the 300s and sweat pooling where my brow had been plastered to the floor.
You see, I had smiled a knowing inner smile at that skinny guy during the warm-up - congratulating myself on being so coordinated and knowing a side step from a grapevine.
Well, imagine my mortification when I was one of the few not completing all the crunches and weird sideways dipping archy things at the end! So, having time on my hands of course, I stayed on for the gruelling follow up class in Body Balance. Man - people think that is a light weight option. It should be called TS (Thighs of Steel). After the TBC squats and one-armed push-ups it was no cake walk. But for the 34 toned, yoga queens in the room I would have called an ambulance.
Clearly, my fitness depends on the day, class and venue. The question for me then is, do I raise the bar, risk injury and need knee replacement surgery by 40? Or just cruise, feel better about myself and steer clear of group exercise entirely? No pain (sigh) no gain, they say.
Yes! I shall push myself. I am certainly eager to keep dementia at bay and physical fitness is meant to help with that. Ohhh - which is where this all came from.
Right and left brain.
I am tending to think I may be ambi-brained. Que? You know, like ambidextrous (which I am not).
Like in personality tests where I score right down the middle - I am an extroverted introvert, a perceptive judge, a feeling thinker and am very sensate in my intuition - I think I use both sides of my brain equally. Then again, I may have perception or judging issues and discover after reading Dan's book that I am deluded about my brain (as well as my fitness and talent in various other realms too).
I had occasion to test this ambi-brained theory in yoga class, would you believe? The Instructor is obsessed with breathing and noisy breathing, especially. I find it a bit off putting, to be frank. I mean I go to yoga to improve my plank, vary the workout and have a good stretch out, after sitting at the damn computer blogging like a maniac too long. But I play along with all the breath stuff and the "omming" and legs up the wall and so on - one cannot get the "nice warrior" compliments if one is grimacing during the less interesting bits. Anyway, she was having us use our right thumbs and ring fingers to block off our nostrils, alternately. Try it - weird eh? And as I have a head cold and hayfever, it was rather an effort to then hold the breath for 8 counts. I had to cheat and breath through my mouth at that point or I would have needed CPR and there was no one in the room I fancied having that from, bless them.
Well, yoga lady said that by blocking each nostril we feed the opposite side of the brain. She said we mostly breathe better through the right nostril and do more left brain stuff. Mmm? Got me thinking, given my new book from Dan was sitting on my door mat right at that moment (he argues that right brain thinking is the way of the future - creative, empathic and intuitive).
You see, my right nostril is almost completely blocked.
Hey - maybe I am not unfit after all. I struggled through TBC today due to this silly old head cold! You go Springgirl!
I don't mean to suggest he is not a man of his word. I am sure he is busy. I just hope he finds a moment before I make it big and my blogs emerge on the humour pages of the New York Times...
I am quite comfortable with the fact he is busy. So many of my friends and acquaintances are busy. I am in a unique place much of the time in that I am seldom particularly busy. I used to be busier, it is true, when I worked for someone else and had to be in places they needed me to be. But self-employed writer and coach is not too bad. People say; "how are you?" and I say: "good, keeping busy," in an animated sort of way with a slight upward inflection on "sy". It's not usually true. I mean, I am occupied. I am not twiddling my thumbs, as it were, but my days are not quite "ER" meets "The West Wing". Some days I realise I am rushing everywhere, but rushing does not correlate with busyness. In my case I rush because I get too involved with something and underestimate the time it takes to get the coffee I ordered, to get the off-Spring where they need to be (they are not very busy so it is only school or home usually), to buy things in supermarkets (what a mammoth waste of time), to wait for and ride on buses and to give directions to strangers. I always try to be prompt, so I burst blood vessels and look like a menopausal mess arriving places in a slight lather only, invariably, to be kept waiting 10 minutes anyway, as the person I am meeting is busy and delayed in another meeting (m. at toilet or on phone to wife/hubby).
So yes, most people are less available and as they are so busy, definitely more important and needed than me. The great thing for busy people is never having to apologise for not replying to emails or invitations to have a coffee and catch up. They don't need to return phone calls or observe other social niceties. Being busy is better than being happy and whole and relaxing, that's for sure. (As an aside I think there might be a book in the inverse relation between social networking and social skills.) Busy people are a little scary. I just wonder what on earth they are doing? Some people can't meet on weekends due to "chores" or "errands". I would love to be a fly in their handbags and see what they do and where they go. Busy people are like a secret society of special people who have meaningful and relevant lives. I sometimes feel like some poor country cousin (no offence non-city dwellers) interloping on the fringes of a cool clique waiting to hear the secret password to give me access to the big-time. "Dammit," they must be thinking - "will have to avoid Springgirl. She is always hanging about with time on her hands looking for a coffee or a conversation. Doesn't she know we are busy. Where is the diary? Is that a text? I have to twitter that I am busy."
Sometimes people say to me, kindly, semi-indulgently: "where do you find the time to do so many things?" and I say - "oh, I am not that busy, you know - just seem to have more time than most people".
Perhaps "busy" is another of those relative concepts - like weight loss, fitness and being good-looking. I am struggling to think of absolute concepts. Today, for example, the relativity of fitness was proven yet again as I altered my routine (I gather from the crime books I read that if you alter your routine you are less likely to be a victim of crime), and attended a TBC class at a different gym from my usual one. TBC stands for Total Body Conditioning. Depending on who is taking the class it can also mean This Bloody Crap or Tired Beyond Compare or occasionally Tanned Buff Chest. Today's was Toned But Cute meets Tough Boot Camp. Anyway, not far into the 469 wide legged squats and 84 burpees, it was clear to me that I am still not fit. I seem to think I am an athlete because I go to the gym. I am essentially quite delusional about it.
The other day I did a BC class (that's non-contact Body Combat). Now, on a Saturday at the usual gym, I hold my own. I can do as many push-ups as the next chick my age; though it is challenge to tell ages in some cases, as the Body Combat face paint - I mean make-up - would throw Max Factor off. Full night-club eyes! One lady even does that thing where the eyeliner goes into a point way off to the side of the eyes - out on the edge of the eye-socket. It is Saturday at the gym - and not even cool super expensive one - not part way through a day on-set!
Nevertheless, as most of you know now, I am competitive by nature so I nab a good mirror spot to keep an eye on the others. I can see that I am in the top 10 (out of 40 or more) in terms of force of jab and upper cut. Some of them do not sweat. These women are forces of nature - they come in and really work hard and leave looking fresh and relaxed, not an eyebrow hair out of place. Others barely sweat because the barely moved other than to snarl up the corner where the mats are kept, chatting about what "he then said!". But, the fact that I am a contender for teacher's pet in Combat - my high knee moves are very good (many don't lift above usual thigh height!), my 128 jabs and crosses at the end are strong, in time with the music and consistent in force and direction, I laugh at the jokes and have even mastered that professional athlete hand on hip breathing thing between tracks (rather than the bent over double gasping for breath routine of former times) - means nothing on a weekday lunchtime, it seems. There is a whole different level of fitness happening in TBC, TBS (to be sure) at 1pm on a Tuesday.
Humbling.
Indeed, humiliated is how I felt mid-burpee when the skinny, veiny guy next to me was still going strong as I heaved my sorry leaden legs up once more (having already misplaced those pesky weights during the lunges and retied my laces twice), heart rate in the 300s and sweat pooling where my brow had been plastered to the floor.
You see, I had smiled a knowing inner smile at that skinny guy during the warm-up - congratulating myself on being so coordinated and knowing a side step from a grapevine.
Well, imagine my mortification when I was one of the few not completing all the crunches and weird sideways dipping archy things at the end! So, having time on my hands of course, I stayed on for the gruelling follow up class in Body Balance. Man - people think that is a light weight option. It should be called TS (Thighs of Steel). After the TBC squats and one-armed push-ups it was no cake walk. But for the 34 toned, yoga queens in the room I would have called an ambulance.
Clearly, my fitness depends on the day, class and venue. The question for me then is, do I raise the bar, risk injury and need knee replacement surgery by 40? Or just cruise, feel better about myself and steer clear of group exercise entirely? No pain (sigh) no gain, they say.
Yes! I shall push myself. I am certainly eager to keep dementia at bay and physical fitness is meant to help with that. Ohhh - which is where this all came from.
Right and left brain.
I am tending to think I may be ambi-brained. Que? You know, like ambidextrous (which I am not).
Like in personality tests where I score right down the middle - I am an extroverted introvert, a perceptive judge, a feeling thinker and am very sensate in my intuition - I think I use both sides of my brain equally. Then again, I may have perception or judging issues and discover after reading Dan's book that I am deluded about my brain (as well as my fitness and talent in various other realms too).
I had occasion to test this ambi-brained theory in yoga class, would you believe? The Instructor is obsessed with breathing and noisy breathing, especially. I find it a bit off putting, to be frank. I mean I go to yoga to improve my plank, vary the workout and have a good stretch out, after sitting at the damn computer blogging like a maniac too long. But I play along with all the breath stuff and the "omming" and legs up the wall and so on - one cannot get the "nice warrior" compliments if one is grimacing during the less interesting bits. Anyway, she was having us use our right thumbs and ring fingers to block off our nostrils, alternately. Try it - weird eh? And as I have a head cold and hayfever, it was rather an effort to then hold the breath for 8 counts. I had to cheat and breath through my mouth at that point or I would have needed CPR and there was no one in the room I fancied having that from, bless them.
Well, yoga lady said that by blocking each nostril we feed the opposite side of the brain. She said we mostly breathe better through the right nostril and do more left brain stuff. Mmm? Got me thinking, given my new book from Dan was sitting on my door mat right at that moment (he argues that right brain thinking is the way of the future - creative, empathic and intuitive).
You see, my right nostril is almost completely blocked.
Hey - maybe I am not unfit after all. I struggled through TBC today due to this silly old head cold! You go Springgirl!
Sunday, 9 May 2010
The circle of life...
There is a point of view that leaders and innovators ask and show not only What is to be done and How to do it, but Why it is so. The three questions can be written inside concentric circles - the Why being the central one - the bull's eye.
Simon Sinek formulated this hypothesis - the Golden Circle.
I grew up with a different Golden Circle. An Australian canner of fruits and vegies (slogans and labels are seldom original.) When I heard someone asking in reverent tones if I had heard about the "Golden Circle" I was unsure what to say. At first I thought it had something to do with rewards at school for good behaviour - but that is Golden Time. Then I wondered if the teacher makes the kids sit in a ring to enjoy their Golden Time. Then my mind turned to my favourite childhood dessert - pineapple meringue pie (missing my mum this Mother's Day). So I ventured - "What is so special about tinned pineapple and beetroot?" (lovely word "beetroot" with that pair of double vowels in each of the syllables; not many of those in English - moonbeam is close - I can think of no other actual word; poormoon, moonbeen, teendoor, spoonfeet, meetsoon, beetpoop, beennoon, teensoon...).
Where was I? Golden Circle. Not exactly something to blog home about.
Then she explained.
Simon says organisations and careers function on three levels:
Why - Purpose, cause or belief
The Why is your driving motivation for action.
What - Tangible proof, results
Simon Sinek formulated this hypothesis - the Golden Circle.
I grew up with a different Golden Circle. An Australian canner of fruits and vegies (slogans and labels are seldom original.) When I heard someone asking in reverent tones if I had heard about the "Golden Circle" I was unsure what to say. At first I thought it had something to do with rewards at school for good behaviour - but that is Golden Time. Then I wondered if the teacher makes the kids sit in a ring to enjoy their Golden Time. Then my mind turned to my favourite childhood dessert - pineapple meringue pie (missing my mum this Mother's Day). So I ventured - "What is so special about tinned pineapple and beetroot?" (lovely word "beetroot" with that pair of double vowels in each of the syllables; not many of those in English - moonbeam is close - I can think of no other actual word; poormoon, moonbeen, teendoor, spoonfeet, meetsoon, beetpoop, beennoon, teensoon...).
Where was I? Golden Circle. Not exactly something to blog home about.
Then she explained.
Simon says organisations and careers function on three levels:
Why - Purpose, cause or belief
The Why is your driving motivation for action.
What - Tangible proof, results
The Whats are the tangible ways in which you bring your Why to life.
How - Guiding principles
How - Guiding principles
The Hows are the specific actions that are taken to realize your Why.
He says too few organisations have a simple and comprehensible Why or fail to make it known.
This is good stuff - one man has taken over Why for himself - like the Riddler (Batman). He has all the merchandise - Why branded money clips, book marks, cuff links. There is even a Why University (looks uncannily like a coaching package, but what do I know?). Will a new WhyMCA be next? Any Whyne with your dinner? Whyte collar crime?
This is good stuff - one man has taken over Why for himself - like the Riddler (Batman). He has all the merchandise - Why branded money clips, book marks, cuff links. There is even a Why University (looks uncannily like a coaching package, but what do I know?). Will a new WhyMCA be next? Any Whyne with your dinner? Whyte collar crime?
His website and his message is simple, clear and direct - no excess verbiage. It makes great sense and he is booked solid.
I am coming at this from the wrong direction. (Come on Springgirl , when have you ever been wrong?) Ok, perhaps I should say I am using a less effective set of tangible ways to bring my Why to life. My Hows may not realise my Why. What did you say? What? Oh you mean, pardon? No. What. Exactly. Nothing seems to mean What it used to anymore.
Let me explain. Here I am, crafting a subtle blend of parody, irony, non-brevity and longevity in the hope that something of What I say will ring true for you or challenge you or make you laugh and I suddenly realise that I never clearly and overtly and authentically asserted my reason for doing so. Sure, you all assume I am blogging to amuse or amaze some faceless but influential writing talent scout in cyber-space who will pluck me from urban obscurity and turn me into the Voice of Small-Time-Crackpot-Wannabes the world over.
But you would be wrong - yes wrong! Hush now and listen. Simon says:
"It takes two things to be a great communicator: First, you need to be an optimist... (Springgirl: Phew - that's ok - I am definitely one of those!) Second: you must be able to put what you can imagine into simple words that everyone can understand; it doesn’t help to use a big vocabulary.." (Springgirl: Not so good at that.)
Alright Simon. I will give it a crack (m. Aussie laconic expression for "try"). The Why - my motivation (in case you missed the last post watching Master Chef, participating in some real world social interaction or reading something less erudite) - is: Because I Want To.
Why do I want to? Because it is fun, interactive (people join in), engaging (I get into it and time passes) and stimulating (interesting, not too easy or dull).
See - the Golden Circle revolution is changing my life!
Perhaps I should reassess my What while I am second guessing my How. My subject matter is not simple or plain. I write about people and feelings and confusion and language and words. Should I just get over myself and tell you my child's favourite colour or What I ate for dinner or some such banality? Let me be truly honest - who cares? I don't even care What I ate. I happen to find the whole food obsession incomprehensible. I haven't had much appetite for 9 years since I subscribed to The Ecologist and began reading food labels in search of unmentionable and unpronounceable chemical additives. Sorry to put you off your dinner...
Maybe I need to try harder to find something that is simple and interesting. Chocolate....
bees,
sunshine.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
That little guy on the end looks like the little Z in the "Cat in the Hat Comes Back" (next post topic?!).
But even if I find something simple and not too boring to write about there is a risk that my Why will be jeopardised. My What might be easier to convey if it were simpler but it might cease to prove my Why. I don't think I am allowed to change my Why willy nilly. And I mean the actual Why (the "I want to Why", not the "plucked from obscurity" perceived Why). So Where am I now?
Oh yes, for me the What has to stay more complex than simple, so that just leaves the How. The How is: blogging in a long winded way every few days. I think. How else could I communicate with you so as to make you laugh or think, without using these specific actions? I could phone you, I suppose, or write a letter, or a book. Oh no, I did that already. I could post comments on other people's blogs... That might get old pretty quickly, though.
Yet some of those alternative Hows might work, but they would be time consuming and might not appeal so much to you, who I think quite like being anonymous and removed from me and each other. Yes? And they would restrict my audience perhaps (given the huge numbers of avid readers I now attract, of course). So, the blog method of communicating seems to suit my Why. Rest assured I can be brief - I do Twitter! Not nearly as rewarding, though - feels like a waste of time actually - so I mostly use it to spread salacious gossip.
I feel really ebullient now. I seem to be able to satisfy all the relevant criteria in order to hit the bull's eye and sit in the Golden Circle with all the leaders and innovators.
The only outstanding issue is whether I can use fewer and less-big big words.
(sigh)
I cannot change.
If you are all in agreement then - let's move on. I want to share my vision for the future with you.
I see a world in which those who have the most uncanny grasp of the obvious and who can marry that insight with savvy marketing panache, cool catchwords, cliched slogans and celebrity sung jingles will run every company, every country and everything.
What? You think I have no vision? Oh. You think I am describing current reality? Yep - you've got me there.
Ok. How about this then?
I believe that we need to ask more of ourselves and of our leaders. We need to dream of a world in which everyone can struggle equally and freely to grasp complex and sophisticated concepts and ideas. We may not all master them, some of us may prefer to stay in our corners where we feel safe, where the words are not too big and the messages clear, and that will be ok, because in this future world there will be no right angles, no poles, no extremes.
In this future that together we will build, the Why and the How and the What will not be alone in their work to make sense of the difficult stuff. In this future the Circle will be squared - no, Pentagonsied - or even, dare we dream it - Hexagonised! The vertices will be replete and the Who and the When and the Where will take their rightful places in the quest for meaning and truth.
Just between us - I think I might graduate summa cun laude from a certain university...
I am coming at this from the wrong direction. (Come on Springgirl , when have you ever been wrong?) Ok, perhaps I should say I am using a less effective set of tangible ways to bring my Why to life. My Hows may not realise my Why. What did you say? What? Oh you mean, pardon? No. What. Exactly. Nothing seems to mean What it used to anymore.
Let me explain. Here I am, crafting a subtle blend of parody, irony, non-brevity and longevity in the hope that something of What I say will ring true for you or challenge you or make you laugh and I suddenly realise that I never clearly and overtly and authentically asserted my reason for doing so. Sure, you all assume I am blogging to amuse or amaze some faceless but influential writing talent scout in cyber-space who will pluck me from urban obscurity and turn me into the Voice of Small-Time-Crackpot-Wannabes the world over.
But you would be wrong - yes wrong! Hush now and listen. Simon says:
"It takes two things to be a great communicator: First, you need to be an optimist... (Springgirl: Phew - that's ok - I am definitely one of those!) Second: you must be able to put what you can imagine into simple words that everyone can understand; it doesn’t help to use a big vocabulary.." (Springgirl: Not so good at that.)
Alright Simon. I will give it a crack (m. Aussie laconic expression for "try"). The Why - my motivation (in case you missed the last post watching Master Chef, participating in some real world social interaction or reading something less erudite) - is: Because I Want To.
Why do I want to? Because it is fun, interactive (people join in), engaging (I get into it and time passes) and stimulating (interesting, not too easy or dull).
See - the Golden Circle revolution is changing my life!
Perhaps I should reassess my What while I am second guessing my How. My subject matter is not simple or plain. I write about people and feelings and confusion and language and words. Should I just get over myself and tell you my child's favourite colour or What I ate for dinner or some such banality? Let me be truly honest - who cares? I don't even care What I ate. I happen to find the whole food obsession incomprehensible. I haven't had much appetite for 9 years since I subscribed to The Ecologist and began reading food labels in search of unmentionable and unpronounceable chemical additives. Sorry to put you off your dinner...
Maybe I need to try harder to find something that is simple and interesting. Chocolate....
bees,
sunshine.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
That little guy on the end looks like the little Z in the "Cat in the Hat Comes Back" (next post topic?!).
But even if I find something simple and not too boring to write about there is a risk that my Why will be jeopardised. My What might be easier to convey if it were simpler but it might cease to prove my Why. I don't think I am allowed to change my Why willy nilly. And I mean the actual Why (the "I want to Why", not the "plucked from obscurity" perceived Why). So Where am I now?
Oh yes, for me the What has to stay more complex than simple, so that just leaves the How. The How is: blogging in a long winded way every few days. I think. How else could I communicate with you so as to make you laugh or think, without using these specific actions? I could phone you, I suppose, or write a letter, or a book. Oh no, I did that already. I could post comments on other people's blogs... That might get old pretty quickly, though.
Yet some of those alternative Hows might work, but they would be time consuming and might not appeal so much to you, who I think quite like being anonymous and removed from me and each other. Yes? And they would restrict my audience perhaps (given the huge numbers of avid readers I now attract, of course). So, the blog method of communicating seems to suit my Why. Rest assured I can be brief - I do Twitter! Not nearly as rewarding, though - feels like a waste of time actually - so I mostly use it to spread salacious gossip.
I feel really ebullient now. I seem to be able to satisfy all the relevant criteria in order to hit the bull's eye and sit in the Golden Circle with all the leaders and innovators.
The only outstanding issue is whether I can use fewer and less-big big words.
(sigh)
I cannot change.
If you are all in agreement then - let's move on. I want to share my vision for the future with you.
I see a world in which those who have the most uncanny grasp of the obvious and who can marry that insight with savvy marketing panache, cool catchwords, cliched slogans and celebrity sung jingles will run every company, every country and everything.
What? You think I have no vision? Oh. You think I am describing current reality? Yep - you've got me there.
Ok. How about this then?
I believe that we need to ask more of ourselves and of our leaders. We need to dream of a world in which everyone can struggle equally and freely to grasp complex and sophisticated concepts and ideas. We may not all master them, some of us may prefer to stay in our corners where we feel safe, where the words are not too big and the messages clear, and that will be ok, because in this future world there will be no right angles, no poles, no extremes.
In this future that together we will build, the Why and the How and the What will not be alone in their work to make sense of the difficult stuff. In this future the Circle will be squared - no, Pentagonsied - or even, dare we dream it - Hexagonised! The vertices will be replete and the Who and the When and the Where will take their rightful places in the quest for meaning and truth.
Just between us - I think I might graduate summa cun laude from a certain university...
Thursday, 6 May 2010
What motivates us?
I came across an interesting discussion about motivation. Daniel Pink suggests that people who are intrinsically motivated are more productive than those who are extrinsically motivated. He argues that "Carrots and sticks work, but only in a surprisingly narrow band of circumstances. For enduring motivation and high performance, autonomy, mastery, and purpose are much better."
Naturally I pondered this - being a self-congratulatory intrinsically motivated person. And then, because intrinsically I desire to mull over and ponder interesting questions for their own sake, I decided to write a post for my official Followers, my Commenters and my faceless non-official Followers to muse over.
I preface my reflections with an admission that I have only a brief acquaintance with the thesis of Mr Pink and nothing that follows should be construed as derisory of his viewpoint. I also admit freely that I may not yet fully comprehend his arguments or his terminology. I also concede that his expertise may pertain to the world of work and not the real world as it were. Oh, sorry - I think I might have that back to front. I am getting muddled now about intrinsic and extrinsic and which world I am in, virtual, real, work, home... Don't we all say our world is the real world, by definition?
Anyway, before I plummet over what I sense is a looming precipice and crash resoundingly on the rocks of failed-blog-bitter-and-twisted-couldn't-quite-cut-it-in-the-real-world-despite-academic-success lurking terrifyingly below said precipice, I want to thank him and his followers for prompting me to contemplate this question: what drives us?
I can only speak for myself really. Though I will, I know, end up speaking for many people, because that is what I do. I make sweeping statements couched in big words, phrased ever more verbosely, so as to trick you into thinking there is a fresh perspective or even a kernel of wisdom within my generalisations and long winded diatribe.
First, I think we need to break the topic down a bit - as debaters do.
Drive = motivation = that which gets me to do the things I do.
Me = just me, subjectively.
Mmmm. Where to begin?
I didn't want to harp on about Mr Pink, but I find I cannot go anywhere unless I address his opening gambit head on - carrots and sticks work, but only in a surprisingly narrow set of circumstances.
As we are only discussing me, subjectively, then I can accept that I may be the narrow set of circumstances he was catering for when he made that remark. Perhaps I should drop him a line and ask him.
Even so, the bit of me that likes to think I am a girl of the people - well some people, if you know what I mean -wonders whether there might be others out there who think that carrots and sticks are not rarely, not even occasionally, but indeed quite often, very effective motivators. This is not to say that that is an ideal state of affairs. Goodness no. I am very much in favour of the idea that we ought to find intrinsic motivators. I am absolutely supportive of this as a means of achieving greater happiness and better managing our expectations. Much of my book is about just that - as well as the value of a positive mindset and getting out of one's own way. And I do a fair bit of bellyaching about this and that too. In fact, you could do worse than buy a copy and suggest it to you book club...
So, where was I? Yes, that's right, despite all of that, in my world, carrots and sticks work fabulously too. Intrinsic motivators are indeed prolific; but there is also a healthy quantity of guilt, manipulation, charm and fear, not to mention a little chunk of passive aggression. In fact, I would have to say that the whole intrinsic v extrinsic paradigm is not grounded in my reality.
If I turn first to my intrinsic motivators, then I can say that I have had loads of them throughout my life. Keeping fit, for example. That's easy; that's all about the higher purpose of staying healthy and active, of being fit for its own sake and so as to keep up with and set a wonderful example for the off-Spring. It is such a bonus that I fit into my clothes and look fairly slim, because all the magazines tell me to love my body whatever shape I am, and it is easier to love a toned body than a flabby one when all the "best dressed" and even "worst dressed" pictures feature size zero 45 year old actresses telling us how Peelahhhtays saved their asses after the token bubba.
And then at work - I was such a dedicated employee in those heady days of employeedom/hood/ness(?), before I branched into the brave new world of self employed blogging writer and coach. I would get out of bed, nay spring out of bed, some days with an intrinsic fire in my belly (third trimester heartburn), such was my longing to reach my desk and finish that letter of advice so that I could Google boys' names (only when pregnant) and villas in Tuscany. And office drinks? Always happy to attend and share a round with my tireless (tiresome) and dedicated colleagues. I was not there, missing the off-Spring's bedtime or the West Wing, for the sour wine or the fattening beer nuts. No, it was the pure joy of feeling part of the team that lured me to those dank, smoky dens of gossip and sucking up to the partner who had asked his secretary to organise the evening. Thai dinner after - who could refuse? The poor dahling we toiled for insisted on paying for us; we had to go.
And now, running a business, publishing and marketing a book. I am, if nothing else, motivated. And I can honestly say, hand on heart that there is no reward or carrot (apart from the heady rush of hearing someone say they loved the book) and no stick (or it is shtick) at play here, at all. As to blogging - I would be the first person to say that I blog for the joy of blogging (I actually do, in spite of myself). Indeed blogging is now a motivator to doing things I might otherwise avoid, like commuting on the Underground.
So where does this discussion take us? I am conscious that I have not yet elaborated on the intrinsic and extrinsic importance of guilt, manipulation, charm, fear and passive aggression in this subjective reality.
Indeed, I have not addressed another fundamental point that underpins the whole debate. I know some of you have been waiting for me to get to this. I know, I know. I can delay no longer. The underlying premise of the intrinsic v extrinsic motivator debate is that the motivators have to endure and generate high performance.
Is my house of cards about to tumble?
Enduring motivation - how long does that need to be? Does 20 years brutal gym attendance suffice? Are eight years of bed time stories enough? How many balanced home cooked meals must I prepare? Is there a magic number of books that I must write, print and donate to Oxfam in order to prove I am motivated?
And performance? Is high performance measured intrinsically (subjectively) or extrinsically (objectively)? At the risk of sounding arrogant (don't kid yourself Spinggirl) I think I am a high achiever by my own standards.
In the final analysis then, what drives me is not what drives you, or you, or you. Some days the key motivation is reaching 7.30pm. Other days, knowing my warrior 2 pose will trump the blond chicks's downward dog is enough. And on yet others, a pat on the head from a fully functioning grown up is like manna from Heaven.
It could be that I need to re-enter the world of employed work in order to comment on this debate.
Or perhaps just read the book - I mean Mr Pink's book - not mine.
Naturally I pondered this - being a self-congratulatory intrinsically motivated person. And then, because intrinsically I desire to mull over and ponder interesting questions for their own sake, I decided to write a post for my official Followers, my Commenters and my faceless non-official Followers to muse over.
I preface my reflections with an admission that I have only a brief acquaintance with the thesis of Mr Pink and nothing that follows should be construed as derisory of his viewpoint. I also admit freely that I may not yet fully comprehend his arguments or his terminology. I also concede that his expertise may pertain to the world of work and not the real world as it were. Oh, sorry - I think I might have that back to front. I am getting muddled now about intrinsic and extrinsic and which world I am in, virtual, real, work, home... Don't we all say our world is the real world, by definition?
Anyway, before I plummet over what I sense is a looming precipice and crash resoundingly on the rocks of failed-blog-bitter-and-twisted-couldn't-quite-cut-it-in-the-real-world-despite-academic-success lurking terrifyingly below said precipice, I want to thank him and his followers for prompting me to contemplate this question: what drives us?
I can only speak for myself really. Though I will, I know, end up speaking for many people, because that is what I do. I make sweeping statements couched in big words, phrased ever more verbosely, so as to trick you into thinking there is a fresh perspective or even a kernel of wisdom within my generalisations and long winded diatribe.
First, I think we need to break the topic down a bit - as debaters do.
Drive = motivation = that which gets me to do the things I do.
Me = just me, subjectively.
Mmmm. Where to begin?
I didn't want to harp on about Mr Pink, but I find I cannot go anywhere unless I address his opening gambit head on - carrots and sticks work, but only in a surprisingly narrow set of circumstances.
As we are only discussing me, subjectively, then I can accept that I may be the narrow set of circumstances he was catering for when he made that remark. Perhaps I should drop him a line and ask him.
Even so, the bit of me that likes to think I am a girl of the people - well some people, if you know what I mean -wonders whether there might be others out there who think that carrots and sticks are not rarely, not even occasionally, but indeed quite often, very effective motivators. This is not to say that that is an ideal state of affairs. Goodness no. I am very much in favour of the idea that we ought to find intrinsic motivators. I am absolutely supportive of this as a means of achieving greater happiness and better managing our expectations. Much of my book is about just that - as well as the value of a positive mindset and getting out of one's own way. And I do a fair bit of bellyaching about this and that too. In fact, you could do worse than buy a copy and suggest it to you book club...
So, where was I? Yes, that's right, despite all of that, in my world, carrots and sticks work fabulously too. Intrinsic motivators are indeed prolific; but there is also a healthy quantity of guilt, manipulation, charm and fear, not to mention a little chunk of passive aggression. In fact, I would have to say that the whole intrinsic v extrinsic paradigm is not grounded in my reality.
If I turn first to my intrinsic motivators, then I can say that I have had loads of them throughout my life. Keeping fit, for example. That's easy; that's all about the higher purpose of staying healthy and active, of being fit for its own sake and so as to keep up with and set a wonderful example for the off-Spring. It is such a bonus that I fit into my clothes and look fairly slim, because all the magazines tell me to love my body whatever shape I am, and it is easier to love a toned body than a flabby one when all the "best dressed" and even "worst dressed" pictures feature size zero 45 year old actresses telling us how Peelahhhtays saved their asses after the token bubba.
And then at work - I was such a dedicated employee in those heady days of employeedom/hood/ness(?), before I branched into the brave new world of self employed blogging writer and coach. I would get out of bed, nay spring out of bed, some days with an intrinsic fire in my belly (third trimester heartburn), such was my longing to reach my desk and finish that letter of advice so that I could Google boys' names (only when pregnant) and villas in Tuscany. And office drinks? Always happy to attend and share a round with my tireless (tiresome) and dedicated colleagues. I was not there, missing the off-Spring's bedtime or the West Wing, for the sour wine or the fattening beer nuts. No, it was the pure joy of feeling part of the team that lured me to those dank, smoky dens of gossip and sucking up to the partner who had asked his secretary to organise the evening. Thai dinner after - who could refuse? The poor dahling we toiled for insisted on paying for us; we had to go.
Parenting is yet another realm in which the intrinsic desire to be part of a wonderful, enriching and unifying human experience prevails. The added bonus is that one is never alone, one is finally the boss and when one basks in the glow of vicarious achievement it is through the successes of one's flesh and blood, rather than a team or a firm. For me it is central to my life. Do I parent in a mindful and articulate way that instils intrinsic motivators in the off-Spring? You can be damn sure that I do!
"Well done - you should be proud of yourself. Now, eat your dinner or there is no dessert."
"Let's read. Reading is such a source of pleasure all through your life. You will never be lonely as long as you have a good book. It's like getting along with your brothers. Never lonely. Now play nicely, read your books to each other, let me finish this email and we might go out for dinner."
And now, running a business, publishing and marketing a book. I am, if nothing else, motivated. And I can honestly say, hand on heart that there is no reward or carrot (apart from the heady rush of hearing someone say they loved the book) and no stick (or it is shtick) at play here, at all. As to blogging - I would be the first person to say that I blog for the joy of blogging (I actually do, in spite of myself). Indeed blogging is now a motivator to doing things I might otherwise avoid, like commuting on the Underground.
So where does this discussion take us? I am conscious that I have not yet elaborated on the intrinsic and extrinsic importance of guilt, manipulation, charm, fear and passive aggression in this subjective reality.
Indeed, I have not addressed another fundamental point that underpins the whole debate. I know some of you have been waiting for me to get to this. I know, I know. I can delay no longer. The underlying premise of the intrinsic v extrinsic motivator debate is that the motivators have to endure and generate high performance.
Is my house of cards about to tumble?
Enduring motivation - how long does that need to be? Does 20 years brutal gym attendance suffice? Are eight years of bed time stories enough? How many balanced home cooked meals must I prepare? Is there a magic number of books that I must write, print and donate to Oxfam in order to prove I am motivated?
And performance? Is high performance measured intrinsically (subjectively) or extrinsically (objectively)? At the risk of sounding arrogant (don't kid yourself Spinggirl) I think I am a high achiever by my own standards.
In the final analysis then, what drives me is not what drives you, or you, or you. Some days the key motivation is reaching 7.30pm. Other days, knowing my warrior 2 pose will trump the blond chicks's downward dog is enough. And on yet others, a pat on the head from a fully functioning grown up is like manna from Heaven.
It could be that I need to re-enter the world of employed work in order to comment on this debate.
Or perhaps just read the book - I mean Mr Pink's book - not mine.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Folk are funny - sponsored by Vilebrequin
Folk are funny.
You only have to spend a couple of hours at the pool to realise just how funny.
There are many different ways in which people can enjoy a pool. Obviously those who swim lengths have there own special purposes - fitness, preparation for racing, improvement of style, meeting buff chicks and so on. But the really interesting swimmers are those in the "family lanes" at the public facility. I cannot comment about squad swimmers, lap dancers - I mean swimmers - or the participants in the "age-well" (aqua aerobics) class (used to be one of them til I realised the class had that name and I was lowering the average age by 20 years and possibly splashing too much for some of the hair dos) as I do not frequent the public pool other than on weekends when I take the Off-Spring for a well-needed cooling-off-and-wear-them-out session. Rather, I will confine my remarks to the weekend family swimmers at the local public pool.
But first, an observation about public pools nomenclature. As a rule, the grottier the facilities the greater the chance that the pool is called a "leisure" or "recreation" centre. If there is a squash court or free weights room it will masquerade as a "sports" centre.
That's fine. As long as we all know what we are dealing with. In other countries a pool is a pool, or maybe an aquatic centre or even a public bath - which, as you will see as you read on, is perhaps the most apt description.
Anyway, the wordy pedant wanted to make that point. False advertising is one of her pet peeves.
So - I was going to tell you how funny folk can be. It now seems overly critical to comment on the pre-adolescent but deceptively chubby twin boys who circled me like sharks for most of one session, staring underwater at my belly and legs. I did not at first realise they were twins. I was starting to feel paranoid under the scrutiny of one rotund chap and said to him "whatcha lookin at, sonny?" in what I hoped was a Clint Eastwood tone of voice. He stared me down like an agent of the Stasi (his mother nearby may well have been one) and turned away in the manner of a seal falling off rocks. Then lo and behold I saw him with an identical fellow and had a moment's guilt - how precious must I look confronting him when it was probably his brother who had been gawking at me all morning? I should not have worried though, as soon both of them were back in close proximity, duck diving around me. Perhaps my swimsuit was the attraction. Being black, low legged and high cut at the neck, it it something of an oddity...
Or perhaps the fact that I was moving at all had piqued their curiosity. It has to be said that my self styled aqua routine of crunches, star jumps, frog kicks, high kicks and arm swings is not standard at most pools. Indeed most of the ladies on this occasion were semi reclined over the lane barriers chatting to each other. The poor life guard could barely watch the children as he tried to catch the attention of said ladies and persuade them to get off the barriers and stop impeding the lane swimmers next door. Which brings me to another way in which folk are funny - they come to the pool and loll about in all that urine and dead skin cells and spit. At least when one is moving - face firmly above the water with spectacles on and dry - one can feel that the risk to health is somehow lessened. At least one burns some calories in any event. But floating in it?
Last but by no one least is the "Daddy's morning" phenomenon. Sunday is clearly the day that Daddy is on duty because the place is swarming with fathers and their treasures. Not a woman in sight, apart from me, until well past noon. The Dads are a motley crew to be sure. Yes, there is Designer Dad with his Vilebrequin ensemble matching his young son's (over a swimming nappy I hope at that price). Anyone who can afford those swimmers should at least be at the Berkely Hotel pool, if not Cap Ferrat, is my view.
Designer Dad has a tendency to lose his son in the shallows and often Life Guard number 1 is earning his money watching the little tyke.
Meanwhile, High Blood Pressure Harry is yelling at young Victoria as she front crawls her way up the length. What Harry lacks in sartorial elegance, tan and tact, he more than makes up for in his fervent desire to see her improve her time. Victoria, much to my delight, stops midway and says over her shoulder across two lanes of splashing youngsters (quite audibly) "I thawt I was doing rawther well, actually."
Then there is Pepe with his little princesses abandoned in the rampy bit while he chats up Life Guard number 2.
There is usually a thrower among the fathers. A thrower likes to display his strength, manliness and ability to rough-house his kids as only the best dads can, and pitches his kids out of his arms towards the wall at speed. I am not sure what wives of throwers would say if they knew, but I guess the lie-in is worth the risk that the little pets come home concussed.
Most weeks we encounter Dry Dad who brings his news paper and coffee and lets the little darling/s get on with it. Can't fault him for making the best of his time with the kids.
Finally, there are always one or two "You can do it Buddy" types who think that if they speak loudly and clearly enough, their two year olds will become Olympic standard athletes after they win academic and sporting scholarships to UCLA. Self consciously aware of themselves and their parenting skills, "You can do it Buddy" dads (UCDIB) are my favourites. They are earnest and sincere and hopeful. This time is precious and valuable and must be utilised and maximised. Wives of UCDIB guys emerge from the gym part way through the session to check on the guys and see if Buddy is swimming underwater yet. She brings enthusiasm and perkiness and the promise of clover filled sunny days all season. I get quite misty eyed as I bundle the Off-Spring away to the germ-fest in the showers...
Indeed, the public pool is a wonderful place. Where else do human beings voluntarily get as naked and close to complete strangers? Not even in hospitals does this occur - where there is an element of compulsion, not pleasure or I dare I say "recreation". At the beach? Yes; especially in some parts of Southern Europe where less is more when it comes to apparel, and bobbing about in tepid, flat, effluent can be regarded as glamorous. But the tobacco induced highs typical of such settings may explain the abandonment the beach goers feel as they baste themselves in their three square feet of butt covered sand (cigarettes, that it).
No - I can think of no where else, apart from a public park in central London at the height of summer or at the Hill at the Sydney Cricket Ground during a one-day match, where one knowingly and happily gets one's kit off in order to get really close to fleshy, panting people one does not know.
That said, the humanity of the experience is humbling. There we all are united in a quest. A quest for exercise, tone or weightlessness. For freedom of some sort: from the kids perhaps - splashing in the shallow end -just close enough to rescue should one try to submerge another, but far enough away to allow one to pretend not to be connected with them. Or freedom from thought - staring at the wobbly arms of former communist bloc ageing "beauty" queens can distract one from one's banal thoughts. Freedom from the darned phone and email - so far no genius has invented a water proof iPhone. Have they? Well - I said it first!
We are perhaps united in a quest for community - a transient sense that we belong to a unit greater than our own family or circle of friends. Perhaps we are trying to convince ourselves as we bravely wade into the murky shallows that there is a lovely democracy to leisure centre group exercise. We are not too proud or posh. We mix it with real people. We want our children to feel part of a dynamic, multi-faceted society in which all can play a part and contribute with vitality and energy.
Or perhaps it's just that we know our off-spring are incapable of sparing us embarrassment or stress in a more exclusive, members only setting for more than 20 minutes.
You only have to spend a couple of hours at the pool to realise just how funny.
There are many different ways in which people can enjoy a pool. Obviously those who swim lengths have there own special purposes - fitness, preparation for racing, improvement of style, meeting buff chicks and so on. But the really interesting swimmers are those in the "family lanes" at the public facility. I cannot comment about squad swimmers, lap dancers - I mean swimmers - or the participants in the "age-well" (aqua aerobics) class (used to be one of them til I realised the class had that name and I was lowering the average age by 20 years and possibly splashing too much for some of the hair dos) as I do not frequent the public pool other than on weekends when I take the Off-Spring for a well-needed cooling-off-and-wear-them-out session. Rather, I will confine my remarks to the weekend family swimmers at the local public pool.
But first, an observation about public pools nomenclature. As a rule, the grottier the facilities the greater the chance that the pool is called a "leisure" or "recreation" centre. If there is a squash court or free weights room it will masquerade as a "sports" centre.
That's fine. As long as we all know what we are dealing with. In other countries a pool is a pool, or maybe an aquatic centre or even a public bath - which, as you will see as you read on, is perhaps the most apt description.
Anyway, the wordy pedant wanted to make that point. False advertising is one of her pet peeves.
So - I was going to tell you how funny folk can be. It now seems overly critical to comment on the pre-adolescent but deceptively chubby twin boys who circled me like sharks for most of one session, staring underwater at my belly and legs. I did not at first realise they were twins. I was starting to feel paranoid under the scrutiny of one rotund chap and said to him "whatcha lookin at, sonny?" in what I hoped was a Clint Eastwood tone of voice. He stared me down like an agent of the Stasi (his mother nearby may well have been one) and turned away in the manner of a seal falling off rocks. Then lo and behold I saw him with an identical fellow and had a moment's guilt - how precious must I look confronting him when it was probably his brother who had been gawking at me all morning? I should not have worried though, as soon both of them were back in close proximity, duck diving around me. Perhaps my swimsuit was the attraction. Being black, low legged and high cut at the neck, it it something of an oddity...
Or perhaps the fact that I was moving at all had piqued their curiosity. It has to be said that my self styled aqua routine of crunches, star jumps, frog kicks, high kicks and arm swings is not standard at most pools. Indeed most of the ladies on this occasion were semi reclined over the lane barriers chatting to each other. The poor life guard could barely watch the children as he tried to catch the attention of said ladies and persuade them to get off the barriers and stop impeding the lane swimmers next door. Which brings me to another way in which folk are funny - they come to the pool and loll about in all that urine and dead skin cells and spit. At least when one is moving - face firmly above the water with spectacles on and dry - one can feel that the risk to health is somehow lessened. At least one burns some calories in any event. But floating in it?
Last but by no one least is the "Daddy's morning" phenomenon. Sunday is clearly the day that Daddy is on duty because the place is swarming with fathers and their treasures. Not a woman in sight, apart from me, until well past noon. The Dads are a motley crew to be sure. Yes, there is Designer Dad with his Vilebrequin ensemble matching his young son's (over a swimming nappy I hope at that price). Anyone who can afford those swimmers should at least be at the Berkely Hotel pool, if not Cap Ferrat, is my view.
Designer Dad has a tendency to lose his son in the shallows and often Life Guard number 1 is earning his money watching the little tyke.
Meanwhile, High Blood Pressure Harry is yelling at young Victoria as she front crawls her way up the length. What Harry lacks in sartorial elegance, tan and tact, he more than makes up for in his fervent desire to see her improve her time. Victoria, much to my delight, stops midway and says over her shoulder across two lanes of splashing youngsters (quite audibly) "I thawt I was doing rawther well, actually."
Then there is Pepe with his little princesses abandoned in the rampy bit while he chats up Life Guard number 2.
There is usually a thrower among the fathers. A thrower likes to display his strength, manliness and ability to rough-house his kids as only the best dads can, and pitches his kids out of his arms towards the wall at speed. I am not sure what wives of throwers would say if they knew, but I guess the lie-in is worth the risk that the little pets come home concussed.
Most weeks we encounter Dry Dad who brings his news paper and coffee and lets the little darling/s get on with it. Can't fault him for making the best of his time with the kids.
Finally, there are always one or two "You can do it Buddy" types who think that if they speak loudly and clearly enough, their two year olds will become Olympic standard athletes after they win academic and sporting scholarships to UCLA. Self consciously aware of themselves and their parenting skills, "You can do it Buddy" dads (UCDIB) are my favourites. They are earnest and sincere and hopeful. This time is precious and valuable and must be utilised and maximised. Wives of UCDIB guys emerge from the gym part way through the session to check on the guys and see if Buddy is swimming underwater yet. She brings enthusiasm and perkiness and the promise of clover filled sunny days all season. I get quite misty eyed as I bundle the Off-Spring away to the germ-fest in the showers...
Indeed, the public pool is a wonderful place. Where else do human beings voluntarily get as naked and close to complete strangers? Not even in hospitals does this occur - where there is an element of compulsion, not pleasure or I dare I say "recreation". At the beach? Yes; especially in some parts of Southern Europe where less is more when it comes to apparel, and bobbing about in tepid, flat, effluent can be regarded as glamorous. But the tobacco induced highs typical of such settings may explain the abandonment the beach goers feel as they baste themselves in their three square feet of butt covered sand (cigarettes, that it).
No - I can think of no where else, apart from a public park in central London at the height of summer or at the Hill at the Sydney Cricket Ground during a one-day match, where one knowingly and happily gets one's kit off in order to get really close to fleshy, panting people one does not know.
That said, the humanity of the experience is humbling. There we all are united in a quest. A quest for exercise, tone or weightlessness. For freedom of some sort: from the kids perhaps - splashing in the shallow end -just close enough to rescue should one try to submerge another, but far enough away to allow one to pretend not to be connected with them. Or freedom from thought - staring at the wobbly arms of former communist bloc ageing "beauty" queens can distract one from one's banal thoughts. Freedom from the darned phone and email - so far no genius has invented a water proof iPhone. Have they? Well - I said it first!
We are perhaps united in a quest for community - a transient sense that we belong to a unit greater than our own family or circle of friends. Perhaps we are trying to convince ourselves as we bravely wade into the murky shallows that there is a lovely democracy to leisure centre group exercise. We are not too proud or posh. We mix it with real people. We want our children to feel part of a dynamic, multi-faceted society in which all can play a part and contribute with vitality and energy.
Or perhaps it's just that we know our off-spring are incapable of sparing us embarrassment or stress in a more exclusive, members only setting for more than 20 minutes.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
A toast to ironing ladies and domestic deities
I have been trying to keep up with a number of interesting discussions on the three or four forums (I want to say "forii" but no one does...) that I follow on-line. There is a particularly virulent debate going on in one - over 100 comments have been posted - and I am hooked - waiting to see who says what to whom next. I have a sneaky suspicion that the protagonists are secretly good friends and are feigning this enmity in order to raise their on-line profiles, as I would have thought that the vitriol and fervour of the debate runs counter to the rules of the forum. I mean if you cannot link your own website surely you cannot call someone a d-mba-s!
But what do I know. I usually take things like rules quite literally - it's probably the lawyer in me. Oh no, it's not - while I spent three years drafting laws, I spent the next eight finding loopholes and ways around them - different ones - I hasten to add; I am not so lacking in imagination as to want to undo my own hard work, even if the money was ok (until I had babies and started from scratch again, more or less). So perhaps it's really my inner adapted child, goody two shoes, or class captain that likes to know and observe the rules. At any rate, when I join a forum I am conscious of the dos and don'ts. Up to a point. I saw the terms of one forum recently that were so poorly expressed and so strict and confining I could not think of a thing I would want to post or share. What would I have to say if I could not express a personal view point? I am learning so much from these dialogues though. One can stay within the letter of the law and not plug one's business, but one can offer a free copy of one's book as a prize for a good suggestion about something completely unrelated. Human ingenuity, eh?
Best of all, I am learning about what makes people tick. On one women's forum I see that food, childcare and family outings rate as high concerns. On another, a semi-rhetorical discussion about the nature of love proves popular.
I have mulled over the wisdom of posting here my thoughts on a topic that arose on-line recently. I nearly responded to the question posed but given the tenor of the other replies quickly realised that doing so might result in my being blacklisted. Freedom of speech, like fitness and popularity, is a relative thing. I daresay I am desperate to be liked by all those strangers on-line...
So now that I feel safer - this is my space, after all - I might throw the debate open here. I must say at this juncture that I have been delighted to see comments on some earlier posts. You have all been such a quiet and respectful audience I had started to think/fear there was no audience. However, now that I have seen a couple of remarks, my courage is restored - there is even a man who has read these musings! Stand up Mr Man - thanks for your interest. Let me know what you think and do keep following me.
I am ready to vent now. The question posed elsewhere was: "are you a domestic goddess?".
Indeed. You all had to think for a moment, didn't you? Well I did not. I can say quite firmly that I am not and never have been a domestic goddess.
I am going to restrain the legislative drafter in me from picking the phrase into little bits and analysing all of its elements to leave it meaningless and naked, and just discuss this term in the way it is generally intended to be understood.
Translated it means: are you, like Nigella Lawson, capable of incredible feats of dexterity, panache and presentation in and around your home in all matters pertaining to housekeeping and cooking?
Let me assure you - especially you Mr Man - that I have no issue whatsoever with Nigella or her producer and camera men. The branding and merchandising and buzz surrounding her status as the goddess is fantastic and inspiring.
Rather, I take issue with the question. Sure, it's innocent enough. Just a little chat to break the tedium of taking care of young children and home...
Is it?
Or an insidious and deliberate attempt to perpetuate a myth circulated by post-feminist perfectionists in a desire to compete and out-manoeuvre the sisterhood of women striving to just cope, let alone attain standards of superhuman detail oriented perfection?
I was quite riled up about the question. When that happens my inner coach asks - what is this reaction all about then? Are you protesting too much? Are you a closet wannabe domestic goddess that feels confronted? Are you in fact the competitive and threatened one?
I am not sure now...
Let me make some things clear though:
1. I am not a slob.
2. I bake and cook and do all my own housework.
3. I run a small business and raise my children with less than four hours domestic help (babysitter) a week.
4. I do my own ironing (there is a tendency for housewives to boast that they have no help, but actually have an ironing lady. Ironing ladies and dry-cleaners rise up and be counted - the unsung heroes helping to make domestic bliss a reality across the globe!).
5. My apartment is not pristine (three small boys - are you kidding?), but sufficiently tidy and well-kept as to not be an embarrassment if unexpected guests should come knocking (never happens, dammit).
6. I enjoy hoovering, washing and sorting out clutter.
Yes, I do get a kick out of doing chores myself. Yes, I would rather know that I left several dust bunnies behind the sofa than pay a cleaner to do the same, not tell me and thendiscover them later when the hoover is packed away and I have put my feet up to admire my clean home.
Indeed, there are few things as satisfying as a sparkling shower door. But showering at the gym beats cleaning it every time.
I love to bake fresh, wholesome organic cakes for my children. But the shop bought ones from the Hummingbird Bakery look and taste better and cost less than most of the competitor items in the market - as my aunt says, they were patty cakes in the old days and no one would serve them for tea!
So - I ask you - am I a domestic goddess?
At the end of the day it comes down to perspective and identity. If we want to be something, or be perceived as something, we can be. If we don't, then we don't.
So where does that leave me in comprehending my anger at this discussion being raised at all?
Well, first, let's pose it on some male forums and see what sort of response we get. Can you imagine a (straight) man being asked this? There are no "super dads" - making good money, supporting their ageing parents, taking their kids to the pool, the parties, the fixtures all weekend - these labels are not used for men. Why not? If they are valid for women, then they must also apply to men.
Oh yes, we all boast that our husbands are "domestic gods", leaving a little question in the minds of the listener as to what that might mean, exactly. Hoping that we can bask in the reflected glory of being one of those amazing couples. In truth, these blokes cook occasionally, wash up when we ask really nicely, take the rubbish out under duress and have no idea how to negotiate a supermarket, an iron or a coffee plunger! They have more facility with a set top box than setting up a flat packed shelf, and bring more panache to peeling off their socks than peeling a potato. (Not you, Mr Springgirl! You went to boarding school and are more domesticated than Alice from the Brady Bunch!)
Second, what sort of expectations underpin these concepts and discussions in the first place? Instead of creating reasonable and attainable (by no means mediocre or low) expectations as to our abilities and priorities, we give credence to the notion that handmade petal icing is important. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but not many of these things really matter; they are just that - icing on the cake of life.
Can't we accept that no one - man or woman - can "have it all"? We can do our best, but usually something has to give, if not now, later. Why do we insist on perpetuating this myth of domestic, professional and career perfection. It is an impossible standard to meet. It sets us up for disappointment. The very idea of a domestic goddess or super mum, super nanny, even the hackneyed old "yummy mummy" that we all spire to, should be challenged. Given what we know about marital disharmony, stress and depression, shouldn't we be helping people let go of these unreasonable pressures and expectations that lead to disappointment and misplaced striving?
And no - I am not suggesting we don't try to do our best, work hard and create lovely homes in which to enjoy the fruits of our labour and the time we have with our loved ones. Not at all. I just wonder if we do enjoy them, that's all.
It occurs to me that perhaps I took the question the wrong way. Maybe the discussion was not about perfection and housework and voluptuousness in the kitchen at all!
Perhaps, instead, it was a reference to the pagan belief in the household deity or spirit that protects the home - the hearth goddess - such as the Greek Hestia or the Norse Frigg.
Of course I am she! I ward away all baddies, bugs, spiders, cold-callers, leaks and uninvited guests with vim and vigour.
But what do I know. I usually take things like rules quite literally - it's probably the lawyer in me. Oh no, it's not - while I spent three years drafting laws, I spent the next eight finding loopholes and ways around them - different ones - I hasten to add; I am not so lacking in imagination as to want to undo my own hard work, even if the money was ok (until I had babies and started from scratch again, more or less). So perhaps it's really my inner adapted child, goody two shoes, or class captain that likes to know and observe the rules. At any rate, when I join a forum I am conscious of the dos and don'ts. Up to a point. I saw the terms of one forum recently that were so poorly expressed and so strict and confining I could not think of a thing I would want to post or share. What would I have to say if I could not express a personal view point? I am learning so much from these dialogues though. One can stay within the letter of the law and not plug one's business, but one can offer a free copy of one's book as a prize for a good suggestion about something completely unrelated. Human ingenuity, eh?
Best of all, I am learning about what makes people tick. On one women's forum I see that food, childcare and family outings rate as high concerns. On another, a semi-rhetorical discussion about the nature of love proves popular.
I have mulled over the wisdom of posting here my thoughts on a topic that arose on-line recently. I nearly responded to the question posed but given the tenor of the other replies quickly realised that doing so might result in my being blacklisted. Freedom of speech, like fitness and popularity, is a relative thing. I daresay I am desperate to be liked by all those strangers on-line...
So now that I feel safer - this is my space, after all - I might throw the debate open here. I must say at this juncture that I have been delighted to see comments on some earlier posts. You have all been such a quiet and respectful audience I had started to think/fear there was no audience. However, now that I have seen a couple of remarks, my courage is restored - there is even a man who has read these musings! Stand up Mr Man - thanks for your interest. Let me know what you think and do keep following me.
I am ready to vent now. The question posed elsewhere was: "are you a domestic goddess?".
Indeed. You all had to think for a moment, didn't you? Well I did not. I can say quite firmly that I am not and never have been a domestic goddess.
I am going to restrain the legislative drafter in me from picking the phrase into little bits and analysing all of its elements to leave it meaningless and naked, and just discuss this term in the way it is generally intended to be understood.
Translated it means: are you, like Nigella Lawson, capable of incredible feats of dexterity, panache and presentation in and around your home in all matters pertaining to housekeeping and cooking?
Let me assure you - especially you Mr Man - that I have no issue whatsoever with Nigella or her producer and camera men. The branding and merchandising and buzz surrounding her status as the goddess is fantastic and inspiring.
Rather, I take issue with the question. Sure, it's innocent enough. Just a little chat to break the tedium of taking care of young children and home...
Is it?
Or an insidious and deliberate attempt to perpetuate a myth circulated by post-feminist perfectionists in a desire to compete and out-manoeuvre the sisterhood of women striving to just cope, let alone attain standards of superhuman detail oriented perfection?
I was quite riled up about the question. When that happens my inner coach asks - what is this reaction all about then? Are you protesting too much? Are you a closet wannabe domestic goddess that feels confronted? Are you in fact the competitive and threatened one?
I am not sure now...
Let me make some things clear though:
1. I am not a slob.
2. I bake and cook and do all my own housework.
3. I run a small business and raise my children with less than four hours domestic help (babysitter) a week.
4. I do my own ironing (there is a tendency for housewives to boast that they have no help, but actually have an ironing lady. Ironing ladies and dry-cleaners rise up and be counted - the unsung heroes helping to make domestic bliss a reality across the globe!).
5. My apartment is not pristine (three small boys - are you kidding?), but sufficiently tidy and well-kept as to not be an embarrassment if unexpected guests should come knocking (never happens, dammit).
6. I enjoy hoovering, washing and sorting out clutter.
Yes, I do get a kick out of doing chores myself. Yes, I would rather know that I left several dust bunnies behind the sofa than pay a cleaner to do the same, not tell me and thendiscover them later when the hoover is packed away and I have put my feet up to admire my clean home.
Indeed, there are few things as satisfying as a sparkling shower door. But showering at the gym beats cleaning it every time.
I love to bake fresh, wholesome organic cakes for my children. But the shop bought ones from the Hummingbird Bakery look and taste better and cost less than most of the competitor items in the market - as my aunt says, they were patty cakes in the old days and no one would serve them for tea!
So - I ask you - am I a domestic goddess?
At the end of the day it comes down to perspective and identity. If we want to be something, or be perceived as something, we can be. If we don't, then we don't.
So where does that leave me in comprehending my anger at this discussion being raised at all?
Well, first, let's pose it on some male forums and see what sort of response we get. Can you imagine a (straight) man being asked this? There are no "super dads" - making good money, supporting their ageing parents, taking their kids to the pool, the parties, the fixtures all weekend - these labels are not used for men. Why not? If they are valid for women, then they must also apply to men.
Oh yes, we all boast that our husbands are "domestic gods", leaving a little question in the minds of the listener as to what that might mean, exactly. Hoping that we can bask in the reflected glory of being one of those amazing couples. In truth, these blokes cook occasionally, wash up when we ask really nicely, take the rubbish out under duress and have no idea how to negotiate a supermarket, an iron or a coffee plunger! They have more facility with a set top box than setting up a flat packed shelf, and bring more panache to peeling off their socks than peeling a potato. (Not you, Mr Springgirl! You went to boarding school and are more domesticated than Alice from the Brady Bunch!)
Second, what sort of expectations underpin these concepts and discussions in the first place? Instead of creating reasonable and attainable (by no means mediocre or low) expectations as to our abilities and priorities, we give credence to the notion that handmade petal icing is important. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but not many of these things really matter; they are just that - icing on the cake of life.
Can't we accept that no one - man or woman - can "have it all"? We can do our best, but usually something has to give, if not now, later. Why do we insist on perpetuating this myth of domestic, professional and career perfection. It is an impossible standard to meet. It sets us up for disappointment. The very idea of a domestic goddess or super mum, super nanny, even the hackneyed old "yummy mummy" that we all spire to, should be challenged. Given what we know about marital disharmony, stress and depression, shouldn't we be helping people let go of these unreasonable pressures and expectations that lead to disappointment and misplaced striving?
It occurs to me that perhaps I took the question the wrong way. Maybe the discussion was not about perfection and housework and voluptuousness in the kitchen at all!
Perhaps, instead, it was a reference to the pagan belief in the household deity or spirit that protects the home - the hearth goddess - such as the Greek Hestia or the Norse Frigg.
Of course I am she! I ward away all baddies, bugs, spiders, cold-callers, leaks and uninvited guests with vim and vigour.
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