By Sandra Beck
I grow mutant babies. They need less sleep that I do. It’s well known that lack of sleep will damage your physical and mental health. I merrily skip off to the 
supermarket, leaving my car door wide open. I put my tea bags in the fridge and my milk in the cupboard. I occasionally wear my clothes inside out. Even my own family has said my children have freakishly large stomachs regarding the amount of food the injest and still stay skinny. Part of the problem is both boys never stop moving until they pass out.
My brain is just so much fuller now. Obviously the bit of my brain that was meant to be picking out co-ordinating clothes, is otherwise engaged remembering that today is backward’s dress day at my son’s school.
Sometimes I feel guilty. Can this crumpled wild-eyed person fill the shoes of the ‘old’ me? The ‘old’ me was sharp and slim with a challenging mind. It was her (smug little so-and-so) that ran my current business.
I’ve discovered various strategies to work through the fog and the tiredness. I’ve become very organized. I even email myself reminders from home to work. Secondly, I power nap if I can. If an after lunch snooze is good enough for Winston Churchill, my life can spare me for fifteen minutes. Thirdly, I have the benefit of experience and seniority on my side. I can use “Mmmm-hmmm” where before I’d do 10 sides of closely written analysis. I can mentor younger colleagues, and in turn leave some of the number crunching detail for them to work out.
Without wishing to betray the sisterhood, I have to admit that the three months either side of each birth, I have felt drugged by my hormones. My family and friends remind me of things around that time that I absolutely don’t remember. Each person has to find their own way – but my approach is to go easy on myself during this time. I’ve had faith that “I’ll be back”.
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Education and the Stay at Home/Work at Home Mother By Sandra Beck, Motherhood Incorporated
March 28, 2009
By Sandra Beck
“You’re a waste”. That’s was my friend’s mothers reaction to her decision to stay at home with her baby. “I don’t know why you even bothered with university”.
In my circle of friends, decisions about how to raise kids are inextricably woven 
with the politics of women’s liberation. I hesitate to generalize – but there is a very strong generational divide in attitudes.
There are the pioneers, who remember when women’s higher education wasn’t a given thing. However, most of these ladies didn’t work while raising their kids. Working practices and society’s attitudes hadn’t caught up. They’ve felt regretful about it ever since, projecting their attitude onto their daughters.
Accordingly, their daughters have children later and go back to work earlier. They aim to make the least concessions to maternity that they can. They are shocked and dismayed at how hard it can be – and how unequal the sacrifices are in their partnership.
The sufferings of the daughters breed the reactionary born-again 50s housewives. They buy floral print aprons without a hint of irony. They abandon their jobs – replacing corporate superwoman with an even more ambitious and perfectionist hausfrau incarnation. They earnestly re-manualize their lives – from baking their own bread to washable nappies.
There are real people in my life who are described by these sketches. The reason why the caricatures seem crude and almost grotesque is that there is a guilt driver behind the decisions. The concerns and preferences of the human beings involved get swallowed up in a play for an unseen audience, who are felt to be judging the decisions made, judging if the woman deserves her advantages.
My view? Education is freedom – and women will never be free without education. In any case, the strongest indicating factor in the level of educational attainment of the children is the educational achievement of the mother.
www.motherhoodincorporated.com
www.sandrabeck.com.
By Sandra Beck
Your co-workers
They say: “Oh my! Three children – you must have your hands full”
I hear: Have you never heard of family planning?
They say: “We appreciate you have family commitments”
I hear; “YOUR family. Not MY family. Don’t make them MY problem”
They say: “I’m sorry to hear you’ve been unwell”
I hear: “Aye carumba – sit down woman. I don’t want you to deliver your baby right here”
They say: “And how is little Max?”
I hear: “Give that child some vitamins, for Pete’s sake. That’s the third virus this month”.
They say: “Please come to our party
I hear: “… and it’d be great if you could slip your son a sedative beforehand. Our parrot still hasn’t recovered from last time”
Your friends
They say: “How do you manage?”
I hear: “I’d love to hear that you’ve fishies in your sink. It’ll make me feel better about myself”.
They say: “You seem to have a good work-life balance”
I hear: “Of course, you’re just lucky your office is a soft touch. It’d never work in MY job”
They say: “It’s no trouble to pick up Johhny from school”
I hear: “Do I look like a creche?”
They say: “We’ve had endless trouble with headlice”
I hear: “… and I can’t help but noticed your son ITCHING”
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Continuity Between Me, the Nanny, My Parents and the Babysitter by Sandra Beck, Motherhood Incorporated
March 24, 2009
By Sandra Beck
My nanny lets the children eat in front of the TV. I don’ t. In the early days it caused countless rows. My nanny would babysit a few hours – and I’d return to my daughter sitting in front of cartoons with her dummy and a lap tray of 
snacks. “It’s not even that I begrudge her the junk food.” I’d say, exasperated “But she doesn’t stop nagging me for TV and cookies for two days afterwards”. It was infuriating to see my precious, carefully constructed edifice of healthy parenting being cheerfully dismantled.
It’s a version of a fault-line that threatens to undermine many otherwise good childcare arrangements. At its heart is a very revealing question: are you looking for a carbon-copy of you to care for your child?
My argument was that toddlers in particular thrive on consistency. They like to be able to understand the rules of their world. It’s unfair for behavior to get a laugh in some circumstances and get punished in other circumstances.
On the other hand, I think that the variety of personalities and approaches that my daughter has been exposed to balances her experience. I was a bit shocked when one of the nursery-workers put nail varnish on my friend’s 3 year old daughter. However, objectively, I can see that her daughters yearning for pink and frilly far exceeds her mother’s ‘girliness’. A little bit of something sparkly on her nails helps her bond with her caregivers, and gives her some new input into her developing sense of individuality.
Here more than anywhere, it’s crucial to pick your battles. Car seats, holding hands across the roads, choking hazards – I repeat my messages emphatically again and again. However, this needs to be balanced with – frankly – not becoming a control freak. The childcare you choose is presumably competent, well intentioned and loving. Following too many of your rules ‘to the letter’ might actually thwart them in expressing their innate initiative and sparkle.
As my sons get older it has got easier with the grandparents, babysitters and nannies. “But Muuuum, Nana lets me” gets cut off with a brusuqe “Nana rules, darling. Now it’s Mummy rules”. I’ve become more secure that it’s my approach that sets the foundations for her. I’ve now mellowed to see that an afternoon eating chocolate sauce from the jar in front of cartoons is simply a holiday.
www.motherhoodincorporated.com
Coffee, How Do I Love Thee? – Let Me Count the Ways, by Sandra Beck, Motherhood Incorporated
March 21, 2009
By Sandra Beck
I have a guilty secret. My coffee machine cost more than my buggy, pram or stroller – depending on your country of origin. In fact, probably more than the combined cost of all my shoes.
My dad bought it for me for Valentine’s day. The week before our old 
bargainous but labor intensive espresso machine brewed its last. Three espressos in quick succession after a dinner party were just too much for its weedy little pump.
Shortly after, I unscrewed the dusty jar of instant – something desperate in my face. The pitiful sight of me pushing aside the instant and pouring boiling water onto ground coffee. “It’s not too bad” I mumbled “So long as you keep your lips pursed to stop too much crunchiness getting through”. Then I went upstairs and lay face down on the bed, with my toddler batting an old shoe on the floor beside me.
My dad squared up to his duties as a provider – and went out to provide me with the biggest most automatic coffee monster he could get. I press a button – and out pours espresso. No unnecessary hot water to handle, no cleaning between use.
I rationalize it on an hourly rate basis – it’s much quicker to use than the other machine. Just because it is me at home, doesn’t mean my time isn’t valuable.
I don’t really know what it is about coffee and me. It in equal measure powers me through the sleep deprivation of parenting, and gives me back the manic sparkle that I associate with the ‘real’ me. The role it plays in my life is to punctuate my days with pleasant uplifting little interludes. It’s an indulgence, for sure. However, I suspect its a justified indulgence. You can’t put a price on Mom keeping her sense of humor.
