The Umbrella

I hate to lower the tone of this blog, particularly so early on in its life, but...

I’m going to talk briefly about poo.

There’s a reason for it, so stick with me. Unlike another blog I saw, I will not fill you in on the whoa-I-really-did-not-need-to-know-that details of my son’s toilet habits (I must confess that I spent at least 20 minutes reading that blog, and actually ended up cheering the little guy's progress: “No wee accidents for a whole week! Go Young Jimmy!!” [Okay so I made up the name, but I promise you the rest is true - the blog is out there.] {What do you do when you run out of different bracket markers?})

Back to my boy. Now that (non-milk) food’s been added to his diet, his number twos are becoming increasingly solid, as one might expect. It’s just that this is very new for him, and it takes him some effort to get them out.

With his grunting, groaning, crying and occasional vomiting, my son while pooing is not unlike a woman giving birth, and after a few days of offering my support (standing’s the easiest position, it seems), massages and encouraging words, I now feel qualified to add ‘midwife’ to the growing list of occupations that seem to fall under the ‘being a mother’ umbrella.

Along with the obvious ones (nurse, photographer/documentarian, cleaner, weightlifter, dairy cow), there’s:

Teacher: Power cords are not for eating. Mobile phones are not for eating. Paper is not for eating. Plants are not for eating.

Dietician: Now for something proteiny to go with your vegetable mush.

Engineer: Look at Mummy’s amazingly tall tower!

Stylist: Did Daddy put those socks on you? I’m going to change them because they do NOT go with that top.

Interpreter: He’s grizzling because he’s tired, it’s nap time.

Speech pathologist: Hurray, ‘dada’! Now can you say ‘mama’? Mamamamamamama. Mamamama.

Commentator: I’m just going to my room to grab my glasses, I’m being super quick so you don’t freak out, I’m just grabbing my glasses, buddy, here they are, I’m coming back, I’m back!

Lifeguard: NO STANDING IN THE BATH.

Beautician: Only nine more nails to cut... Sit still, mister, so I don’t accidentally stab you with these teensy scissors. Sit still sit still sit still sit still sit still sit still– yay! Only eight more nails to cut.

Entertainer: ‘GaaaaaaaLUMPH went the little green frog one day...’

Salesperson: C'mon, one more mouthful! It's yummy! It's good for you!

Security guard: Sorry, little man, but this area is strictly off-limits.

Mathematician: If it’s 19 degrees outside and I’ve set the heater thermostat at 2.5, how many blankets will he need tonight?

And there’ll be more to add as he grows older (taxi driver and hairdresser are just two that spring to mind).

A couple of thoughts:

1. Wouldn’t it be cool if maternity leave and parenting payments more accurately reflected the enormity of the mothering job? Something closer to the maximum wage rather than the minimum.

2. Aren't these all good reasons why Mother's Day cheapens the hard work mums do? If any one of the employees listed above was paid something small and token just once every year, I'm pretty sure they'd find somewhere else to work. Mums should get cards and "you're awesome!"s and "thank you!"s and flowers and diamonds (mums love diamonds, according to the marketing folk) all through the year - at least once fortnightly, if that's the average rate for salary payments. Or, if the work really can only be acknowledged on one day per year, a more appropriate present would be a trip around the world, or a holiday on a Queensland island, or a camera, or a house.

Just saying.

P.S. The same applies to fathers, it's just that I'm not one.

P.P.S. The photo's from here.