What in the name of God happened to you?

On Tuesday Australia celebrates the festival of the spray tan, also known as Melbourne Cup Day. The entire country will be on a high over-bronzed alert as women walk around looking like they have been spattered with wooden deck stain from Bunnings. Our foreign minister has travelled far to be there, but cannot intervene when it comes to refugees suffering on Manus Island.

I won’t be baring my pale body on Tuesday, I’m not up for the scrutiny. As I watch my face age every morning in the mirror, I’ve been thinking about how my fellow middle-aged women are coping with wrinkles. And how they are so distracted by their ‘beauty’ regime that they don’t have time to call out human rights abusers.

 

Recently, I stumbled upon the Instagram page of a mother I used to know. Her face was stuck in a wind tunnel and her lips resembled a boxer who had been punched in the mouth, but she still looked like a female in her late 40s. They weren’t Halloween pictures. She reminded me of Nicole Kidman, the selfies showed me a featureless face, every emotion and expression the same. And I thought about a generation of little girls growing up with mothers whose faces cannot express empathy nor frown, and who all have trout pouts. They are being taught that this is the acceptable female beauty standard. Like foot binding and removing ribs in generations past. Mothers who spend more time and money in salons than on teaching their daughters to change the world. What do these girls think of the disconnect between their mothers’ words and the emotion their faces can’t convey? Do they worry when they see kids locked up in refugee camps and their mothers are too busy inhaling nail polish in salons that employ uneducated women from poor countries to care? Why do females show their sons and daughters that a wrinkle free face that doesn’t move is how women must age? Why are our looks are more important than the plight of our fellow humans?

And more and more women in their 20s have immovable faces and puffer fish lips. On my vast single mother budget I have lots of money for day spas, so occasionally I get my nails done or a facial at a student beauty clinic. Last week a woman doing my nails must have been in her early 20s but I couldn’t really tell. She could have been shocked by my visible wrinkles, as her face only showed that she was startled.

Am I jealous because I can’t afford to do this?

When I told my 15 year old that I was writing this she said,

“Mum, don’t be mean about this woman, even if she does have a frozen fish face. She already feels bad about herself, that’s why she’s done that to her body.”

Why – Annie Lennox

 

 

 


Seven signs you’re a single mother

1) Your flat mates keep asking you to drive them to school

2) You have 50 cents in your wallet

3) Your kids have eaten three kilos of fruit before you’ve even left the supermarket fruit and veg section

4) You don’t have a husband

5) Every item in your wardrobe is made of cougar, puma or leopard print fabric

6) Your kids’ most oft used sentence is, “Mum is your job cash in hand?”

7) Your youngest child says, “This would be a good dress for you to catch a husband in,” only in crowded shops

Just me?


Single mother club

I am a member of an association I didn’t want to join. A card carrying crazy haired mummy in tracksuit pants, wearing bare feet, I am doing single motherhood the feral way. According to studies, single motherhood is not a pathway to physical nor mental wellness, more like emotional chaos.

My family was way ahead of the trend when it comes to single mothering. My paternal grandmother and my maternal great grandmother were both single mothers way before it became fashionable. When I am exhausted I think of my dad’s mother raising two children on her own in the 1930s and 40s, a time when single parenting was not chic. She couldn’t open a bank account nor get a loan because she had no husband.

My mission is to share the joys of single parenting. I don’t mind being single, it’s the single parenting I struggle with. My friends tell me I should be looking for the next man I’m going to break up with, but right now I think it is

Better to be alone than in bad company

I don’t want to be a single mum cougar, ogling young men on a Saturday night. Young men who are emotionally living on another planet. And their taste in music is appalling. I don’t want a grandpa either, I’m not that desperate.

But I’m sure I’m not the only single smother who behaves like a debauched old tart when the children stay at their father’s girlfiend’s place.

I don’t like to bash men on my blog, just tenderise them…