Why I’m Refusing to be a Christmas Martyr This Year

Reprobate Mum - 30 Nov 15

It struck me yesterday, manning the gingerbread decoration stall at the kids’ school Christmas Fair, how gender roles were alive and well in the schoolyard, when I saw a friend of mine, and mother of two scrubbing pots in the school kitchen, while her husband warmed his cockles round the mulled wine stand. To be fair to him, he was wearing a baby at the time. This particular chap, father to Ava’s best friend (who happens to be a boy) also happens to be among one of the most enlightened gender-neutral men and all round good sorts, who’s ever lived. So this is an observation, rather than a criticism. But it illustrated a wider point.The whole spice-infused, glitter coated endeavour was being wo-manned by mums.

The mums were mainly to be found staffing the craft and food stalls, and volunteering to clear up afterwards, giving up vast chunks of time and energy to carole kids into parting with a surprisingly large amount of their hard earned pocket money to raise funds to patch the school’s threadbare budget, while the dads were largely to be found eating, drinking, and in charge of the bar with the grownups, with the occasional star turn as Father Christmas.

Obviously, there were exceptions, but by and large, women like Ava’s best friend’s mum were far more prepared to roll up their sleeves and make the event happen and clear up afterwards, even when quite a lot of them had quite enough on their plate already. When I laughed at my friend, and told her she’d pulled the short straw – I had been careful to limit my volunteering to a specific activity and allotted time (well it was my birthday), she told me she’d been guilted into it. And that, in a nutshell, explains why women are exploited the world over. Us girls hold society together, by a thread at times, and the skin of our teeth at others, and we do it for nothing but love.

I read this interesting article on emotional labour in The Pool this week, about the giving of birthday cards and how women are more likely to take on unpaid responsibilities of caring and making sure other people feel happy, whilst perhaps not always making sure number one is having a good time in the process. As someone who struggles to remember, but tries really hard, to make sure the people I love get a card on their birthday, it didn’t surprise me in the least that I didn’t so much as a text from my dad yesterday. I know he’s busy – and forgetful – and, as it turns out, in another timezone. I doubt he even knew what day it was. But even when I was little, he’d rely on my step mum to sort all that stuff out. Certainly, in his day, it was considered women’s work.

Now, not all men are as useless when it comes to thinking about other people. My husband, bless him went out on a limb with a self-chosen box of goodies from the always acceptable Mint Velvet, but he didn’t get me a card, mainly because he knows I don’t like the guilt when, inevitably I forget – or more likely am too busy – to get him one. Apparently, being rubbish at birthdays is genetic. But feeling guilty about it seems to be largely a women’s curse.

Why women suffer this form of social anxiety to be seen as nice is no doubt an evolutionary tactic to avoid being expelled from the village as a threat. Lord knows, I would have been put on the ducking stool in medieval times, the way women can gang up on perceived differences when it threatens their own self interest. I had enough trouble with a clique that emerged with Jonah’s school friends parents when I questioned some of the children’s behaviour – without judgement – towards Jonah who was complaining about being picked on. Obviously we’re all mother bears when it comes to our young. But I do think some of the issues I’ve experienced with this particular group comes down to the fact I’m not willing to get involved in the PTA activities that hold their social set together. But the thing is, where women are almost expected to muck in and clear the dinner table (as I always felt behooved of me from an early age), if a bloke so much as runs the beer stall, he’s seen as a local hero.

I’ve not been involved in the PTA since the kids were little and I was desperate to get out for any excuse to get out of the house and go to the pub. But when I did, it was not unlike any other committee – a bit of a challenge getting things done. All of us were willing and able, keen to please and help, but needing to balance our contributions with the complicated tapestry of the rest of our lives. Mainly run by ladies who worked part time, or not at all, save for those few who clearly  were gluttons for punishment and valued being included above their own sanity, I eventually felt alienated from the group, and took the decisions to stop getting involved having killed myself one Christmas when Ava was still a baby to decorate the Christmas grotto.

It was gruelling work, sourcing the materials at a recycling yard, and organising other women to help me pin glitter icicles and lametta around the art shed, particularly because, at the time, I had a toddler who kept picking up the wall stapler, but even then, because I ducked out of cleaning up after the fair (I think I went home to bed), I felt (was made to feel?) I had not done enough while Tom was lauded for a twenty minute stint as Santa. Fuck that shit.

There’s a reason the PTA is mainly run by the same mainly white, mainly middle aged, mainly middle class women, year on year, despite the diversity of the school more generally. Who else has the time, or the will, or a thick enough skin? It’s hardly surprising that, while the school has doubled in size, the PTA has dwindled, along with the quality of the raffle prizes and chances of winning.

But this year, having been snubbed on a couple of mums’ nights out and a group camping trip with all Jonah’s friends, but was markedly left off the message stream, I decided I’d rise above it, and offer to do my bit at the Winter Fair – on my terms. Given it was my birthday, and  refusing to feel guilty after a couple of mulled wines, and a dwindling trickle of sugar-addled kids, I knocked off early and celebrated with pizza, some of the friendlier parents (none of whom, incidentally, do the PTA)  and the kids at the local pub.

I ended up dancing on the table at home at 1 am. It was perfect. In this way, I didn’t notice my dad had failed to remember my birthday again until today. But it does mean that when his rolls around again, I can legitimately forget his, without too much guilt. But then, birthday and Christmas cards are a bit pointless, if you only give them to get them. But so is martyring yourself in order to make friends and avoid getting knocked off the mums’ nights out message stream  – the modern day ducking stool, and the ultimate expression of playground politics.

I might not have so many acquaintances among the playground set, but at least the friends I do have still love me even when I have three-day birthday gas and I do a rendition of the Sia Elastic Heart dance routine including the splits. After all, who needs a cardboard greeting to feel better about themselves, when you can put on a gin vest against the chill breeze of other’s disapproval, and armour plate yourself against guilt and social anxiety. Until, of course,you burst into tears after one too many. It was my party, and I could cry if I wanted to.

So, my Christmas card list might be look daunting at the moment – and I know it will be me writing them all in my dreadful dyspraxic scrawl, badgering Tom to add his signature, and dig out the addresses of his friends and relatives that if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have seens for a decade, but I guess, if a card helps someone raise a smile and feel remembered, the rewards of a bit of emotional labour are well worth it, if not always immediately tangible, in the end.

Read more by Reprobate Mum at www.reprobatemum.com or follow on Twitter @reprobatemum

Reprobate Mum

East London dwelling mum to two bandy-legged pre-tweens, and a pug called Johnny. Huff Post blogger, copywriter, ex-journo, whose philosophical musings on life, death and everything in between have been featured in The Sunday Times Magazine, Marie Claire, Mumsnet and La Repubblica.

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