Carol’s Column

Strike of the unpaid domestic engineers

APRONS off to Mrs Mary Shaver of New York, who last week stunned the world with her brave and courageous actions.

A domestic engineer — or mother person — of the highest degree, she went on strike.

Her shocked children returned home to find their grotty, weekly washing piled high on the front stoep and their house emblazoned with pickets from which blared such strident words as: Notice! This mother, maid, cook, driver, laundress, money-changer and picker-upper is on strike until further notice."

Rousing, clanging words, that struck a chord in the hearts of millions of oppressed mothers throughout the world.

Meanwhile on the home front, this mother is considering taking strike action too, because the time for peaceful — and not so peaceful — negotiations is now over.

I realised this last Friday a week ago at 3.30am as I drove my oldest, unmarried son to school to join the school bus that was spiriting the Greenside High swimming team away on tour.

Hairy and bristly, he sat beside me with his packed cheese-and-tomato, beef-and-lettuce-with-mayonnaise sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, I'd lovingly prepared for him at 3am, lest he starve en route.

The streets were pitch black, even the lamps shut their eyes temporarily at this ungodly hour and the night was truly still.

Except for the revving engines of 50 mother's cars as wearily, they dropped their various offspring at the gate of the school.

I hugged my pink candlewick dressing gown tightly against myself — it is chilly in the early hours you know — and snuggled my toes deeper into Ralph's rugby socks.

Then stared blearily, my under-eye bags drooping on to my cheeks, through heavy lids at the other cars.

Each one driven by another valiant mother. We kissed our children goodbye, struggling not to cry, for we knew we wouldn't be seeing them for three days — and the tears of joy were almost too great to be contained.

OK, we didn't look too good at 3.30am in our dressing gowns, unshaven legs and unbrushed hair.

But in this hour of need, we'd come, each and every one of us an early-morning unsung heroine.

And where were the fathers you might ask?

Snoring, snuffling and grunting away on their smooth sheets (washed by us, in their comfortable beds (made by us), wearing fresh and crisp and clean pyjamas (ironed by us).

This is madness, I thought to myself as I grated and grinded the gears all the way home.

What has happened to me, I reflected bitterly as I swung into the driveway barely missing the junk that clogs up our pleasant little suburban renovator's dream.

Whatever happened to that intelligent, gay, free spirit of the 60s who fought her way bra-less and flower bedecked through the writings of Kerouac, Sillitoe, Osborne and Updike?

Who fantasised and tripped with Tom Leary and who joined every protest to make the lousy world a better place?

And what am I today? An animated floormop with false teeth, an atrophied mind, Cooper's droop and flat feet.

I stomped up to the door, not that it was easy to find in the dark without my contact lenses. I'd left them in the toothmug next to my bed.

Inside, I couldn't bring myself to go upstairs.

I removed Jamie's marbles from the one unbroken coffee cup, boiled the water and made myself a cup of coffee.

Dammit, at 4am it was almost time to make the kid's lunches for school.

Mary Shaver of New York was right. We are getting a raw deal.

Who else in the world does seven jobs a day simultaneously without pay. Catering, cleaning, laundering, valeting, chauffering, money-lending and cuddling?

It's a ridiculous state of affairs.

And then it came to me.

I'll join Mary Shaver, I thought with a singular flash of brilliance. The other flashes being hazed by sleepiness.

Using Nicky's poster paints, I drew and erected a huge two by three metre sign which read: THIS MOTHER IS ON STRIKE.

Feeling exhilarated, inspired and emboldened (by the brandy), I wrote out a manifesto (duplicated five times).

It read as follows:

"This mother, exemplary daughter of the nation, has had enough.

● She refuses to wash bad and dirty clothes.

● She refuses to cook numerous meals that are greeted by long faces and unenthusiastic stomachs.

● She will no longer pick up clothing, roller skates, crayons, jackets, ties, school satchels, smelly takkies or any other debris that litters the house.

● She will no longer drive her own four and 271 other children to windsurfing, school, tennis, parties, ballet, piano, soccer, anywhere.

● She will no longer vacuum, shine, rub and polish (mainly because she can no longer find a free surface in which to do these things).

● This mother is going to do her own thing!

● Do not disturb.

I placed a pamphlet beside each sleeping member of my family and went to bed with a good book and a box of brandied-cherry chocolates.

Surprisingly enough, this household has not come totally to a standstill.

But the local laundry and dry cleaner are doing big business. As is the take-away cafe down the road not to mention the taxi service.

I noticed my husband bought two dozen new shirts.

"Isn't that a little excessive?" I suggested gently.

"Why don't you wash your shirts when they're dirty instead of throwing them away?"

"Wash them?" He looked at me with horror.

There's no doubt that the members of this family are looking distinctly thinner. I would imagine it's from irregular meals and having to walk greater distances.

Last night I heard them arguing in the kitchen about what to have for dinner — peanut butter or Marmite sandwiches?

Funnily enough, only this morning, I was awakened gently, by five loving kisses on my cheek.

My pillows were puffed softly into place behind me and they brought me breakfast in bed, accompanied by the newspapers, a bunch of roses and three small but succinct signs that read: Home is where the mother is, and Come back Ma, we need you and Mothers are to be cherished.

Poignant.

Up with Mary Shaver!

I think they're getting the message.

About time too.

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