Carol’s Column

Mother's Day comes once a year — it's not enough

MOTHER'S Day is just not good enough. What we really need is Mother's Year.

Something to get our teeth into. Something that doesn't come and go before you can really appreciate it.

Even better. We need a Mother's Trade Union.

I thought about it the other day when I saw Alma Tuttle dashing past me.

Her hair was straggly, her glasses were held together with a hairpin, her cardigan had dogfood splotches down the left front side and her slippers were down-trodden and shabby.

It was hard to believe she'd been Miss Peach Complexion just a few years back.

She looked worn out — which was a shame considering she was only 43.

"Can't stop," she yelled, waving a work-worn hand as she hopped into her beat-up station wagon.

"I have to go and fetch Thomas and take him to the barber then go on to fetch Hilary to get her to ballet in time and Arthur's asked me to fetch his drycleaning on the way."

Before I could reply, she'd shot off, her false teeth snapping in the breeze. She didn't even give Thomas time to get into the car. I could see him hanging to the side, his blazer flapping, as she took the Jellicoe Avenue turn at a cool 80 km/h.

And all around me mothers were hurrying, scurrying and fetching.

I phoned Betty. We poured ourselves a gin and orange juice and sat down to have a quiet chat.

"This is ridiculous," I said to her. "We're exploited. We need to do some firm rethinking about the status of motherhood."

"Hold on!" she shouted down the line. "I can't hear you. The washing machine's gone on the blink — it's making a terrible clatter. I'll go and switch it off."

She came back to the phone 15 minutes later.

"Sorry keeping you," she said. "I had to change the ball-bearings. It's running smoothly now."

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"You see, that's just it," I shrieked to emphasise my point.

"We're exploited. Why didn't you call the washing machine man to come and fix the machine?"

"Don't be absurd," Betty hiccuped daintily. "It would take him three weeks plus a massive bill and then the damn thing wouldn't work efficiently. I know my machine and I've been fixing it for years".

"Don't you see — that's my point. We've all been overdoing things for years. There's no definition of what a mother should and should not do.

"We have no fixed working hours. Why even Licquorice-the labrador has a more fixed routine than me.

"Have you ever been paid overtime? Have you ever refused to do something because it doesn't comply with your working conditions?"

There was a pause from Betty.

I was in full swing: "How do you feel now? Why, I bet you're exhausted and it's at least another 12 hours before bedtime.

She laughed bitterly. "I haven't got time to feel exhausted. I was up at five this morning. Gaby needed a chocolate cake for school, Leora's zip burst and she refused to go to school without her skirt — I can't imagine why. And David lost his soccer boots. It took me half an hour to find them. He'd forgotten he'd put them in the fridge to cool them down.

"I fixed a puncture on my back wheel and I took the dog to the vet because he started frothing at the mouth. Good heavens, who's got time to feel exhausted?"

She paused. I could hear the gin and orange juice gurgling down her gullet.

"Yes, you're right," she said. "This is not a way to live."

We phoned around.

The response was overwhelming.

Before we knew it, we had a list of 482 mothers signed up and agitating for the establishment of a trade union for mothers.

Betty was ecstatic.

"They're all so enthusiastic and most of them are just family. Wait till I start on my friends."

We received supportive telegrams, letters and phone calls from the entire country.

Some of the stories were heartrending.

Typical was: "For 18 years I have washed, cooked, cleaned, fed, fetched, darned, loved and cuddled my three children.

"And today they told me I was old-fashioned, behind times and an embarrassment with my crimplene hairdo. Help. I feel suicidal and unwanted."

Or: "If I have to bake one more twinkle cookie for netball, make one more sponge cake for a cake sale, invent one more interesting sandwich-filling for one more school sandwich, serve one more tuck shop tea, cut one more halftime orange slice — I'll scream. I'm at the end of my tether."

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Or: "Today I travelled 323km when I took Sally, Toby, Paulette and John to and from school, took Sally to ballet, dropped Toby at the orthodontist where I had taken him an hour earlier.

"Took John to swimming. Fetched Sally from ballet and dropped her at karate because I think it's important for a girl to be able to defend herself — you never know who she'll meet. Fetched Toby from the orthodontist, took him to speech, then soccer. Dropped Paulette at swimming. I've been travelling non-stop for nine hours continuously.

"Every day I travel for nine hours continuously. I am getting tired. I need a break."

And so on.

Things had to change — the time was definitely right for the formation of a trade union.

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We called a meeting which was attended by thousands of overworked, underpaid, undervalued exploited mothers.

Feelings were strong and among a more militant group from Bloemfontein — strike action was demanded.

A basic constitution was drawn up which stipulated among other things:

● That mothers would work an eight-hour week.

● That they would be liable for overtime should they work extra hours.

● That they would not be forced to undertake work other than mothering.

● That the working hours stipulated in the constitution must be implemented strictly or compensation would be granted.

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● Any mother who believed that she had been asked to undertake any duty in violation of the above was asked to immediately contact trade union leaders, Alma Tuttle, Betty and myself, and fully report the incident.

Things are slowly progressing. We are now in the process of wage negotiations.

Meanwhile, on the home front, in case you hadn't realised — today is Mother's Day.

Outside the bedroom there is much rustling. I think my family are bringing me breakfast in bed.

Unfortunately, they'll have to wait for another hour. I'm still off duty. On Sundays my hours are from 10 to 12am.

And Happy Mother's Day to you too.

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