Diary of a Crap Housewife

by Jessica Rowe

  ‘What is a nice girl like you doing handing out pamphlets for these communists?’

  I explained that I was a proud member of Young Labor and urged them to support the party. Somehow I don’t imagine I converted many of these silvertails and silver foxes!

  Over 30 years later, that ‘nice girl’ was no longer handing out political pamphlets and had become more of a self-declared champagne socialist or limousine leftie. My mother could never work out where I got my expensive tastes from as she’d never been taken in by fancy clothes or shoes. She preferred to spend her hard-earned money on books or tickets for gloomy art-house movies. However, what I did inherit from her (and my father) is a passion for social justice and community.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Five mornings a week I had the privilege of sitting alongside my friends, journalists Sarah Harris and Joe Hildebrand, media icon Ita Buttrose and showbiz royalty Denise Drysdale (Neesy). We would also on occasion be joined by guest panellists, who guaranteed that the conversation remained unpredictable and entertaining. Everything I debated on the show came from my heart and there were moments when it was tough to put myself ‘out there’, day after day.

  Frequently I was the lone voice on issues, a badge I sported proudly, but at times it did wear me down. One such time was when radio host Steve Price, Joe, Ita and I were talking about the behaviour of the then Greens Senator Larissa Waters who had been forced to resign from federal parliament because of her Canadian citizenship. Following is some of our discussion:

  ‘I think she’s a terrific senator and she’s done a lot of good,’ I said.

  ‘What has she done, exactly?’ asked Joe.

  ‘She made a mistake and I think it’s our loss that she’s no longer in the parliament,’ I said.

  ‘Why? What’s she done, apart from breastfeed her baby in the Senate?’ replied Steve Price.

  ‘But you say that in a very patronising way, Steve,’ I said.

  ‘But what has she done?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Again Joe, don’t be a smart-arse!’ I replied.

  ‘All we’re asking is what has she done? You said she’s done a lot. Just tell us what she’s done instead of attacking the question,’ Joe persisted.

  ‘Sometimes it’s very difficult to respond to a question when you sound like you’re an expert on everything,’ I said.

  Okay, calling Joe a smart-arse wasn’t my finest moment and I wished I’d been more articulate. In my dressing-room after that show I burst into tears, exhausted and angry at myself that I hadn’t made my point clearly. It was never simply ‘sport’ for me and such exchanges would eat away at my stamina and confidence. At other times, a sharp word from Ita or an arch of one of her immaculate eyebrows would be enough to wear me down. Of course it was the nature of the show that we would at times clash over our different opinions. It was entertaining to watch and it would have been terribly boring if we had agreed on everything, all the time! Rationally, I knew that but when I was tired it was hard not to take such exchanges personally.

  Another time, notorious British attention-seeker and conservative Milo Yiannopoulos came on the show to promote his upcoming speaking tour in Australia. During the interview I made it clear I didn’t support his views and was a ‘proud feminist’.

  ‘That’s okay, I’m sure they’ll cure you soon. There’s a chemotherapy for that,’ replied Milo.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘Everyone is entitled to a view but you seem to stir up hate for the sake of it, because you want to provoke.’

  Our interview continued along the same vein and later that day, he uploaded the interview to his YouTube channel under the headline: ‘Milo slays half-bald feminist.’

  Over the years I’ve had my share of nasty comments and I understood that a degree of criticism comes with being in the public eye. Most of that I could handle; however, what is never excusable is violent, misogynistic trolling. After the incident with Milo I dealt with the vile comments by blocking users’ accounts. It’s incredibly satisfying pushing that block button and each time I did that, I was reminded of the wise words of my late grandmother: ‘Don’t let them take your peace, Jessica.’

  But my time on the show wasn’t all about blocking trolls. There were many, many moments of simple joy and silliness that made it so special. During high school I had enjoyed decorating T-shirts, knitting jumpers and creating costumes that I would sell at the Paddington Market in Sydney. Now I was again able to indulge in my flamboyant flair for creating a costume for our Halloween shows. One year I decided to dress up as a crazy cat lady! My daughters had generously let me borrow their precious cuddly cat toys, which I stitched haphazardly all over my pink chenille dressing gown. Some of the stuffed cats needed some large safety pins through their paws to secure them snuggly onto my shoulders. The look was completed with hair rollers, Dame Edna–style sunglasses and my own leopard-print pyjama pants.

  Another time I got out the needle and thread was for yet another Halloween show. This time, my boss let me dress as a fart! He had been very accommodating with my costume requests. And I’ll never forget the look of horror on Ita’s face when I surprised the panel with my explosive get-up.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be a fart,’ I told the audience and panel, laughing. ‘It’s a dream come true!’

  I sounded slightly out of breath after running onto the set at the last moment after ditching the white terry towelling bathrobe that had been covering my outfit.

  Much of the night before I had sat up in bed, hand-stitching white, brown and green tulle, which I had bought on special from Spotlight, onto my eldest daughter’s old school headband. Once I had finished the headgear, it was time to sew the leftover layers of tulle onto a beige singlet. My stretchy white pants would complete the costume. Peter had given up asking me to turn off the bedside lamp and exclaimed that I was getting more eccentric the older I got! And that is the joy of ageing. I was caring less and less about what people thought of me and my methods of ‘self-expression’.

  Luckily, I am married to a man who has bucketloads of common sense, and so I did listen to his advice when he cautioned me to wait before I resigned from my television job. And my husband (who is frequently right) knew that I was an attention-seeker and that I did enjoy the notoriety that came from working in the media. Even though I knew I was more than my job title, there was satisfaction and vanity that came from ‘being somebody’. I’m ashamed to admit that the validation of being on Studio 10 puffed up my self-esteem. Despite my ‘worthiness’, I knew I could also be shallow and enjoyed that my ‘celebrity’ meant I could get a good seat in a restaurant and a discount from my favourite designers.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Returning to work in January after enjoying being off in a lovely holiday bubble in Thailand, I set myself the goal of working for another year on Studio 10. For some reason, I arbitrarily came up with the target of doing twelve more months at work but I’m not sure who I was trying to impress with that decision. Fast-forward a few months and that whisper of my heart that I heard on holidays was no longer sounding soft and gentle. Instead, it was getting louder and more insistent: ‘Just keep going.’ ‘How many more sleeps until the weekend?’ ‘How many weeks until our next break?’ ‘What about school holidays? How do I stop feeling guilty, keep our girls happy while we both juggle our work schedules?’ ‘Should I ask work if I can get the morning off to go to the swimming carnival? Or should I wait until the Mother’s Day breakfast and ask for that morning off instead?’

  I didn’t like the person I was morphing into—someone who was sleepwalking through the days after getting up early for work after another night of too-little sleep. Although I had managed to throw out that Super Woman nonsense years before, I still couldn’t wipe away the mother guilt that seeped deeply into my soft, mushy heart. Now that my daughters were getting older, I realised they needed me more than ever. I couldn’t ignore my life’s greatest work—being the best mother for them.

  When my da
ughters were tiny I used to love the freedom of sneaking out to work like a ninja, as the sun was just waking up, happy that my little family were still sound asleep and dreaming heavily. Smiling as I saw the lilac morning light when I opened the front door, I’d quickly check that my handbag was crammed with all that I needed for the day.

  ‘Favourite pink lipstick, check. Padded bra, check. Shorthand notebook, check. Different pair of undies with no VPL (in case I would be wearing a tight dress on the telly), check.’

  My heart would sing as I’d hear the cheeky kookaburras clearing their throats while quietly closing my car door, ready for a new day. I hadn’t realised how lost I had been without a paid job. A job that had helped my brainwaves rediscover their silver, zapping rhythms independent of controlled-crying routines, dirty sandpits, playground politics and endless routine. Without realising, I had allowed my identity as a woman to become secondary to my identity as a mother, nurturer and keeper of everyone else’s happiness. At last I felt like myself again and I had missed her.

  But isn’t there always a rub when something is too good to be true? Alas, the sting in the tail—the obstacle that used to break my stride when my girls were small—was mother guilt. Of course I realised how useless guilt is as an emotion but it can be hard to ignore its destructive force when you’re tired, not able to do canteen duty, or have forgotten to get the schoolbags out of the boot of the car from the night before. Initially, I used to worry that I was depriving my girls because I wasn’t with them 24/7. However, I’ve learnt that it doesn’t matter how much time you spend with your kids, they always want more!

  I’m still guilty of trying to make up for that void with bribery, corruption and then the spoiling that I can’t resist when it comes to the greatest loves of my life. I’m fearful of the terrible consequences that come from relying on such shallow tools to soothe my feelings of not being a good enough mum. Are you also weary of the endless studies about how soft parenting styles are turning our kids into juvenile delinquents? I try not to read them, and I won’t read them. Tough love has never been my style. But there goes that voice again, that I’m turning my daughters into spoilt brats who have no boundaries and believe the world owes them.

  Of course, mothers are to blame for all that is wrong with their children—it is never the fathers … And hey, I spent years and many hours dealing with ‘mother issues’ by seeing a therapist each fortnight. Rarely do we hear about how ‘father issues’ have ruined someone’s life forever. We need to take the pressure off ourselves and our mothering skills. We are good enough!

  But I do know I am a soft touch and my daughters can smell my vulnerability. I can still clearly remember a time when my youngest was still at day care and I’d just returned to full-time work.

  ‘Mummy, will you pick me up early from preschool today?’ asked Giselle.

  ‘Sure, I’ll get you just before your afternoon tea and we can have some special time before we pick up Allegra from school,’ I replied.

  After bolting from work and doing a record-breaking dash around the supermarket, I made it to the preschool gates just as the class was sitting down on their miniature plastic chairs to start on their cheese and fruit snacks. I crouched down next to my cherubic child.

  ‘I’m NOT ready to go yet!’

  ‘But, but you wanted me to pick you up early …’

  ‘This is my favourite part of the day. I’m NOT going yet.’

  I pulled up one of the spare weeny plastic chairs and squished next to my indignant daughter, waiting for her to be ‘ready’ to leave day care. I’m a bad mother, bad mother … she would rather be here than spending time with me, I told myself. But my husband doesn’t have the same inner dialogue. I don’t know any men who do. So why do we do it?

  A girlfriend of mine buys her sons LEGO, she calls it LEGO guilt. If she feels like she has had an especially busy week at work, a quick trip to Kmart is compulsory. The shopping bags sit on the kitchen benchtop in time for her sons to discover their treats once they’re home from school. Her boys don’t ask or whinge to get the latest LEGO—my friend simply does it to make herself feel better.

  I do the same. Not with LEGO, but I like to have treats for my girls most afternoons. Not top-shelf toys, but sometimes a punnet of fresh raspberries, Vegemite scrolls, colouring-in books, textas, Bubble O’ Bill ice-creams and the occasional Barbie. Why? Because I put this ridiculous pressure on myself and won’t back my mothering skills. However, I’m getting better at realising that I’m a good mum. Actually, I’m a marvellous mother; I’m fun, honest, patient and always up for a chat. And I love my girls more than the number of shining stars in our galaxy and beyond.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  My eldest daughter, Allegra, aged eleven, had been setting her alarm so she could wake up early with me before I left for work each morning. Something she had been doing for the past year. The pair of us would chat in the dark together, as the morning star faded from the sky. I’d pat her honey-blonde hair while she lay stretched across my lap, snuggled under the fluffy, fuchsia-pink mohair rug.

  One morning she asked: ‘Mummy, can I have a play date this afternoon?’

  ‘No, my darling.’

  ‘Why not? I really want to have Rosie around!’

  ‘Um, well, we’re busy …’

  ‘What about the weekend? Please, Mum. Mummy?’

  The thought of looking after any more children left me weary. I was too tired, I was always too tired. When I was growing up, we never had organised play dates so the idea was already foreign to me. Something had to shift as I realised I was saying ‘no’ too much, saying ‘no’ to what mattered, in contrast to saying ‘yes’ to those professional commitments. I had always liked to think of myself as a ‘yes’ girl when it came to chasing fun, but now that was happening less and less.

  Working meant I was ‘on’ for those three and a half hours of live television each day. Regardless of my mood, the thrill of debating, discussing and laughing about the issues of the day with my colleagues kept me showing up every morning. The comedown from each ‘performance’ would hit me harder as I became more tired. I was surviving on adrenaline, then propping myself up with rosé of a Friday night to take the edge off my buzzy brain. I knew I was drinking too much but it had become a prop to get me through the week.

  The whisper was becoming more urgent: ‘Jessica, what are you doing? Why are you doing this? You’re not happy.’

  You may be thinking, What an ungrateful and whingy woman. You have a wonderful job, a great marriage, gorgeous kids. What do you have to be tired and precious about? And you’re right, I do have a good life. I knew I was lucky but I also knew that if I kept going along this path I’d become resentful and cruel to the people I love the most. Each afternoon I was becoming more and more the ‘shouty mummy’. Sure, we all have our bad days but it seemed like more of my days were ending with me feeling exhausted and empty.

  It didn’t matter that my daughters raised their eyebrows and giggled at me, wondering what had happened to their ‘funny’ mummy. I had thought having a Christmas break would leave me re-energised and ready to take on another year of early starts on television. But I had to listen to my heart. (Remember, I was a teenager of the eighties and that Roxette song is still one of my favourites!) Like any big decision we make in our lives, there are always moments of fear when we consider making a big change.

  Leaps of faith have been a constant in my life. I’d always rather risk something and live a little dangerously instead of leading a small, safe life full of regret. I left home aged seventeen, to study in a small country town in western New South Wales. Then, there was a year of ‘modelling’ in Germany, starring in camping and skiwear catalogues. Probably more of that year was spent dancing on the tops of bars rather than making bedroom eyes at the camera lens.

  I then returned to Australia, finished my media degree and moved around the country for jobs in journalism. Some of those jobs worked out better than others! Hello, the Tod
ay show … However, I don’t regret anything. In the past I’d been brave, so it was now time to rediscover that bold part of myself and make a change.

  My patient husband and long-suffering friends had listened to me dithering over my decision for long enough. The time for talking was over and it was time to listen to my inner voice, my intuition. And to listen, really listen, to those softly, softly moments when the beat of your heart whispers louder than the rational, so-called sensible part of your brain. What helped me to reach my decision was reading some books that had serendipitously arrived in my post-office box. These included Slow by Brooke McAlary, as well as Meshel Laurie’s Buddhism for the Unbelievably Busy. It’s bizarre how books, people and friends will appear when you need to read/hear/understand a moment in your life. I’ve never been a religious soul; however, I do believe in a higher spirit keeping us spinning on the right axis for most of the time.

  Now, the right thing for me was to slow down so I could feel the pull of my heartstrings. The heartstrings that had tightly bound me to my babies were now a little looser but were being tugged by the emotional demands of their tween years and the emotionally fraught teenage years that lay ahead. I had been a nightmare teenager and my stubborn streak, which works for me now, didn’t make me an easy person to get along with. I recognised that same strength and determination in my girls and wanted to be present to help them navigate the hormones and the occasional horribleness of being a girl growing into a young woman.

  What do I mean by being present? Mindfulness and being in the moment are terms that are increasingly thrown around counselling sessions, workplaces and classrooms. And it’s a relief to learn that more and more people are looking for ways to lead a meaningful life. But sometimes that search can be stressful! Stripping it back to basics, for me being present means being emotionally present. My daughters needed me and I needed them. And I knew just how lucky I was to have this choice.