11 Dec The Beautiful Chaos of Raising Girls: Lessons From a Mum in the Middle
Kate Wattus ponders the nature of her relationships with her two girls.
“But I don’t want my hair done today!” harrumphs my seven-year-old princess, arms folded and eyebrows pushed so low as to almost completely cover her eyes as well as half her face.
“Well I want it done,” I say between firm-ish brushstrokes. “The knots are driving me mad.”
“Urrrrgh! You drive me mad,” she says, before sticking her bottom lip out to meet her furrowed brow, so that now all that remains of her precious face is a nose poking out between some forehead and an expanse of chin. “Oh, Possum,” I laugh, increasing the pressure with each stroke, “why do we always fight like this?”
“Because you always want to do my hair!” she hisses.
“Is that it, though? There must be some other stuff,” I whine with feigned concern, while attempting to free the trapped ends of my fingers from the hair elastic. “Well, that… and you won’t let us have any more chooks… or babies,” she says.
This time it is me who harrumphs. I didn’t see that coming. I harrumph some more as I remember her reaction the first week her baby sister was in the house. We’ve come a long way since then. We really have. But the last thing I thought she’d want was more babies in the house. Only, of course, that isn’t what this is all about.
“Why can’t you have another one?” she challenges, rousing me from my reverie. “Lots of mums have three. Kaylene has four.”
“Yes, I guess she does. But I don’t want another baby!” I say, too quickly taking the bait, then: “But you might be able to talk me ’round on the chooks.”
“Yay,” she calls, and skips off to annoy the one baby sister she does have.
The daily tug-of-war: Hairbrushes, chooks, and childhood defiance
Still amazed, I ponder my daughter’s remarks. It’s not her expectations of me as a mother that astound me so much. I realise that a few years ago her idea of the perfect mum would have been one with Rapunzel-like hair and the numbers of all the members of Hi-5 on speed dial on her mobile phone. I can accept that expectations change. What never ceases to amaze me, though, is her ability to so precisely push my buttons.
Lately she’s observed that I’ve been more tired than usual. I suspect that this is the reason she’s asking for another sibling right now; she knows it’ll elicit a stunning reaction from me.
Why daughters know exactly how to push our buttons
So what is it with girls and their mothers? How do they know exactly what to say to drive us so instantly crazy? And why do we react with such extravagant craziness?
I remember that just after Britta was born, a friend commented to me that there is no more complex relationship than that between mother and daughter. At the time, I’d laughed a jolly laugh that was all at once politeness and naivety. On reflection, I’d say she was pretty much spot on.
But before I get carried away with personal musings on the complexities of the mother/daughter relationship, let me further illustrate the situation by describing a family excursion to the beach.
Brittany* (five at the time), her Dad and I were enjoying a swim in the surf one particularly warm day. In between diving like a mermaid and bodysurfing a nice little wave into shore, Brittany matter-of-factly pointed to an attractive bikini-clad blonde on the beach and said, “She’d be a nice wife for you, Dad.” At the time I found it more hilarious than alarming. She wasn’t even his type.
But later that same year, when Brittany presented her father with a homemade birthday card, I began to see a pattern forming. Depicted on the card was a touching, albeit unsettling, scene of our princess in a wedding dress with outstretched arms, calling “Dad”, while her father responded with open arms and seemingly equal exuberance. Opening the card in search of the image of me joining them in a three-way embrace proved futile. I couldn’t spot a groom, either.
A mother’s view of the Electra complex — and real family life
Of course, Sigmund Freud wouldn’t have been at all perplexed. He would’ve put it down to a classic case of Electra complex, whereby the female child resents her mother for her “castration”, and so attempts to possess the father to make up for what’s lacking. We all have a right to our opinions. Even Austrians named Sigmund.
But loony Austrians and penis envy aside, it certainly appears that since the age of about three, there have been times when it seemed as though my girl would have preferred me if not completely out of the picture, then at least living next door, so that she and her father could spend more quality time together.
For example, she eagerly and openly awaited the birth of her sibling for the whole nine months of my pregnancy. Not so that she could bestow upon her longed-for brother or sister the heartfelt emotion of six years’ anticipation, mind you. But because she knew that childbirth equalled one, maybe two nights in hospital for her mother, which equalled one, maybe two nights with her dad to herself. Or so she’d planned.
I think I detected a hint of disappointment in her face when I revealed that I’d be bringing her new sister home a little sooner than expected.
From toddler adoration to teenage rebellion: The circle of motherhood
At the tender age of one, her baby sister is a long way off the ‘Electra years’. In fact, she seems to be positively rapt in me right now. I can’t put a foot wrong. She hovers around the shower and lovingly calls and waves while I shave my legs and shampoo. She gazes up at me with adoration while she breastfeeds. She even claps me when she hears the familiar tinkle on the porcelain. “Wee,” she cheers with abandoned delight. “Yaaaaaaay!”
For now, I’ll relish this blind adoration that my baby heaps upon me. Hopefully, it’ll be many years before I’m congratulated for emptying my bladder in the right spot again. And if Sigmund’s theories are correct, the days of me being the object of her undying devotion are numbered anyway. In no time at all, it’ll be her father who gets the honour of top position.
By that time, Brittany will be almost 14, and will be venting her spleen at the whole world, rather than just me. Perhaps if I give in to her request for more chooks now, it’ll give me a jump on the rest of the world.
*name changed
Illustration by Madeleine Stamer
