The problem with telling women that they 'can have it all' is that far too many then expect 'it all' to just fall in their laps with no effort required. Over the last 40-or so years the education system has been tailored to suit the way the girls learn and dumbing-down or grade inflation have conspired with feminist teaching methods to help girls leave high school with a folder 3" thick & full of worthless pieces of paper telling prospective employers or universities how bloody marvellous said girl is. My husband has interviewed a young woman with said folder who actually only had 5 GCSEs, one of which was in P.E. but who had lovely official looking certificates for entering an art competition (not winning, just entering) and being able to cross the road safely (earned at the tender age of just 15, so precocious).
Young woman then rocks up at university and graduates 3 years later with a 2.2 in Media Studies or Sports Journalism or some other almost worthless degree, the work for which wouldn't have earned you a grade 3 CSE back in 1985, and expects a 'graduate position' in a FTSE 100 company with commensurate salary.
Do some photocopying? I have a degree you know. Put the kettle on? I didn't work my well toned ass off for 3 years to make tea for my colleagues. Earn less than £50k per annum? THEY TOLD ME I COULD HAVE IT ALL! *sob*
So, career disappointment bubbling perilously close to the surface, young woman drowns her sorrows in a tragically fashionable bar on Friday night after work and after a Mojito too many falls for a lower management type. Our girls is a career girl, so her contraceptive implant prevents anything so inconvenient as a child interrupting her carefully planned life. 12 months or so later, on Valentine's Day naturellement, Mr Just Promoted to Middle Management proposes with the help of a restaurant he can't really afford and a carefully orchestrated flashmob singing that awful Bruno Mars song.
The diamond is just about big enough so our young woman, tears in her eyes, accepts and spends the next 18 months planning her wedding. Not 'their' wedding - 'HER' wedding. All he has to do is not argue about the cost, turn up on the day wearing what she tells him to and read out the vows which she has written for him. Incidentally, during this 18 month planning period, young woman will have been promoted at work due to the 'positive discrimination' policy which is trying to push more women towards the board-room in spite of the fact that of her 35 hour working week she's been spending 30 hours on choosing which exact shade of pink the roses in her bouquet will be and 5 or less actually doing any work.
So the Big Day passes and everything goes off flawlessly. Within six months, however, the strain is starting to show as Mr Middle-Management still insists on playing 5-aside football after work on Tuesdays and going to the pub with his mates afterwards. He still has his season ticket for Arsenal and he leaves his X-Box controller on the coffee table instead of putting it away in the drawer. His mother clearly never taught him how to use a washing machine or an iron, his culinary skills extend as far as Spaghetti Hoops on Toast and he leaves stray pubic hairs on the toilet rim. This was not what our young woman signed up for, he's supposed to spend his every waking moment either with her or thinking of her, bring her breakfast (of Michelin star quality) in bed, clean the house, do his own washing, bring her flowers every week...... "THEY SAID I COULD HAVE IT ALL" Wailllll!
Yes dear, but what you wanted was a wedding, what you got was a marriage.
Not to worry, the contraceptive implant was removed immediately upon return from Honeymoon (Maldives, naturally) so within a year of the Happiest Day Of Her Life our young woman finds herself joyously expecting the patter of tiny perfect feet. Of course, THIS will mend all the cracks in the marriage and you can't Have It All without reproducing your genetic material.
During the run up to Maternity Leave our young woman gains another promotion at work as the boardroom is simply aching for more part-time, hormonal, exhausted Yummy Mummies and we can't discriminate because of a small matter like taking a year off.
Twenty seven hours in labour followed by an emergency Caesarean Section. We really are 'having it all' aren't we? Bundle of joy is named Amelia Grace and never wears anything other than pink and always a 'label'. Amelia Grace has croup. And nappy rash, and cradle cap, and eczema. She's six months old now and has yet to sleep through the night. Despite crippling mastitis our young woman has exclusively breast-fed as per NCT's recommendations and Amelia Grace, desite being a rather sicky baby, is thriving. Mummy has neglected herself a little however, and before she has the chance to return to work finds herself pregnant again. Daddy still plays 5-aside, goes to the pub, attends every home game at the Emirates and thinks playing Gears of War with Amelia Grace on his knee is suitable Daddy-Daughter quality time. He still can't use the washing machine. Nothing has been ironed for 4 months.
Oscar Henry comes along when Amelia Grace is 15 months old. When he's 3 months old Mummy sticks the pair of them in a nursery and slinks back to her job, sorry 'career', for a rest. A 16-year-old called Jodie will now potty train, educate and socialise the children, passing on her moral values but hopefully not her WKD Blue and Benson & Hedges habit. 18 months off work is a long time and Mummy is struggling to catch up with the latest trends and methods. She gets a call usually at least once a week because one or the other of her lovely children is ill, or hurt, or misbehaving. Younger colleagues are promoted ahead of her as no one wants someone in the boardroom with sick down their back, hair that's not been washed for 4 days and odd shoes. "It's not fair, they said I could have it all!"
Yes sweetheart, but what you wanted was a baby, what you got was motherhood.
I could go on. The teenage years are, I understand, particularly enjoyable. Then the driving lessons and resultant fender benders in your nice Mini Cooper, the empty nest as they go off to Uni, the full-again nest when they come back as house prices keep them off the property ladder, the empty nest again, the undesirable son- and daughter-in law, the mid-life crisis, the divorce, the menopause, sciatica, thinning hair, daughter emigrates, son ignores you as he always was a Daddy's boy anyway, the equity release, the nursing home. Your carer is a woman called Jodie who smokes Benson & Hedges and still has a taste for WKD Blue.
Oh yes, you really have Had It All. Well wasn't that what you wanted?
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