HerFamily.ie contributor, Sharyn Hayden has written a book. You know, along with being a stand-up comedian, presenter, actress, mother to two kids and a dog and creating and running the brilliant website RaisingIreland.com, she’s written a book.
We’re feeling impressed and exhausted in equal measure. Sharyn lives in Dublin with her husband, Alan (AKA ‘Ass Monkey’) and children. Her weakness is Meanies crisps combined with grated cheddar in a white roll with butter for lunch. Fact.
In our final extract from the hilarious literary tour de force, I Forgot To Take My Pill! – An honest Diary of a First-time Mum Sharyn outlines her proposed “Snatch to the Wind Awards” along with 12 better alternatives to the “push present”.
Chapter 21. Snatch To The Wind
I would like to introduce the ‘Snatch To The Wind Awards’. It will be a really plush affair, in some swanky hotel where our kids/bosses/nosy neighbours and non-stop-knocking-on-the-door charity workers can’t reach us, and our mobile devices are forbidden (lest anyone should try and reach us in search of the remote control or baby wipes, you understand. ‘Erm, LOOK HARDER FFS!!’).
We will drink champagne from pint glasses and wear ballgowns with no knickers on underneath. Some sexy bitch or other, such as the actress who plays Shane in The L Word, Lena Dunham or, oh fuck it, MERYL STREEP will be the main host for the evening. Meryl will, of course, be paid vast sums of money for doing the hosting in character as Anna Wintour from The Devil Wears Prada.
She will also be required to deliver killer one-liners from the script, such as ‘By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me’ every time that someone has to get up on stage to accept an award. Oh how we will drunkenly laugh.
The sole purpose of this evening, ladies and gentlemen, will be to celebrate and reward, Amazing Vaginas.
Side-note: I don’t think my vagina has ever received an award in its own right before. I mean sure, it’s been popular in several categories, for example:
– The Late Teens Experimental Years
– The New York I Think I’m Madonna And So Therefore Should Express Myself Through My Sex Era
– The Mid 20s I’m Working And Have Money To Be Drunk A Lot So Will Shag Lots Of Idiots Years
and of course, not to forget my absolute favourite, the
– I’ve Just Turned 30 And Am Freaking Out So Must Shag All The 21-Year-Olds Stage.
I still think though, God love her, that even during all of that, my vagina was really and truly only being given a ‘Supporting Vagina’ role – no lead parts, and certainly fuck all control over the script or direction her career was going in.
Sure, the rider was basic enough, covering official health checks, smear tests, nice lingerie and de-fuzzing treatments at the salon, but really, the overall management was way off.
And as for respect and equality in the workplace? I can tell you that my vagina was several times in a position whereby she should have taken a case at the labour courts.
At the Snatch To The Wind Awards, there will be no ‘Supporting Vagina’ awards on offer, only main prizes – big prizes – for each of the categories, which will include:
1. Outstanding Vagina in The Arts/Medicine/Science Award (all careers will of course be included. I am still undecided on the ‘Outstanding Vagina In The Porn Industry’ category, because I think the judges’ work would be pretty much cut out for them. From what I’ve seen, those girls have some of the most robust vaginas on the planet. How could they possibly choose the best one?).
2. The Holy Vaginal Matrimony Award – for the best speech from a woman at a wedding, straight or gay. I don’t know how many weddings I’ve attended now where the bride doesn’t say a word – not a word – WTF?!
3. The I Can’t Believe It’s Not Vagina Award – for a fabulous new sister from the transgender community.
4. The I’m A Vagina, Get Me Out Of Here! Award – dedicated to someone who got the fuck out of that shit job/nasty relationship/the queue at Ikea on a Sunday afternoon in search of a better life.
5. The Look Up, It’s Vagina Award – for outstanding work in ignoring the ‘men can do it just as well as you but will be paid infinitely more cash for their troubles’ and kicking ass in their chosen business.
Mmmm, I think that could be it for now. Sure I could go on, but we’d be there all night, the champagne might run out, and if left at home to one’s own devices for long enough, ‘someone’ is likely to have used the fur on the family dog’s back to wipe one of our children’s arses in lieu of being able to locate the frickin’ baby wipes.
In my modest personal opinion, this would be a far more sophisticated and vaginal-driven way to celebrate our vaginas for all the great work they do, than this latest weird trend of soliciting ‘Push Presents’ from our guilt-ridden and put-upon partners. Why the actual fuck should we demand an over-priced, often pointless, item for the notion of ‘going to the trouble’ of giving birth?
It just seems so ludicrous not to consider that we elected to do this together, this baby-making thing. Yes, one of us knew we would be the ‘Luggage Holdall’ part of the deal, but presumably had a fair notion of what all that entailed when we signed up?
Even the phrase ‘Push Presents’ sounds wrong. It conjures up less images in my mind of women giving birth to another human being, but more imagery of Rihanna dry-humping the floor in a dollar sign-decorated bikini, if I’m honest.
And what about those who don’t ‘push’ a baby out – what about all those amazing women who endure C-sections? What about our friends and family who foster/adopt/choose surrogacy – are they forbidden from this elite notion?
Even though Jacob technically came out of my own vagina, I can’t truly say that I did much ‘pushing’. First of all, I was drugged up to the eyeballs with the epidural – TO THE EYEBALLS (ok, well technically, up to somewhere around the waist) – but the point is, I didn’t even feel like I was pushing, or doing much of anything when Jacob was being delivered.
I had one sneaky eye open on Ass Monkey who I was laughing at because his ‘jobs’ were to press one of my legs somewhere up around my earlobe and make sure that I didn’t push with my eyes (my mother reported to have burst a few blood vessels in her eyelids giving birth to one or other of us from pushing too hard, so I was determined not to let that happen to me).
Ass Monkey was taking his role so seriously that his hands had actually gone a bit purple from holding on to my leg so tight (whereas meanwhile I couldn’t feel a thing), and his tired eyes were like saucers staring at my eyeballs to make sure they didn’t pop out of my head. And next thing we knew, Jacob was arriving into the room and the world, and I couldn’t tell you that I had anything to do with helping that.
When your bits are numb, your bits are numb. Did I push, really? Who knows.
Furthermore, when I went for a check-up with my doctor a couple of months later, she informed me that ‘no one would ever know you had a baby’. My episiotomy scar was healed, my Kegel exercises had strengthened everything back up – I could essentially, if I so desired (?!), deny any knowledge of having given birth to the little man. So why all the fuss over my ‘poor vagina’ who had to do all this pushing? She wasn’t complaining.
I had a very educational conversation on the matter with some friends I went to school with – all hard-working women, mind – who described the ‘Push Presents’ they received as ranging from Manolo Blahniks that they were unlikely to ever wear, to Prada handbags, iPads and diamond bracelets!
A quick search on any internet search engine of the term will throw up articles on the gross excesses that the likes of Kim Kardashian received for giving birth to her long awaited child (a $500,000 ring by the fucking way), to websites completely dedicated to selling a full range of push presents.
Jewellery, designer items, spa breaks away – you name it, they have your partner’s guilt in their hands and they will happily charge you big wads of cash to alleviate it somewhat.
In defiance of this madness, I have compiled a list of what I think would be some much more useful, touching, and overall 100% appreciated gifts from your loved one when you welcome a new baby into the house:
1. A voucher for a daily ten-minute shoulder/back/foot rub. This may or may not include a Happy Ending, that shall remain the ultimate decision of the bearer of the feet/back/shoulders.
2. The employ of early-morning staff, akin to the ones ‘downstairs’ in Downton Abbey, who will quietly sort out the cooking and cleaning while you’re asleep, lay out a puke-stain-free, matching outfit for you to wear at the end of your bed, and disappear as soon as you surface.
3. A written document outlaying the understanding that She Who Is Breast Feeding will not have any further demands put on her boobs by anyone other than the baby for a fixed period of time.
4. A contract detailing the removal of unhelpful in-laws, outlaws, neighbours, friends etc., when the unease of either partner is expressed. There should be no boundaries to this gift, i.e. the removal can be enforced at any time or place, even at a baptism or birthday party, and can include the use of brute force if necessary.
5. A voucher for a photo shoot that will feature all members of the family, not just one partner plus child plus the other partner’s foot/half a hand/blurry side profile.
6. A little holiday – it doesn’t have to be expensive, it doesn’t even have to be abroad. Just somewhere to go together for the weekend, or overnight, where you can bond with each other and talk to each other and make plans together about the type of parents you want to be. Preferably, this retreat will be somewhere that the internet doesn’t work, so you can’t check any work emails or social media pages. It should be pure, uninterrupted, dedicated family time.
7. A ‘Pretend Who Is Asleep The Longest’ outright BAN. If the child or children are in need of their parents during the night, there will be a grown-up, mature discussion between both parents outlining their cases for and against being the one to get up out of bed. There will be no ridiculous attempts at pretending that their screams can’t be heard and P.S. NOBODY can fake snore.
8. A guarantee that everyone will be up to speed on the correct nappy sizes and type of formula/number of ounces required at all times. Phone calls from one parent to another enquiring as to the answer to this exact type of information will not be tolerated.
9. Consent that the repeated loss of the kitchen sink plug is neither helpful nor believable.
10. Agreement that it would be better to put a puke-stained bed sheet straight into the washing machine rather than leaving it out on the line ‘to dry first’ and then forgetting about it for a week, while the neighbours wonder just what the fuck is wrong with you.
11. The painting of The Bedtime Rules somewhere helpful in the house. This can be pasted in blood on the landing walls if necessary, so that no one parent or another can ‘innocently forget’ that a child does not need to watch seventeen episodes of Peppa Pig back-to-back during the hours of 6 p.m. and 9 p.m.
12. A Box of Quiet Kindness and Helpfulness. This box should be opened every single day and let loose on the home, so that the primary caretaker of this newborn house-and-heart-wrecker can have a quiet environment to work in, can sleep if they need to sleep, can cry if they need to cry, can get out for a walk if they need a walk, can be reassured that they’re doing a great job, can take ten minutes to get washed and dressed in the morning, can have an afternoon to themselves here and there to go to the salon or shops, can be promised the presence of a partner who thinks they’re amazing and knows that they’re still a human being with needs and wants outside of being a parent and….
…too much? Yeah I thought so.
Fuck it, just get me the Manolos.
Sharyn Hayden’s epic book I Forgot to Take my Pill is available to order on Amazon.
Main image via Etsy
