“WIY” stands for “wipe it yourself” ……. if you’re aged five and over.

The day I became a mother was without a doubt the happiest of my life. Seeing my newborn son’s eyes stare so intensely into mine told me unequivocally that life as I had known it had ceased. A new era was born, along with Benjamin Lee, 7lbs 4.5ozs; an era of responsibility, of caring and of waiting to scoop him up after his numerous falls and scrapes to kiss him better. Tending and nurturing …. tending and nurturing.

The tending and the nurturing comes easily to most women of course; the need to pick up a crying baby and soothe it better is innate. What isn’t quite so natural is knowing that the time is right to stand back and let our children fall over, scrape their knees and learn from the experience. Or to tell your five year old son that he really should now be wiping his own behind ……..  “but mummyyyyyyyy …..”

For the most part I’ve relented ….”oh bless his heart  …. he needs his mama to do it ….”, and then today – bang!! – it hit me. I am potentially rearing a man who will suck the lifeblood out of his future partner just like most of my ex’s did with me, preferring to let her wipe his behind whilst he carries on reading the paper …. “oh come on darling, I know you have to pop off to work … (which FTSE100 company is it you’re in charge of  now?)…. but you do it sooo much better than me …” I have grown visibly ashen just typing out the words. 

And I am reasonably sure I’ve played the role of WOB (Wiper of the Behind ) so well that I’ve attracted men who could not exist without a woman around to W their B’s, metaphorically speaking. Their tiny little worlds are hanging on the most fragile of threads most of the time …. and yes, you may be performing the role of some latter day superheroine holding down a job, rearing a child and running a house, but surely you can sit and listen to their latest boring lament of political in-fighting at work? You know the one? You’ve heard it a thousand times before ….. and it never gets any more interesting. 

Now … I should stop there. For the moment. 

I’m starting to sound unsympathetic, which of course I’m not …. but someone kicked over my sandcastle earlier today and it sent me into a turbo-charged rage. The poor, poor mite had sent me a text to say he was having to fly off for the weekend to see his mates in Bucharest because he was “fed up” …. and he then went on to infer that it was because I had cancelled a date with him earlier this week (this is a man I haven’t even met face to face , and now I’m thinking that isn’t going to change …) Let’s call him Mr FU …. Mr Fed Up. 

At this juncture I’m also reminded of a man who I conversed with briefly having “met” him via Facebook, who professed love for me after six e-mail exchanges. In fact it may have been only five …. or four …

He was American (still is as far as I know), an actor (not a household name …) and playwright (I love a man who uses his words better than his hands). What can I say? I was charmed. Actually to be exact, I was stupid and charmed.

Our relationship did not evolve past a few telephone calls that made it quite evident that “conformity” was not a word he would ever associate to bedroom activities. I feel I want to christen him Cat in the Hat …. I’m not too sure why.

If I give the impression that I’m ridiculing these men then please let me reassure you …. absolutely I am! But I am ridiculing myself more, because I allowed it to happen, and I attracted “the type” over and over and over … Yes, rather incredibly I am still hopeful that a balanced, emotionally-mature and secure man is out there somewhere thinking “where is she??”

But for now I have to work on making sure my son knows his behind is his responsibility. You can’t possibly leave the weight of that to a woman.