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This morning despite the usual rush and chaos that ensues on a typical Monday morning, I did manage to notice that once again my car tyre was looking despondently flat.
I say 'once again' because it's about the fourth time in the last week that Hubby has dragged out the compressor and pumped the damn thing up.
Now, I can hear quite clearly what you are thinking. What doesn't she get the thing fixed? Driving around with a flat tyre isn't the smartest thing in the world. Surely this girl has some semblance of common sense?
I was of course well aware of what needed to be done. But once again, I was doing what I always do when something needs fixing. I played my 'helpless female' card. The card I play way too often. The card I play when I really don't want to know. Or I simply can't be bothered. Or I more commonly than not think "Hubby can do it'
Shameful isn't it?
'Darling' I coo, with a flutter of my eyelashes. 'Can you get my tyre fixed for me?'
'Sweetie' I breathe in my sultriest voice, 'Can you take the car down to get petrol?'
'Honey' I titter, with a girly flick of my hair 'Can you fix the clothes line/ washing machine/ Mr 5's remote control car...etc etc'
I avoid mowing the lawn. I escape from trips to the tip. If there is any 'grunt work' to be done I'll elegantly skip into the kitchen and bake some scones.
And, if it's something that really, really needs to be done and I really, really don't want to know I'll do something that I'm not entirely proud of. Something that works a treat every time.
I'll turn on the tears.
I have no excuse for being this way. None at all. I grew up in a completely feminist household. My Dad was the only male amongst my sisters, my Mother and I. My Mum taught us that we could do anything. She is and always has been the ultimate go getter. Diminutive, eloquent and very, very tough.
I was bought up learning all sorts of skills that I doubt girls that I was friends with would have learnt. One of my earliest memories was of slaughtering a 'pet' lamb to roast on the spit. My sisters and I were expected to help...and help we did. We thought nothing of it, it was part of life. Another was our before school job of checking the possum traps (in NZ they are considered a pest) and subsequently the 'disposal' of any captured possums we may have encountered.
Girls are tough. That was our childhood motto. A motto I seem to have forgotten lately. A motto that I need to rediscover and teach to my spirited and independent daughters.
Even my name means 'strong little woman'....it's about time I started living up to it.