I mowed the lawn today. So did half of the UK quite likely, on this glorious May weekend. So, big whoop, I hear you say, why even mention it? Well, mowing the lawn is a big deal to me, that’s why.
My financial independence has always been important to me. I think subconsciously, seeing my mum give up any whiff of a career to raise us and witnessing her having to ask my dad if she could buy something for herself (he always said yes, but that’s not the point), triggered something powerful in me.
In the multiple career twists and turns I’ve taken, I’ve always worked hard and relentlessly climbed the ladder. And, I have always been in control of the finances. When we had the boys, I went back to work (seven months after Dylan, four after Nathan – what was I thinking?). I worked full-time, in senior positions, and C stayed at home with the boys.
We both wanted it that way. I handled all the finances, took out the mortgage, bought the house, paid the bills, made sure we had savings. He did the school runs, trips to the park, cooked the mid-week meals and looked after the house. I’ve never had to ask anyone if I can buy something. Has it made me happier? I’m not sure, but it is hard-wired into me, I don’t know how else to be.
So what has this got to do with the lawnmower? Strong and independent though I am, I am hopeless at anything practical. Perfectly happy presenting in front of a room full of important people. Full-on terrified of trying to take anything apart, assemble things, use a drill, and don’t even get me started on the grass strimmer. My most recent Google search is: “Scared to use strimmer, is there an easier alternative?”
My dad studied engineering, and mum always called him ‘Mr. Fixit.’ To her detriment, I should add, as she inevitably ended up with appliances that lasted well into their thirties and forties, as dad used to mend them, repeatedly.
You’d think he would have relished having two eager apprentices in my sister and me, and that he would bring us up to be capable of at least changing our own lightbulbs. Sadly, no. Let’s just say he was of a generation of Greeks with strong opinions about what girls should and shouldn’t be occupying themselves with. In his speech at my sister’s wedding, he hilariously announced that finally there would be someone else in the family who knew the difference between a spanner and a screwdriver…
These past three years since J died have been the longest I have been single. And being single in my fifties is nothing like it was in my twenties and thirties. I now have two kids, a family home, a too-big garden and two needy dogs to look after.
J was naturally practical. He wanted to help me, so I let him take over anything and everything that needed fixing, patching up, replacing. It would have been the perfect solution, but for his deteriorating mental health, which had other plans. Small tasks became Himalaya-scale mountains, and he could only focus on one thing at a time. Even the mention of another task could tip the fragile balance.
He spent weeks stripping out the inside of the airing cupboard, painting it, adding shelves, boxing in the water pipes – finishing it to such a high standard you could practically live in it. In the meantime there was an enormous hole in the kitchen ceiling, where a rat had gotten in and chewed through the upstairs shower waste pipe.
Everything was a big job, nothing ever went to plan, and all the jobs were accompanied by plenty of shouting and frustration. There I was, guarding my financial independence like a crazed Rottweiler, while meekly handing over my ‘DIY independence’ with an apathetic shrug of the shoulders. History repeating itself, with J taking on my dad’s role of fixing things without showing me how.
I will forever be grateful for all the things J did for me. Even more than the DIY, the hours he spent concocting crazy games with the kids, taking them out on their bikes, climbing trees with them on our dog walks.
But he also inadvertently reinforced my conviction of my own incompetence. Watching him get worked up over seemingly straight-forward jobs fed my ingrained belief that these things were difficult and well outside of my capabilities.
When he died, on top of the grief and the chaos and the trying to help the kids through it, there also came a terrifying onslaught of practical, day to day tasks I felt ill-equipped to deal with.
When I look back on the final few months of my relationship with J, when his changes in mood became so extreme and unpredictable I started to think about what my options were, there were two things stopping me from ending the relationship. The main one was how much the kids adored him. But if I am brutally honest with myself, the second reason was how reliant I was on him. I’m not proud admitting that. And of course, in case it needs spelling out, I loved him. But in the same way that my mum’s lack of financial independence lit a fire in me, so did this. Terrifying though this seemed, I also stubbornly vowed to never put myself in that position again. I would stand on my own two feet after losing him.
This is all very dramatic, and it now probably sounds like I have found a new vocation in life. Given up my office-based career to become a full-time handyman (handyperson?).
I hate to shatter this illusion, however my friend Neil (still listed in my phone as ‘Neil Handyman’) did the all the heavy lifting. But he has such a positive, “that’s no bother” attitude, that I have found myself daring to think that I might be able to do a few bits and pieces on my own.
And it turns out – I can! And the satisfaction I get from achieving these seemingly insignificant tasks, surpasses anything I have felt in my career. If you need confirmation of how basic these tasks are, here is a list of some of my grand achievements:
- Getting the lawnmower out of the shed that is too small for it. The first time I tried I nearly gave up and called Neil to come and help me.
- Mowing the lawn with the big, petrol lawnmower.
- Filling the jerry can at the petrol station.
- Building a small IKEA bookshelf (the back panel is back to front, but a year later it’s still standing).
- Replacing the outdoor multi-tap connector.
- Replacing the tap in the water butt.
- Replacing the downstairs toilet seat.
- Getting the Christmas tree out of the tiny hatch to the eaves, and assembling it.
- Wiring a plug. This time I did call Neil, purely so he could check I wasn’t about to blow the house up.
- Cleaning the pond pumps.
Laughable though this list may seem, the satisfaction I have felt has been very real. Each completed task builds my self-esteem up ever so slightly. Quietly and slowly re-wiring my brain’s assumption that I am ‘rubbish’ at practical tasks.
Having said all of this, the minute Nathan turns eighteen I will be downsizing to a bungalow in Devon with a garden the size of a postage stamp. I may be a strong, independent woman (as Neil keeps reminding me), but I still know my strengths.
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