Tales of Suburbia

Whenever I go to the local supermarket on a weekday, I see mothers everywhere. Most of the mothers are not with their children, but I see them stocking up their trolleys with cereal and chips and soft drink for a small army. Some mothers have their little ones in tow. I see Chinese Mummy asking her kids to mind the trolley while she zips from aisle to aisle. I see Gym Mummy, still in leggings and sneakers, pulling her little boy out of the drinks refrigerator (“For God’s sake, Liam!”). There are Super Mummies, Curry Mummies, Angry Mummies and many more sorts of maternal carers and disciplinarians.

I wonder if that is the expected fate for the average, let’s say white, suburbian girl. Marry at 20 + 2 kids by 30 = success, as long as your hubby’s got a bit of extra cash for you to spend on yourself at the weekend. I wonder if these girls and mothers ever regret their early life decisions. I hope not. I sometimes forget that 22 is still early life.

To me, these mothers have become a sign of middle class suburbia. Along with egged windows, Top 40 hits coming in through your window at 1 am, teenagers lounging on the sidewalks, and having your letterbox pulled out of the lawn and deposited fifty metres down the road. Gotta love it here in Rowville.

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