On mumsplaining

I’ve invented a new portmanteau that I’m sure any daughters of dominating, micro-managing mommie dearests will relate to. Behold ‘mumsplaining’. It’s like mansplaining, see? Only it comes from that beautiful, oh-so-hard-to-ignore woman from whose womb we sprang.

‘Mansplaining’ — in case you’ve managed to dodge it — has become shorthand for the kind of condescending, patronising, stating-of-the-obvious that some men engage in when talking to women. It’s an inherently sexist phrase, I suppose, that seems a bit overused at this stage — at times, Himself only has to express an opinion for it to be dismissed by me as a mansplanation.

Anyhow, enough patriarchy; on to the matriarchy. Or at least my matriarch. Herself compulsively mumsplains stuff to me all the time; she can’t help herself. It seems she forgets that I have lived outside her womb for many years now and know the difference between, say, a dishwasher tablet and a bar of soap, but still she has to tell me — the words seem to flow uncontrollably and unconsciously.

“If you’re putting a wash on, be sure to close the washing machine door,” she deems it necessary to mumsplain as I gather the laundry. I should explain that I have been exposed to increased levels of mumsplaining since the whole family has moved in with her temporarily, while our own house is undergoing a Grand Designs-style transformation. Well, it’s Kevin McCloud-worthy at least in the scope of the calamity and drama that has dogged the project, if not in the actual scale of ambition and design.

“Do you have your raincoat? It’s raining out,” comes a bit of mumsplaining as I put on my raincoat by the door. “Yes, I am aware of the effects of rain, I have a raincoat,” I rail inwardly. “Look at me go!” I want to shout. “I’ve even put shoes on for the occasion of dropping my son to playschool. What’s more, I’ve clothed and fed him and succeeded in not misplacing him even once in the two years since he was born.” “If you’re taking your car, make sure you pay your parking,” comes her cheery reminder.

If this is the level she thinks I’m at, she must be perpetually amazed that I have managed to get myself this far without accidentally setting myself on fire or causing more house floods.

Unfortunately, as a guest in her house, I can’t complain. Resisting the urge to completely revert to adolescent huffing and sighing is the rent I’m paying to live in her house, misuse her washing machine and mistake her dishwasher tablets for soap. I also have to cook her dinner occasionally to keep her from asking, nightly, how much longer the work will take. She grudgingly admitted to liking these vegetarian enchiladas.

Of course, when I said, “Dinner’s in the oven,” this was met with a concerned “Did you turn the oven on?”

It’s possible that mansplaining actually gives us more credit than mumsplaining.