And the Hugzilla Award for SanctiMummy of the Year goes to…
This year’s winner will no doubt be shrouded in controversy, given that Mark Latham is in fact a man and not a mummy.
Bear with me, because there is precedent here. The 2012 “Sportswoman of the Year” was awarded to Black Caviar – a horse – so it is perfectly acceptable to award SanctiMummy of the Year to the person responsible for the steaming pile of horse-shit that was Mark Latham’s column in the Financial Review.
What is a sanctimummy?
Reasons Why Mark Latham has won the inaugural Hugzilla Award for “SanctiMummy of the Year”.
There were many worthy contenders for the award this year, but Mark Latham made a late run for the winner’s podium with his bizarre rant in the Financial Review today, a rant which speculated about child-hating feminist cults, insisted that women who openly struggle with aspects of parenting should not have had kids in the first place and insulted people who require medication for mental illness by calling them “cowards”.
I haven’t seen eye-popping drivel of this magnitude since RedFoo tried to convince us all that a bunch of predatory men yelling “Shut the Fuck Up” to women who refused to re-enact their lesbian fantasies was sophisticated satire of the highest order.
We have much to learn from Mummy Mark:
My lifestyle has never been more satisfying. Whether it’s my daughter’s smile, my eldest son’s Aussie irreverence or the belly laughter of my youngest son – these are my anti-depressants, every hour, every day.
Translation: I have scaled the heights of my chosen profession, retired on a $200K a year government pension, I have a wife who works as a lawyer and grown children who no longer require me to micro-manage every second of their day. They can wipe their own bums and aren’t in the habit of throwing 30 minute tantrums because they want to wear red pants even though they don’t own a pair of red pants. Hell yes, my life is awesome.
Why do people like this have children in the first place? How will the children feel when they grow up and learn that they pushed their mother onto anti-depressants?
Translation: My children’s bowel movements are my anti-depressants. I find joy in every oozing orifice. Their farts are fragrant little puffs of fun. My child vomits and it’s like the purest expression of love, so visceral in ecstacy that it can’t be contained. How dare you shame your children with your human predilection for fatigue, exhaustion and stress. You should love every second. And then you should love it some more.
I’m sure I’m just as busy as her: looking after a huge native garden at home, cooking gourmet meals for my family, pursuing a few business interests, writing books and The Australian Financial Review columns and, most crucially, preserving time for my children’s homework, conversation and love.
Translation: I potter around the backyard, fart-arse about writing the occasional sanctimonious pile of horse-shit for cheap click bait and “preserve time for love”. Of course that makes me as busy as a mother who raises two small children while studying medicine full-time. I have a LOT of love to give. And native gardens require a lot of effort. I have to water them once a year. Then I have to stand back and watch them not die. It’s exhausting.
Mark Latham, we salute you.
Thank you for mansplaining motherhood from your position of opulent
semi-retirement as a stay-at-home father to three grown children.