What I Read (25th July)

A few weeks ago I did a wrap up post of what I’d read that week and I was happy to discover it was warmly received. I even had a request to do it again. And, because I’m nothing if not compliant in the face of requests from my beloved readers, do it again I shall. I’ll admit from the outset that this list is dominated by one particular theme. Motherhood. What can I say? It seems to resonate. I thought about rectifying that but decided it’s better for me to share what I have actually read and liked instead of curating a list in an attempt to create diversity. I can assure you, however, that each of these articles takes a different angle.

This week I suggest you read not one, but two, wonderful missives from a wickedly funny and thoughtful blogger and author I have come to adore from afar, Kerri Sackville. Fun fact: I actually met her father at a work function earlier this year and notwithstanding his own very impressive career achievements it was his association with Kerri that I was most excited about. And insisted on discussing. Last week on her blog life and other crises she tackled two quite different topics and I loved them both. Here she shares some incredibly sensible advice about the so called mummy wars that are supposedly raging between women all over the country. I have mentioned once before how pointless I find the concept of mothers drawing up battle lines against one another to defend their choices about milk, nappies, work, sleep, food, education.  You name it and apparently mothers are fighting it. At least according to mass media. Kerri nails the futility of this obsession with a very simple mantra. Each. To. Their. Own.  Even if you’re not a mum this is worth a read.

Earlier in the week she wrote about grief and victimhood; how hard it can be to disentangle yourself from feeling like a victim when you encounter loss or trauma or illness. And how much harder it is if you don’t. Kerri lost her sister to illness a few years ago. She doesn’t write about it that often but when she does her words are laced with so much love and sadness that it is both heartrenching and heartwarming at once.  

Which is precisely the same reason you should read this beautiful post by Rebecca Sparrow. Her life has also been indelibly changed by loss and this is a tribute to the darling girl she didn’t get the chance to raise. Coincidentally her reflections echo Kerri’s about the difficulty of accepting grief and the peace that comes in the moments when you do.

On a very different note I read a few interesting pieces on the appointment of the new CEO at Yahoo, Marissa Mayer. Aside from the highly publicised fact that the guru from Google is seven months’ pregnant let’s just reflect for a moment on the other notable fact surrounding her promotion. Her salary package is worth $70 million over the next few years. And that’s not a typo. Seventy. Million. Bucks. Here’s hoping Miss I displays some aptitude and interest in computer engineering!!!  Mayer’s pregnancy and plan to take two weeks’ off after the birth of her child have prompted considerable discussion. Some say it’s a win for feminism whilst others have argued it sets an unrealistic precedent. My observation is this. Each. To. Their. Own. I think it’s promising when employers embrace the stance that a qualified pregnant woman is still a qualified candidate. That’s not to say every single person will want to take on a high powered job before the arrival of a child. But. If they do, then I think it’s only a positive that it’s deemed possible. I loved Lucy Kippist’s piece on The Punch in this regard and I also really enjoyed reading about Marina Go’s experience of being appointed editor of Elle Magazine whilst six months’ pregnant with her second child. Yesterday Mamamia ran a fantastic piece related to this topic too. Specifically it was about the F-Word I decided to start using more last year.

I also read a great article by one of my former colleagues Kath Walters about a successful stockbroker’s long battle with anxiety and depression. He spoke honestly about how his illness very nearly derailed his marriage and his career and does so, not under a pseudonym, but under his actual name. Mental illness is fraught enough without there being any expectation on any individual to publicly say “Hey, for the record, I’ve been dealing with some pretty serious demons over here”. But when people choose to – whether it’s to their own family and friends or the broader community - I think it’s incredibly brave and unbelievably useful in slowly, case by case, person by person, dismantling the stigma that still shadows mental illness.

The last item on my recommended reading list relates to the senseless and tragic shooting at the Colorado cinema in the United States. There are two words that immediately spring to mind but the chance of them becoming relevant is depressingly doubtful. Gun. Control. Jason Alexander, aka George Constanza from Seinfeld of all people, wrote a pretty terrific piece on why it’s needed. He also pretty comprehensively covers the reason it’s unlikely.

Happy reading! What have you read that you would recommend??

The joys of ageing

A few weekends before my recent milestone birthday I met up with a girlfriend for breakfast on a Sunday morning. We met at 9am, not to accommodate either one of our busy schedules or even little people. We met at that time because we'd both been in bed the night before at a truly respectable (or, depending on your view point, entirely unacceptable) hour. Admittedly my brunch companion's Saturday night had been a tad more exciting than mine; she actually ventured out for dinner and engaged in conversation beyond 7pm.


My Saturday evening consisted of hopping into my pyjamas after Miss I went to bed, applying a hydrating facial mask and then scanning the television for something remotely entertaining while flicking through the newspapers. Mr G was at work and I was fast asleep by 9.30pm. Rocking times. 


The next morning over coffee I outlined the extent of my wild festivities to my friend and we laughed that we must be getting old. Not because we had quiet nights but because of how much we had enjoyed them. While my 20 year old self might have been horrified at the prospect of spending a Saturday night home alone without a single plan, the 30 year old version didn't think twice about it.


It got us started talking about the best bits about getting older. My friend loves that the clothes she likes wearing are now perfectly acceptable for her age. She hasn't been getting around in twinsets or floral dresses but I know exactly what she means because she has never been remotely interested in sporting harem pants, neon jeans or whatever the latest fashion trend dictates. She has always preferred clothes of the more classic persuasion and at 30 that is bang on.


For me, I love that I will never again feel pressured to go to, or feign interest in, a music festival. Actually what's even better is I will never again even engage in internal dialogue about a music festival. As a uni student in my early 20s I thought I was deeply flawed somehow because, to me, the idea of going to a music festival was akin to stepping into my personal version of hell. Everyone else seemed to live for these events that I dreaded. I'm not remotely cool. If it's not played on commercial radio chances are I won't have heard the music. I can't imagine anything worse than a mosh pit and the list goes on. Whereas I can now type that without batting an eyelid, as ridiculous as it sounds, I actually spent years trying to hide those simple facts certain they would reveal my social shortcomings. I guess it was a function of being young, impressionable and, of course, insecure. I can now say with my hand on my heart that I'm very comfortable with the fact that I'm not – and never was - a festival goer. It's actually very funny that I ever questioned that.


So, for me, one very distinct joy of growing older is realising that some of the things that worried me as a 20 year old now make me laugh. What is your favourite part of growing older? Did you have any quirks or disastrous truths you tried to hide?

Shameful conduct

Last Monday night I watched an episode of Four Corners. I had intended on going to bed early but once it started I couldn't look away. I watched mortified and afterwards felt sickened. And incensed. The program revealed the most horrifying sequence of events; too many instances of sexual abuse of young boys at the hands of Catholic priests, a series of suicides, lives irrevocably damaged and, most damningly, perpetrators being protected by the Catholic Church.


The unimaginable torment of sexual abuse is not limited to the physical and psychological damage it wreaks on the victims; it extends to their families, their children and the communities they too often leave behind because the lingering demons prove inescapable. The brother of one victim who took his life at 28, leaving two children and a devastated family in his wake, says he wished the man who abused his brother had just shot him afterwards. The priest effectively killed him anyway; but it would have saved him 17 years of hell.


The painful irony is that if the perpetrator had taken that openly violent route, the victim's family might have had a better chance of seeing the offender brought to justice. Instead he chose a private and more insidious path to destruction for each of his victims. He preyed on the vulnerability of young boys, abused the trust of their families and betrayed all of them brutally but invisibly. Many decades later, despite an admission in a court of law and substantiating documents stating multiple episodes of sexual abuse took place, he remains a free man. Free. He has never seen the inside of a prison cell. He lives in New South Wales, writes for a local newspaper and whilst he no longer oversees mass, he remains active in the local Church community.


This is mostly because of the dogged legal protection the Catholic Church afforded him. But it was also partly driven by what one magistrate described as the gross power imbalance between a teenage victim in the witness box and an adult priest. Apparently the trust and respect inspired by the latter proved too persuasive against a troubled teen. Can you imagine the fury of the victim and his family hearing that? Being told the very same power imbalance the perpetrator exploited to abuse him in the first place now affords him additional protection in a court room??


So the perpetrator walked free while dozens live with the anguish of his crimes. Parents have lost their sons, sons and daughters have lost their fathers, siblings have lost their siblings. Yet the man responsible is free. For a variety of inexplicable legal reasons, he also enjoys the luxury of having his identity suppressed. The program was shocking. The evidence against this one perpetrator in particular was astounding. The only greater horror exposed were the lengths the Catholic Church went to protect him and itself from reputational damage. As allegations of his criminal conduct emerged, rather than investigate or strip him of his priesthood, he was simply moved to different parishes around the state. Where he continued to wreak irreparable damage.


Archbishop Cardinal Pell was interviewed during the program and what alarmed me even more than the Church administration's protection of itself above all others, was not that he dismissed the perpetrator's own testimony that he had committed various criminal offences. Nor that he ignored the written word of another senior priest documenting these admissions. Nor was I most shocked that not a single person in the Church administration notified the police of these findings. To me, what was most shocking was the fact that Cardinal Pell did not utter or demonstrate one iota of compassion for any of the victims or their families. His stance was cold and distant, mirroring the abominable stance the Church has adopted, at an organisational level at least, toward these victims and their families for decades. And it is that I cannot forgive. Not from an organisation that purports to promote compassion and decency. The hypocrisy is eye wateringly shameful.


I am not religious myself and despite the temptation that overwhelmed me whilst watching to tar every member of the Catholic Church with the same brush that taints its administration, I won't. I have no doubt great swathes of the Catholic Church are kind and caring individuals whom contribute an enormous amount to their communities. I know lots exactly like that. But the revelations about the Church covering up and effectively perpetuating abuse – not for the first time - reveal yet again that there is a deep chasm between those for whom religion is a force for good and those whom feel entitled to use and abuse it as an evil force. Unless and until that chasm closes I personally won't forgive the Church administration these atrocities.


I understand it's not particularly virtuous to withhold forgiveness but in this instance I am more than happy to distance myself from anything deemed virtuous. Did you watch this episode? 

NABM is currently unavailable

Sadly NABM is unable to bring you a regular post today. Normal service will resume when I regain the normal service of my health. It is currently AWOL but I really want it back. Now, preferably. On Monday Miss I woke up with a raging temperature and chose to spend the day physically attached to me. She even took her lunchtime nap lying on top of me with her fingers in my mouth. It would have been fine if her sleep lasted half an hour but it lasted two and a half whole hours and every time I even squirmed towards my phone, my water bottle or my book she immediately resisted and made her discomfort known. So together we lay. 


I felt fine until just after putting her down to bed at 7pm. It was then clear our close physical proximity was not without consequence. Suddenly my throat was on fire, my eyes and nose were watering and I knew I was on the slippery slope to flu town. Or somewhere equally hideous. 


Miss I has largely recovered but, at the risk of sounding ever so slightly dramatic, I feel as though I'm on my death bed. Whatever this is has floored me. Being with child complicates matters because it greatly limits the arsenal of medication upon which I can rely to soothe my symptoms. So I just hover in this temporary misery and feel very sorry for myself. 


Mr G has stayed at home the last two days to look after both Miss I and myself. Just between us I think he favours Miss I as a patient. As long as her medication is given regularly she remains happy.  The same cannot be said about me. Obviously, though, this is just proof that I have contracted a more ghastly strain of this bug. It might even be the dreaded man flu I have heard so much about. 


Until my health returns, farewell. I hope everyone in reader land is feeling better than me!