A belated birthday

People! My dear readers! We missed an opportunity for cake! This travesty dawned on me over the weekend when I realised that I had missed my blog’s second birthday. BY A WHOLE MONTH!!! My only excuse is that the NABM house has been so single-minded about a certain person’s upcoming 3^rd 'birfday' that I completely overlooked the other milestone in the house.

Of course I’m now bringing it up because, if you’re anything like me, which I can only guess you are, then you’re always on the look out for a totally legitimate excuse to have a slice of cake. And if a blog turning 2 isn’t just that, well, I give up. Go and get yourself a little baked treat and settle in for some fun because today I’m hosting a little retrospective blogday shindig!! I’m doing this because when I  did it last year I had so much fun but also because I currently spend my days in the company of two delightful children I’m especially keen for some adult interaction. Even via my computer. Actually mostly via my computer because it cuts the hassle of loading the kids in and out of the car, finding a park, getting the pram out, loading it up and then spending said interaction trying to finish the sentence I, or my adult companion, started 30 minutes earlier.

Last year I asked you to “delurk” to emerge from the darkness of your computer rooms and say hello in the comments section. Not by name or address obviously but just something about yourself. Now by all means please use this opportunity to do the same this year. There are more of you and I’d love to hear from you. But for the old timers please feel free to go off piste and answer however you’d like. Share another blog you love, topics you enjoy, others you loathe. Whatever. Just say hi and give me a reason to avoid loading up the car three times today. Two is my maximum. If by chance you’re one of the adults with whom I enjoy regular but broken catch ups, finish the sentence you no doubt started six months ago. I’m all ears!

I’ve just re-read the post I wrote last year to mark this blog’s first birthday and all of your lovely comments. Please forgive me this moment of immodesty but I’d be lying if I said reading that and reflecting on two years (and a month!) didn’t make me feel just a tiny bit proud. I love my little corner in cyberspace and I love that you guys keep visiting. Back when I started I wasn’t sure what would come of it but I know for certain that I didn’t picture it like this; that this blog would be so much a part of me that I couldn’t imagine life without it. It’s clichéd but one of the challenges in mothering small children is losing a sense of who and what you are outside of feeding, cleaning and caring. For me, this place helps me find that person week in, week out. It makes me reflect and mostly it makes me enjoy the feeding, cleaning and caring more. There are weeks when finding an hour to sit and write is hard but the only thing that is harder is not finding the time. Because when I don’t the words stay inside my head and drive me crazy.

THANK YOU FOR KEEPING ME (MOSTLY!) SANE. Now let’s share some cake!!  

A brand in crisis

There are times when I'm quite certain Mr G is grateful for my company. There are also times when I'm quite certain he is not. Like the other night at 10pm when we were hopping into bed and I launched into a discussion about why he is, in fact, a feminist. A few minutes later, when I slowed to draw breath, I noticed a vaguely familiar look in his eyes. How did I get on this train? And where the hell is the exit?? Alas, there was no exit, such is the reality of marriage late at night in a small flat. So he acquiesced and a long conversation ensued.

He does not consider himself a feminist because to him gender doesn't matter. He considers himself a genderist. Or an equalist. Whatever label he chooses, to my mind, the fact gender doesn’t matter to him is precisely what makes him a feminist. It's the same reason I would describe my dad and my grandfather as staunch feminists. Not because they were burning bras or marching for women’s rights throughout my childhood, at least, not to my knowledge. Rather they have always treated my sister and I in exactly the same way they have my brother. Being a girl has never made any difference to them. And, to me, that is the very reason for feminism’s being. To make life the same for guys and girls. Because aside from childbirth and the neatest way to use the bathroom, our anatomy shouldn’t really dictate too much else in daily life. (Trust me about the bathroom though. For the sake of anonymity I won’t name names but one of my daughters recently tried standing up and it’s unnecessarily messy.)

Anyway. The real question is why, when sleep is a precious and scarce commodity in my life, would I sit up in bed late at night trying to convince Mr G to embrace the F-word? I’m afraid the answer is not entirely rational. There is just something inside me that really really cares about it. Enough to even sacrifice sleep. Essentially I want him to claim the word the same way I want you to. Because feminism, the glorious movement that delivered generations of women the right to vote, the right to get paid, the right to marry and to work, the right to wear jeans, the right to make our own choices, is in crisis. And for me, my dear readers, that is a crisis in itself. 

On the one hand we have women like Yahoo chief executive Marissa Mayer and supermodel Miranda Kerr, fobbing it off. Stating on the record, in no uncertain terms, that despite leading lives that are only possible because of the trail blazed by the original feminists, they do not consider themselves feminists. And whilst that frustrates me I understand it. Because on the other hand we have, as an ugly case in point, the reaction to the passing of Margaret Thatcher. We have this vicious war of words, with commentators sniping and griping, scrutinising whether Thatcher was indeed an adequate feminist, whether she adequately supported women, whether she adequately held the office of prime minister. And it maddens me.

Because all of this ugly carry-on, masquerading as feminism, happens too frequently. And it explains, easily, why women like Marissa and Miranda, and even men like Mr G, and probably a great number of you, are so keen to resist the term. Once again, you might be wondering, why does it matter? 

Look, maybe it doesn't but, maybe, there is just a huge misunderstanding about what feminism actually means. And it's at this point that my personal passion, rational or not, pops up and I can't suppress it. You see, I honestly believe it's a simple case of mistaken identity. I think feminists are being confused with feminazis. And there is a HUGE difference. A feminazi is angry, elitist and exclusive and cane make feminism seem like a wholly unattractive proposition. But it's not. 

For a long time I have dreamt about convening a global meeting to talk this through, to rebrand the big F word. To get some clarity about what it means and, more importantly, why it matters. Then it finally hit me. If I want this to happen I need to do it myself. So consider yourselves convened. Go and get every thinking female and male in your life, pour a cup of tea, a glass of wine, a gin, whatever. Just get comfortable because I don’t want anyone leaving this screen until we're all singing from the same sing sheet. Cool?

Before you ask, I haven’t done gender studies nor am I closely acquainted with the literature on this subject. My qualifications are far simpler because, in my book, being a feminist is simple. It comes down to this. One simple question. Do you believe your life should be dictated by your anatomy or your choices? I say choices but if you’re unconvinced I’ve prepared some questions to help you hone your answer.

(For any men still reading, consider these questions from the point of view of the women in your life. Whether it’s your mum, your sister, your girlfriend, your daughter, your niece, your wife or your friend that is a girl.)

Sample question 1

Why do you want to have children?

A)   Because you are a woman; or

B)   Because you want to have children

Sample question 2 

Why do you want to work?

A) Because you are a woman; or

B) Because you want to work

Sample question 3

Why do you want to stay at home?

a) Because you are a woman; or

b) Because you want to stay at home

Sample question 4

Why do you want to get married?

a) Because you are a woman; or

b) Because you want to get married.

If you answered mostly Bs you are a feminist!! If you answered mostly As, I’m so sorry to tell you this, you’re a moron. Start answering Bs.

You see the point of feminism, in my book, is not that women all want the same things or believe in the same causes. It is not because we all want to stay at home or because we all want to run banks. It’s not because we all vote liberal or because we all vote labor. The whole point of feminism is having the choice to be who we want. At least it should be.

It’s the reason I found it infuriating that there is even debate about whether Thatcher was a feminist. “But she hated women” and “She was cruel” … are a few of the lines I’ve read as explanations for her not being a feminist. Admittedly, this might be the point where having done a literature review might help me, but I honestly don’t think the feminist movement was brought about because women wanted to shackle other women with the expectation that they would be left leaning, sympathetic to those poorer than themselves and badly groomed.

Feminism came about because women wanted to rid themselves of shackles. They didn’t want their lives destined by their anatomy. They wanted choice. Thatcher exercised choice. She chose to live her life according to her beliefs rather than any expectations on her gender. It’s also worth noting she did it during a time when doing so required even more conviction than it might now. The fact she was a right wing politician doesn’t change that. The fact she cared for her appearance doesn’t change that. The fact her policies had brutal consequences doesn’t change that. 

Because feminism is not a political persuasion. It is a choice and merely a starting point for the rest of your choices; the platform from which you choose whatever direction you like. It does not mean you have to agree with, like or support every other woman on the planet. It means you make the choice to agree with, like and support whomever you want. Man. Woman. Dog. Up to you. It does not mean you must hate men or vote labor. It means you can choose to hate whomever you want and vote however you want. It does not mean being averse to shaving or baking or working. You can be all those things or none of those things if you choose but it is not implicit in being a feminist. At least it isn’t under my regime.

And you know what? I’m going out on a limb here, my regime is good. It makes sense and it’s simple. And I want you to want my regime. Not just because I’m needy and want your support but because we need it. For ourselves, for our friends, for our peers, for our kids and for theirs. Because, my dear readers, I’m afraid there is still work to do. Like it or not, there is a significant divide between what women and men are paid. From the very first day we enter the workforce women are being paid 80 cents in the dollar compared with men. That is fact. (And just FYI, our university fees, rent and taxes are not given a corresponding discount).

There is still an enormous disconnect between the proportion of women educated and the proportion of women holding senior office. In universities, banks, hospitals, board rooms and government. In almost every sector. And these things aren’t going to tweak themselves. Not without our support and encouragement. They will only change when enough of us, men as much as women, make a conscious decision, to bring about change. It need not be radical or rebellious change. 

It’s just a frame of mind. To let choice prevail over gender. And the wonderful word for all that sensible stuff is feminism. So folks I’m pleading with you to stand with me on this one. If you can’t bring yourself to call yourself a feminist, at the very least, could you please consider rebranding feminism in your head? Even Mr G agreed to this in the end*.

PS. Whilst we’re talking equality let’s also give a massive double handed high-five to New Zealand’s politicians for making their marriage laws fair and equal. What fantastically enlightened neighbours we have! I know a few weeks ago I said nothing good comes from comparisons but if there was ever a time to keep up with the Joneses this is it.   

*Admittedly, this may have been because, for all intents and purposes, he was asleep.   

Words from a stranger

Something really lovely happened to me earlier. It was a passing comment made in a passing moment and I doubt anyone in my vicinity realised quite how lovely it was. I’m having trouble with one of my hips right now. It’s nothing serious or sinister but it’s quite painful and as a result I’ve started seeing an osteopath. For my first appointment, by a stroke of luck and an even bigger stroke of kindness, my friend Amy was able to mind the girls whilst I hobbled to my appointment. She has two children the same age as mine but had her lovely babysitter with her so somehow having the two toddlers and the two babies was feasible. And very, very kind.

Today I went back but as it was only a short appointment the osteopath said to bring Miss L. (Miss I was at daycare). It turns out the osteopath’s receptionist is more than happy to do a bit of cuddling and playing whilst parents receive treatment. This worked out very well for about fifteen minutes before Miss L started to vocalise some disagreement. The receptionist brought her in to see me and she immediately beamed. After a little play the receptionist went to walk out but Miss L’s face crumpled (and her voicebox nearly broke) so she lay her down next to me instead. I was lying on my side so Miss L lay beside me, perfectly content playing with my hand, whilst the osteopath worked his magic. She started cooing and giggling and doing all those glorious little things happy babies do. The transition from almost hysterical to almost ecstatic was so fast that my osteopath laughed. He remarked that she is obviously very connected to me. That simple sentence nearly stopped my heart. She is and it was plain for even a bystander to see.

Now you might read that and think, “Of course she’s connected to you! You’re her Mum! Everyone knows babies are connected to their mothers!” And that’s true. Everyone knows that except the actual mother because, chances are, she might, from time to time, forget. Quite possibly because she is too busy thinking about whether her baby is eating enough/sleeping properly/ stimulated appropriately/ read to enough/ disadvantaged by her birth order/ neglected because she’s not EVER been a baby yoga class.

Whatever the reason, in amongst the details of daily life with little kids it’s easy to forget the big picture. To overlook things like how connected we actually are to our children or how mind-blowingly special we are to them. To stop and remember that as their parents we are their whole world and just by being we make them and their worlds ok.

They're not things I think about often. On the contrary I often consider whether I make the right decisions, whether I parent effectively, whether I’m fun enough, or sensible enough, or consistent enough. I don’t worry about all these things simply because I’m naturally inclined to be a bit neurotic. I worry, as I’m sure all parents do, because I so much want to be the very best mum I can possibly be. Not because I think there’s a prize at the end (though if there is I’d like it) but because I just want the girls to have the best mum they can. Which is lovely but it’s also tiring.  

I walked away from the osteopath this morning elated. Not only did my hip feel stronger but my heart was actually beating faster and I felt a weight off my shoulders. The unexpected objective words from a stranger stopped me in my tracks and made me realise, in a truly meaningful sense, something quite amazing. To Miss L I really am as good as life gets. Baby yoga or not. First child or fifth. Two books or none. I’m her mum and that’s enough. More than enough. She is connected to me! I can’t even begin to describe how lovely that feels. 

Has a stranger ever made your day?

Comparing is for meerkats

I wasn’t a lawyer long enough to have lots of zeros on the end of my paycheque but I was a lawyer long enough to learn a thing or two about the people who do. They’re called partners. And at many large law firms they have lots of zeros deposited into their bank accounts each month. Which is excellent because who wouldn’t want lots of zeros?? And in the case of legal partners it is not money for jam. Whilst working for a large firm I witnessed, firsthand, the blood, sweat and tears that partnership entails. The competition is fierce, getting there is one hurdle, staying there is another altogether, the expectations are immense, the hours are punishing and I’m yet to meet a partner who says ‘Gosh this career path is one big barrel of laughs.’ It’s not. It’s well remunerated but it’s hard work.

Anyway, in my second career when I reincarnated myself as a journalist, I had cause to interview lots of partners. Which was fantastic because it enabled me to, quite legitimately, ask all the questions I had saved up from my own time in practise. Mostly, “Why?” Anyway. One thing I didn’t know about partners when I worked for a firm, that I learned later as a journalist, surprised me. It was the way some are paid.

At some firms partners are paid according to tenure. The longer they’ve been partner, the more they earn. At some firms, though, partners are paid purely on merit. They are ranked from top to bottom on the basis of their performance in the previous financial year and where they sit on the ladder determines their share of the takings. Lots of firms use a combination of these methods but it was the firms that only use a ranking system that made me shudder. 

Knowing what I do about how hard it is to even become a partner, I thought, how utterly demoralising. After all the hard yakka to even get the big office you then have to submit yourself to this ghastly process, year after year, where you are pitted against all of your peers, for all to see. Can you imagine being the poor partner who comes last??? In theory, I’m sure, the individual at the back of the pack could reason that just being a partner is a terrific professional achievement. But, in reality, coming in at the rear end of all your peers would still be tough. One managing partner, with the dubious honour of informing partners how they placed, said he dreaded the process more than anything else in his yearly calendar.  

It seared this on my mind: there is no sense in comparing yourself to anyone else. Not your peers, not your neighbours, not your siblings, not your friends. No one. And not just because of the inner fulfilment that I'm sure is delivered by simply running your own race. But because there will ALWAYS be someone better than you and it might make you feel lousy. Whether you’re the partner that comes last or the partner that comes first, there will always be someone better. There will be another firm that is more prestigious or more profitable than yours. Or there will be some hot-shot partner at a smaller firm that might out-do you or a talented up and comer biting at your heels. The thing is once you start looking for comparisons, you will almost inevitably fall short and where is the fun in that? It’s the reason I try not to compare myself with others.

   

Of course I don’t always succeed. It creeps up on me. It happened recently  without me realising it. I am currently quite obsessed with a blog called Recipe Rifle that is written by UK journalist Esther Walker. There are some parallels between her life and mine; she has a two year old daughter and is expecting her second baby any week now, so I relate to many of her posts. The thing is, even though she writes very honestly about the dreary side of her life, I can’t help but imagine her life is utterly glamorous. Which is ridiculous because she quite regularly reveals how it’s not. But I’m stubborn. She has just had a book published, she is married to The Times food critic Giles Coren and the way she writes is magic. The combined effect of this is that whenever I read her posts I also feel pangs of envy and inadequacy. That I don’t write as well as she does. That my observations aren’t as sharp. That I’m not as witty. That, really, I shouldn’t be writing a blog when there are writers like her, who are obviously so much better at it than me.

This has all been quite subconscious. I had just been questioning the purpose of my blog in a way I hadn’t really before. Before I had figured out why, in the wonderful way this universe works, I read this post. Esther had been so excited to be featured in The Guardian’s Family section of the weekend paper on the back of her new book. It’s her favourite insert and she felt “beside herself” that she’d made it in. At least she did until she opened The Times Magazine and saw a huge feature on Katie Quinn Davies who they described as the “world’s best food blogger”. She immediately felt deflated and grossly inadequate. Her bubble had been burst. What was the point of her blog when there are uber blogs like What Katie Ate?

It made me realise the same had happened to me. Albeit more gradually and with Esther my protagonist. There’s no real point to any of this, other than it reminded me, once again, why I should steer clear of drawing comparisons. It's a game I'll never win. It's true that mine isn’t the sharpest blog out there, my life might not be as glamorous as I perceive Esther’s to be, and I certainly don’t have a cult following like Kate Quinn Davies. But it’s my blog. And the truth of the matter is, without it, I would drown inside my head. It keeps me sane so you’re stuck with me! And in the meantime start reading Recipe Rifle. It is terrific.    

Conceding defeat

I’ve resisted writing this post, but, for reasons that now escape me, I think the time has come. I’ve resisted it for one reason; it requires conceding an argument to Mr G. And not a one off argument but one that pops up often enough to classify as a Routine Household Dispute. Until now I’ve defended my position because, well, because I like being right. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’m going to put my pride to the side and confess in the hope that you may provide some insightful tips to remedy the errors of my way. Or, tell me, in all the circumstances, I'm actually right anyway. Up to you.

Here it is. I very frequently occasionally take my frustration at the girls out on Mr G. There. I said it. (That noise you can now hear is indeed Mr G whooping for joy, so sweet is this admission to his long-suffering ears.) I can’t tell you how many times Mr G has gently suggested this might be the case; that perhaps my sudden frustration at his bowl in the sink has more to do with the general chaos in the house than his bowl. I have been steadfast, offended even, in my refusal to accept his suggestion. Ever. The implication – that I can’t rationally separate my emotions from the culpable party to a blameless one - infuriates me. Probably because it’s precisely what’s going on. And in a moment of obvious weakness who likes having their shortcomings pointed out? Not. Me. 

It’s apt that the occasion, which provided concrete proof I really was barking (literally) up the wrong tree, happened in the car because the car is my Achilles heel. It happened back when we were still rolling as a family of three (yes it’s taken me this long to admit it). We were driving to the central coast. To say Miss I travelled badly would be an epic understatement. She slept for about 25 minutes and then yelled for the next 40. Being in a confined space with a screaming toddler is exquisitely painful and when it’s your own flesh and blood your heart and head actually start to bleed. At least it feels that way. We sang to her. We fed her. We pulled over. We passed her toys and books. We tried everything but she was just miserable. And loud. So very loud. By the time we were both equally miserable we were too far gone; we were closer to our destination than home so it made sense to plough on. (Or just shack up in Gosford, sell the car and say put for the rest of our lives). Being the rational and stable person that I am I decided to get loud too.

Me: How much further do we have to go?

Mr G: Hmm maybe another 30 k’s.

Me: Are you serious?? You said it was only an hour from Sydney and considering we’ve already been in the car for OVER an hour we must be closer than that?

Mr G: Did I say that?

Me: YES. You DID actually. Why would you LIE to me?

Mr G: Er I don’t think I did. It’s usually about an hour but the traffic is pretty heavy.

Me: Well you obviously tried to trick me. Why would I make up that you told me it’s an hour?

Mr G: Why would I try to trick you?

Me: Well you know what else? You’re driving really badly. If I was driving we’d be there by now.

Mr G: You’re being a bit crazy.

Me: I’M BEING CRAZY?!?!? WHO DECIDED TO EVEN DRIVE HERE AND TELL ME IT WAS ONLY AN HOUR WHEN IT’S OBVIOUSLY ABOUT THREE??

Mr G: I know you’re stressed about Miss I but I don’t think we should have a fight because of that.

Me: Oh yeah that’s really mature to try and blame this on our child. I admit it might seem a little coincidental that Miss I is also going crazy at this moment but actually I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages that the way you hold the steering wheel/indicate/change lanes/breathe DRIVES ME MENTAL.

Mr G: You’re being crazy.

Me: [Internal blinkers are now flashing. Maybe I am being crazy because Miss I is going berserk? CONCEDE NOTHING!!] Look you can blame this on Miss I if you want but I can see straight through it.    

Now that, my dear readers, is what I believe they call projecting. Projecting my anger and frustration at Miss I’s distress straight on to Mr G. I’m not proud of it. I try to avoid it but sometimes I just can’t help it. I know from friends and family that I’m not the only wife or mother who occasionally succumbs to this trap. I mean, if I really were the only person on this planet who did this, my god, Mr G got unlucky in the whole wife lottery. Plus the term ‘projecting’ wouldn’t even exist would it? So, for those playing along at home, let’s assume some other people do this too.

 

What’s curious though is that when I’m alone and one of the girls is causing me some distress there is no outlet for that angst. It just dissipates quietly. Because it has to. It takes patience but it’s patience I seem to have less of when Mr G – my co-conspirator in this whole family fiasco – is around. In his presence I let it boil over. Because I can.

 

You might read this and predict that my marriage is going to crumple. I sincerely hope, and also believe, that’s not the case. Without getting too carried away, routine household disputes aside, we have a very happy time together.  And while technically I’ve never conceded fault I certainly put it out there afterwards that things got a bit hectic earlier and perhaps I wasn’t playing with my A-Grade saint game. Hahaha.

Now it’s over to you. Do you ever take your frustration out on someone other than the true target?  Or more importantly if you don’t HOW did you learn not to??? 

Moving slowly

So it turns out I’m a member of the slow blogging movement. My membership is not official. There is no register (that I’m aware of), no selection process and no rigid criteria. So, technically, I suppose I might not actually be a member but since I learned of the movement’s existence I’ve decided to embrace it and, until I receive official correspondence advising me to the contrary, I’m declaring myself on board. Slow blogging simply means posting less often; once a week rather than twice a day.  The idea is quality over quantity and whilst I can’t make any claims to the former, I can to the latter. Slow? Very.  

Before I finished work to have Miss L I figured I’d be posting here a few times a week. That’s how often I did when I started and I assumed I’d pick up where I left off. I assumed wrong. I had overlooked the fact that whilst I wouldn’t be working in the sense of going to an office four times a week, I would still be working in the sense of looking after a toddler and a baby. In fairness neither scenario lends itself particularly well to oodles of spare time. Funny that! Even with Miss I in childcare a few days a week, free time to blog hardly abounds. Try as I might, between drop offs, Miss L’s naps and life, once a week is the most I can manage. And that’s fine because I’m not a news site, I’m a slow blogger!!

The slow blogging movement borrowed its name from the slow food movement which encourages people to eschew fast and frantic for leisure and long in the preparation of their meals. Frankly I think there is room for both. In the bloggosphere and the dining table. There are times when a quick dinner is the only thing but equally when time allows there is plenty to be said for slow cooking. And when that involves a lamb leg covered in sumac, sitting in a shallow bath of white wine in the oven at 150 degrees for five hours, the result is mouth-wateringly good. Perfection even. I know this because my sister made it this weekend and it was heaven.

So lovely was the whole weekend in fact that I didn’t touch my computer or even give it a second thought. The upside was that I had a nap everyday. This was partly because I could but also because my beloved Miss I, who has slept predictably well without drama since she was about 6 months old, had a few horrific nights. That bit wasn’t fun at all but the napping, the relaxing and the eating in between was. Oh boy the eating was good*. The downside was I didn’t write a blog which is why today you are stuck with my random ramblings about being a slow blogger instead of one of those intellectually challenging and insightful pieces I usually post. You know about photo frames and the like? Ha!

What did you get up to over Easter?

*Turns out my sister, my Mum and I all had the same idea for the Easter break; baking. Between us we made and devoured; Donna Hay’s white chocolate and macadamia biscuits, the Monday Morning Cooking Club’s Easter Chocolate Cake, Le Pain Quotidien’s baked cheesecake, Anneka Manning’s Date Crumble Slice, Rocky Road and the piece de resistance? Margaret Fulton’s Sticky Orange Buns from her original cookbook that was gifted to my mum on her 21^st birthday. Margaret, on the strength of these buns alone, you are the very best cook this country has ever bestowed on this world. End. Of. Story.