what I write about
she has fallen and now she is awake
Maybe this is a feminist thing, or maybe it’s because I’m not a mother, but even if I was a stay-at-home mom with no job (and therefore no reason to already have business cards) I wouldn’t extoll my ability to wipe snotty noses and read bedtime stories as a core part of my persona. As if your main accomplishment is childbirth, and you would like to commemorate your skills with a card detailing your contact info after the names of your offspring. To provide to other moms when you need to carpool, or if they want your ants on a log recipe.
Jezebel chimes in with:
My own mother was a stay-at-home mom (although she abhorred the expression) and I think she would have seen being a mother as a key part of her persona, and something she was proud of. (She also had other people call her much more often for her analysis of Schopenhauer or her opinion on politics than for recipes or carpool questions, for that matter.) But when I asked her, she too found these cards odd. “It’s always problematic to base your identity on someone else,” she said definitively. “And that’s a lot of pressure on the kids. But I’ll tell you who it would be good for: the mother of the bully. So you know who to call when he beats your kid up or steals her bike. You’d know exactly who was responsible.”
Here’s the thing – motherhood is more than just snotty noses, bedtime stories*, childbirth, carpooling and ants on a log. It’s also more than Schopenhauer or politics. I’ll tell you a secret; it can be both. You can wipe snotty noses AND expound on Schopenhauer. You can carpool and talk politics. You can bounce a baby and write.
You can have more than one identity. And since when is acknowledging one’s parental status ‘basing your identity on someone else’? Why is a card with salient details for the environment so bad if it’s motherhood, but AWESOME if it’s a corporation? Why is it okay to base your entire identity on a subculture, on a hobby, or a job, but not motherhood?
Don’t get me wrong – there are a LOT of ways the patriarchy and mainstream culture like to jam mothers into boxes. But a BIG part of doing that is denying the importance of that identity even as they strip it back to nothing. So instead of ‘mother’ encompassing the rollerderby and the retro, the Martha-mothers and the mainstream, it simply strips away everything that makes you important and stuffs you into a box labelled ‘unimportant’ because mothers do it. The causality is the wrong way around – motherhood doesn’t cause you to drop out of society, society makes mothers drop out.
Bunbun was two weeks old when I first started getting flack for not getting out with friends, or taking time for myself. I have had to explain on so many occasions that I don’t actually relish time away from her. That my birthday celebration shouldn’t be apart from her because I want to celebrate it with her. That’s not because my identity is based on her; it is far more than that. I birthed her, I still nourish her from my body. We are linked with something a lot stronger than time or money or external factors. That allegiance cannot be altered or moved. It is not a commodity. So society tries to make it one, creates nonsensical consumerist mother-identities that we must buy into or face being alone forevermore. Combine that with the way many mothers must work**, and other choose to work, and you’ve got this godawful push-pull bullshit where I am NEVER EVER supposed to take time away from my child because I already ‘deprive’ her of her mother by working yet I am also in danger of losing myself and should go and undertake whatever ridiculous thing being sold to me as the cure for it because otherwise I deprive her of a good mother.
Good mother being one who is still as fuckable, likeable, entertaining, amusing, active and personable as before the child’s arrival.
God forbid we acknowledge the changes motherhood makes and not apologise for them.
The other nice little bit of misgynist bullshit? Mothers being the primary cause of bullying. Since y’know, we’re ‘just’ mothers and obviously totally and completely responsible for every single action our child takes. It’s a good little bit of double binding there – you’ve got the card, you are obviously totally identified with your child and therefore responsible and if you don’t, you weren’t there, you don’t care and are therefore responsible. It’s a nice way to assume that the mother is the primary carer and nurturer as well as blame her for it. ***
But hey, it’s totally feminist and totally woman-loving to say “It’s like she was lobotomized during the c-section.” and it certainly shouldn’t be called out for it’s expectation that new mother’s continue being entertaining. We should all have friends this worried about us, this caring and this kind. Certainly one’s that are this understanding about the early months of parenting.
*And guess what? My personal and professional identities BOTH include storytimes!
**If one more fucking arsehole starts with the ‘plasma screens/designer handbags/holidays’ bullshit about needing work I will lose the fucking plot. Having food, electricity and a roof over one’s head are not luxuries. That sort of nonsense comes from people for whom poverty is a theoretical conundrum, not a lived experience, and who will ALWAYS see a woman’s career as lesser than and adjunct to a man’s. So they get to keep us down in dual style – shit pay and shit respect no matter what we ‘choose’.
***Obligatory disclaimer – yeah, I’d be fucking horrified if Bunbun were bullying someone. God knows I feel enough shame when she’s hitting her cousins. And I am responsible for her, but once she’s at school and reasonably autonomous, I am no longer responsible. Unless you want me to still be identifying myself with her completely. Oh wait, that was the problem wasn’t it? That I was too involved with my life as a parent?
Y’know, those CURLS and that COLOUR and the FEEL and blahblahblah. I mean, it’s cute as fuck, but I get so icked when people start on about it.
Add in Bunbun’s love of water, love of physical activity, tendency to sweat profusely, aversion to hairwashing and total screaming condemnation of hair drying, and you’ve got some fearsome hair styles. Which we don’t care about. But you also get some fearsome stank, which we do. We cosleep* so hair funk is an uncool way to wake up.
I first cut her hair to get rid of the baby mullet when she was about 8 months old. Just a few snips in the bath – I save the hair though. Second haircut was post-flu because weeks of her hair getting stuck in eye goop, snot or spit was just too tragic. I saved some of that hair too.
Now I’m thinking of cutting it again – not a bob, not a trim, not a fringe. A real short hair cut. Pixie even. And damned if I can’t find a single blood photo, or story, or HINT that anyone else has done this. Not ‘repaired after a self-done job’ and not ‘making do with toddler fine hair’ or anything like that. And certainly not ‘dad-hair’ (fuck that gender essentialist bullshit).
Someone else, somewhere, must have deliberately and wilfully cut their daughter’s hair shorter than their chin. I’m talking Audrey/Amelie pixie here. Proper short. Dry in minutes, wash in seconds, short short short. But still not a crewcut or clipper job.
I don’t have an emotional attachment to her hair. I’ve never wept over it, for all I have kept the snippets (and lovely little things they are, perfect for doting grandparent presents). I don’t identify with it, or long for it, or dislike it. I do emotionally react to the way people perceive her hair and my relationship with it – I mightily dislike the assumption that Wolfman is behind the haircuts, that I must ADORE her hair and that I must want it to be longer.
Yet I haven’t cut it yet. I fear that my reaction to others is behind my desire to cut her hair. That I’m making feminine an uncomfortable place to be. Which is very much not my intention but I still fear it. Mostly because I’m growing my hair and I don’t feel the same way about that as I do about her hair. Wolfman pointed out that I’m not nearly as sweaty (usually), don’t put up a fight for washing and don’t need to be chased around to dry it. I don’t think my choice is entirely practical though – for all the lack of emotion I have about her hair, I have an excess when it comes to femininity. I have a horror at how constrained she is by her gender, how much judgement she already wades through when it comes to the existence of being a girl.
So I cut her hair again, just her fringe, and try to work out what my deal is. What I’m going to do about it.
but there’s a catch.
I’m ‘lucky’ that Wolfman is such a good guy. Except that I went throught how many failed relationships and false starts and never starts because there was no fucking way I was going to partner with a misogynist douchewad.
I’m ‘lucky’ he helps around the house and stays home. Except that absolves him of any impetus to get better – why should he? He gets claps for simply being home, no matter what he actually does there.
I’m ‘lucky’ I have a good job.I worked hard to get where I am. I uprooted my family TWICE for this, I have thousands and thousands in debt to be educated and qualified enough to be working a job where I have some semblance of security and things like leave.
I’m ‘lucky’ breastfeeding worked out. Again, I worked fucking hard at it. I really did. I look back and think of the five + months of hour long feeds, the constant denial of anything existing outside us and our relationship and not leaving the house for days to build my supply and wonder how the fuck I did it.
I’m ‘lucky’ I didn’t get PND. Yet again, I worked hard because I knew it was on the cards. So any signs, any little tremors and I was back into lockdown mode. I didn’t wait for the tears and the harm and the rocking and the alogia because I’ve been there before and I know what it is.
But I am lucky. I’m lucky that I was born into privilege so I could go and get that education, find a partner who had a good enough job that I could stay home, save money, save time, budget. I’m lucky that I knew what PND was going to do before it happened so I could do something at the slightest of warning signs. I’m lucky that I got a maternal and child health nurse who didn’t live and die by the scales, a paediatrician who was pro-breastfeeding and an obstetrician who wasn’t trigger happy. I’m lucky that even if I had, I not only had the resources to change the situation, but the education to know better and the time to do something about it and the privilege to think I am smart and correct and knowledgeable and worthy.
Luck can obscure the work that we all do to be where we are and who we are. I’m not just lucky.
I have been overwhelmed with negativity lately.
(which is a total surprise to all of you, right?)
It sucks. I don’t like it.
But all it seems to take is seeing someone else’s joyousness, someone’s creativity and wonder and beauty and it makes me more determined to do something about it. To try harder. To try less, but better. To let it come.
I have been somewhat prescriptive on presents before*. I have views. I also hate shopping and consumerism so I tend to prefer not giving or receiving presents where I can – I am comfortably middle-class enough that I want for nothing really, and what I do want is not an appropriate gift from my fellow middle-class inhabitants. So I’d much rather avoid that whole thing. Christmas, in the style of my family and my inlaws, does not allow for this. So we scaled back this year – one present, unless you were a child. Then you got two. The same for all of them. We got more for Bunbun but most of those were things we’d been meaning to pick up, rather than actual presents (i.e. the ubiquitous foldout couch).
So Christmas is fraught with anxiety for me – both the buying and the receiving of gifts. I sometimes find the perfect thing but mostly it’s this endless search for anything, something, to buy in order to wrap and sit under a meaningless tree in order to participate in obnoxious rituals that don’t have any significance beyond the purchasing and unwrapping.
Then there is the politics of it.
No matter how much I may disagree with someone’s politics or views, or methods, I do not buy a gift in order to either poke fun at those views, or undermine those principals. But the wider community seems to think it’s perfectly okay! It’s so fucking funny to buy my daughter obnoxiously gendered stuff because I don’t like it. So hilarious. Never mind she already has a pram, she obviously needs a massive pink leopard print one with a bassinette attachment. Never mind that I specifically pointed to a style of tricycle when asked about purchasing one, I obviously wanted the pink and purple, badly designed version.
Never mind any of my principals, it’s fucking funny to dismiss them, can’t I take a joke? Can’t I be grateful? They’re just giving her what she wants, all little girls are the same, and if she isn’t, it’s because I’m such a humourless gender-cop that I don’t let her have anything she wants.
Why aren’t I smiling and laughing when being fed this shit?
Here’s the deal – she will be genderpoliced for the rest of her life. In the 18 months she has been with us people have given her dolls, and bears, and blocks, and musical instruments, and playdough. No-one has given her a car. Or a truck (even though that was her second word). No swords or guns or tools. No blue, no green, no black. She is already being gender policed. She is already having her choices artificially narrowed to girl or girl or girlier. She already has her physical expression dominated by clothing choice because the skirts are too narrow or the shorts too short, or the shirts too brief**. Why is it too much to ask family not to participate? Gleefully? Purposefully?
God I hate Christmas. I am fucking glad it’s over, and that Wolfman is talking to the most egregious of offenders, but I would much rather avoid this drama altogether. And if people just gave gifts out of love, not political fucking point scoring and personal oneupsmanship, it’d be a lot more awesome.
*I so wanted to say ‘previously’ instead but it was a little too alliterative.
**I live in Australia, putting a baby in a fucking bikini is awful. Putting girl children in a series of cap sleeve shirts needlessly exposes them to more sun than they need. Not to mention the abbreviated shorts offer NO protection against searingly hot playground equipment.
aka I fucking hate Christmas but can’t burn it from the face of the earth.
I am trying so hard to cultivate zen right now. I am stressed beyond reason, between extreme extrovert family planning Christmas (FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT OF CELEBRATING) and work (so. many. activities.) I have lost all equilibrium. I am so tired all the time, I am exhausted by the smallest of things. I yell way too much. I snark at Wolfman way too much. I whine way too much.
The worst thing though?
I spend way too much time just wishing Bunbun would leave me alone and be quiet and stop touching me and stop yelling and just let me do this thing and oh god you broke it and why can’t I just have five fucking minutes?
I hate that. And it makes me hate Christmas even more, that I’m devaluing this truly awesome stage in Bunbun’s life to try and do shit because ‘we always do it’. And when I say I hate it, I get ‘well, we’re all stressed’. So why the fuck are we doing it, if no-one enjoys it? Christ.
So I’m cultivating zen. Fatalism. Pondering the absurdity. Anything to get me through the next one and a half weeks. Anything to help me start relishing the time I spend with Bunbun, not resenting it.
I cannot decide.
Every argument seems predicated on either the “ha ha I’m better than you” model or the “women just want the baaayyyyybbbbeeeeeeeezzzzz” model. It makes finding information hard. It makes discussing it with friends VERY hard. I’m either treading on toes with the ‘no, I feel no desire to have another, but yes your baby is adorable, honestly!’ or ‘I’m sorry you want another but can’t*’ or ‘yes I know you’re an only child/one of seven, but this decision is about me’. The most understanding and rational and emotionally responsive conversation I’ve had about it is with a lesbian non-parent. Part of it is her stellar conversation skills, but part of it is that her baggage (pregnancy won’t just ‘happen’ for her, should she choose that path) sides nicely along with mine.
Exacerbating it is the fact that people have started prying into things. I’m getting asked by strangers when I’ll have her sibling (it’s MY CHILD as well, thanks). I discuss it ad nauseum with Wolfman because he has always wanted a lot of children. His first serious response to me about how many children he wanted was ‘6’ (well before our relationship began I might add). He modified it to 4 after a while. He’s adamant that ‘more than 0’ is his final answer but I fear curtailing his life like this. I fear resentment over this issue even as I remember the vomiting and the fear and the pain and wonder how the hell I could ever stand being more vulnerable. Combined with the plates and everything else I fear my own resentment too.
I don’t talk about that much – I have no terrible relationship with my siblings behind me to back that up. Just something akin to selfishness and ambivalence. Something I recognise as a lack in me rather than as an actual commentary on the nature of siblings** so that feeds into my indecision as well.
The fact that I never felt that urge that so many women talk about bothers me. I never felt it with Bunbun so why should it bother me that I don’t feel it now? But it does. Like this is a more monumental decision – and it is a decision. It’s not something I can simply throw into the universe to see what happens. Or even something I want to go by serendipity and emotional resonance. No matter how amazing a story is I feel this need for something more concrete and logical and it just doesn’t fucking exist. Prioritising the concrete over the emotional in this of all discussions feels like a mistake as well.
*For any number of reasons, none of which make a discussion about this less fraught with hurt.
**Not to mention reading the diagnostic criteria for Generalised Anxiety Disorder which slots perfectly alongside my little quirks and brain spasms – how much of my indecision and fear is because of that, rather than anything concrete.
So, the other day I was making black bean enchiladas and following Cherry’s example of having Bunbun ‘help’.
You should have seen it, such a lovely moment. The sun was setting so everything was a glorious orange. She busied herself putting beans in the pot at the table while I chopped onion, garlic and tomato. Occasionally she’d eat a piece of the tomato and I’d smile and think about all the different foods we enjoy and how wonderful it is to share this with her.
At which point I looked over and saw her taste one of the beans, then throw it in the pot. Then throw a few more handfuls, then chew a bean for a bit, then take it out of her mouth and put it in the pot…
It was still a lovely moment and the enchiladas were delicious.
I know it’s a rather overdone cliche but my life right now feels like a bunch of spinning plates about to shatter into nothingness.
The sleep plate is spinning wildly and slamming headlong into the parenting plate which then careens into the “when was the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t about poop and didn’t turn into an argument” plate which has completely broken the sex plate. The eating plate and time plate keep bumping each other as well which upsets all the tiny little plates on top of the eating plate so healthy is sliding off while cheap is wobbling but easy is steady. It’s bumping the money plate too which is also bumping the “when was the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t about poop and didn’t turn into an argument” plate and has slammed the house plate right off the table. The work plate is in the centre of all this getting bumped from all sides.
The “time spent not thinking about money, the house, food, sleep or our relationship” plate is nowhere to be found.
Now, I know that this is temporary and I know this is part of trying to find how things are going to work up here but I dreadfully miss the “time spent not thinking about money, the house, food, sleep or our relationship” plate. I miss the sleep plate being balanced. I miss a lot of things.
I also resent a lot of things. I resent the interference of well-meaning douches who have made it so Wolfman ha started aiming for Bunbun to be out of our bed full-time on his schedule, not hers. I resent that he’s trying to do that while trying to support the breastfeeding which just makes sleep MORE difficult for me than before. I resent the implications from friends and family that weaning will solve all our problems. I resent that we’re even talking about sex when I can’t get enough sleep, the house looks like a toddler did the decorating and I can’t even relax enough to fart properly because fuck we need to look at our budget and you have to stop eating out and all of our blinds are broken and did she have milk today and my rib is still clicking and when did she get up and I really need to write this thing and work is fucking riding me and does the radio have to be on right now and why the fuck do I have to wake you up in order to get a sleep in?
I resent that he seems to have the plates stacked neatly out of sight because I’m the one doing the balancing.
He must be balancing his own plates, right?