The Times, They Have a-Changed

I turned 27 this week. Its a peculiar age to be, 27. To me, its the bookend of my twenties. The slide into thirty and beyond has started, and it has led to quite a reflective mood. This day was certainly unlike any previous birthdays.
The 7am wake-up call was actually a sleep-in for me. My birthdays usually start around 6am, when a dear Aunt of mine always calls. She likes to get in first. She achieves this by getting in about 2 hours before anybody else. Not this year though. Said Aunt chose to wait until the early afternoon, she didn't want to mess up Little Gem's sleep patterns. It was very thoughtful of her, as my dear little one stuck to her usual routine of a 7 o'clock yelp for food.
The rest of the day was a complete break of birthday routine, however. Instead of sleeping until noon, my sheets were washed and hung to dry by 10am. I was treated to lunch by two of my Best Gals, but instead of a leisurely booze filled afternoon, it was a quick wrap and water. I had to get Little Gem home for a nap, and my Gals were expected back in the office. My afternoon consisted of high pitched laughter and rolling around on the floor. No, this wasn't the result of a birthday 'afternoon delight', it was a hilarious Mum and Bub moment. My baby has certainly found her voice!
We had a lovely little gathering that night, complete with party food and cake. I even snuck in a glass of red once Little Gem had gone down for the night.
What a picture of domesticity this paints. Previous years had seen my birthday smack bang in the middle of party season. There were car races to drink at, music festivals to drink at, random 'no reason' gatherings to drink at, as well as a good smattering of birthdays... to drink at.
There were the outfits. The tight, cleavage bulging, hip skimming, stomach sucking clothes. And the shoes. The inappropriately high, tight and painful shoes. We would totter off to cause mischief, balancing precariously, and wincing in pain. The alcohol soothed our swollen toes for a little while, but after hours of standing, swaying and performing our much-practiced dance moves to "The Horses", the calf pain would set in. Then it was shoes off. No matter the weather, the location or the glass on the footpath. Shoes off for the stagger home. I clearly remember the look of amazement on the faces of Husband's friends, as I ditched my high heels on the night of our engagement party. It was -5, and the icy frost had settled on the grass. You could see the imprints of my step as I hoofed it through the park, my only concern being the impending closing time of the kebab shop.
Yes, times have certainly changed for me. But not for the worse, and not in a way that makes me regret our previous antics. They were fun. Hilarious. And I'll probably recreate a few of them in years to come. It is known as the 'dirty thirties' after all.
But hopefully I can get away with sensible shoes.

Fear and Loving in Mum-Vegas

There are a million things you learn when you have your own child. Things that other parents tend to keep to themselves. And not just about the horrors of childbirth (Oh my God, no wonder people don't tell the truth about that, the human race would be doomed),that babies go through several stages of 'poo' (from black to orange... nice) or even that babies make the most horrible grunts, snorts and groans as they sleep (that's right, even when they finally sleep... you WON'T).
No, the one thing that I truly had not prepared myself for was The Fear.
I'm a bit of a paradox in temperament. I can be insanely anal retentive about the smallest things. The colour of the pegs have to match when I hang out my washing. The dishwasher has to be packed MY way. I drive my husband crazy by following him around the kitchen, washing every plate, spoon or knife that he has used, whether he is finished with them or not.
But otherwise, I have a pretty relaxed attitude to life. The glass is half full in my world. Everything happens for a reason, and generally works out in the end. There's no point worrying about the past. I overwhelmingly believe that what goes around, comes around. When life throws me a bad patch, I truly believe that something good is coming. So consequently, I rarely worry about what 'might' happen. If I make responsible decisions, then everything will be fine. Right?
Not anymore. That was the old me. That was before the arrival of my Little Gem, before the arrival of The Fear.
Now everything is scary.
My actions have genuine consequences, and not just for me and my husband now. Everything I do impacts on the Gem.
It can be quite agonising. Is she eating enough? Sleeping enough? Sleeping too much, and therefore not eating enough? Is she getting cranky because I'm trying to feed her too much to make up for the feeds that she has dropped because she's sleeping too much?
Is she too hot? Too cold? Is she going to get a flat head because I let her kick on the floor too much? Is it too early to put her in a jolly jumper?
Do I take her out of the house too much? Do we stay at home too much?
Is her bath water too hot? Am I holding her tight enough? Will she slip out of my arms onto the tiles? (I can almost hear the sickening noise that would make)
Do I worry too much? (YES!)
From what I understand, The Fear affects almost all parents and although it may fade with time, it doesn't go away. And it isn't limited to those small everyday decisions. Even though Little Gem sleeps through the night, I still spend some of those wee early morning hours tossing and turning as I contemplate the Big Issues.
I have brought a new life into this world, and all things being as they should, she will outlive me by decades. So issues such as climate change, population growth, energy and food supply take on new meaning. What kind of world is my baby girl going to live in? As cliched as this sounds, I want to leave this world a better place for her.
Perhaps The Fear could be my ultimate motivator. Instead of political spectating, perhaps its time to get more involved, make my voice be heard a little louder.
Little Gem is only 12 weeks old, but she is truly now the centre of my world. The Fear ensures that her needs take precedence above mine.
And with a face like this...

The Fear isn't going anywhere.

First things first...

So this is it, I've finally got here! Though if somebody told me that I would be starting my blog whilst on maternity leave with my 11 week old daughter happily snoozing away in the corner, well, I would have helped to escort you to the nearest psych ward.

Loose plans, a litany of names and concepts, and a half hearted attempt at wordsmith have led me here. Originally, I wanted an outlet for my observations on politics and current events (and I still plan to do a lot of venting along those lines), but as the mysterious 'they' say, life is what happens while you're busy making plans.

Somewhere along the way, I tripped and fell into a fairytale of sorts. Not a perfect disney-esque one, but not a Grimm's tale either. Just a happy little story of a boy and a girl, a wedding, and a baby. Oh, and a Labrador. Wow, plenty of blogging joy to be had there!

But for now, a quick explanation of the title I've chosen here. 

Feminism gets a pretty bad rap in mainstream media these days. Most women only utter the word in a derogatory tone, accompanied by the obligatory eye-roll. It's the Germaine Syndrome. People have simply had their fill of bra-less, crazy-haired and aggressive women, screaming to the world about inequality. 

Feminism needs a facelift. A modern re-touching. It needs to be more about equal pay for equal work. Supporting our sisters in their quest for same-sex marriage. Taking the 'taboo' out of discussing domestic violence and sexual assault. And for God's sake, kicking the crap out of anybody who tells a 'make me a sandwich' joke.

And as for me, I'm at a cross roads. Stuck between my feminist beliefs, and the life that I'm now living. I'm a housewife. My husband works all day and brings home the paycheck. I stay at home, cooking, cleaning and caring for our child. I'm not the kick-ass career woman that so many of my friends are. I'm not even the uber-cool single gal, living and partying it up, giving conventionalism the finger. 

I'm living the life that I should hate. And alot of the time, I do feel uncomfortable about it. But not uncomfortable because I'm living it; I'm uncomfortable because I enjoy it so damn much.

I shake my head in disbelief as I feel a wave of pride as I look around my clean house. When I prepare a meal for my family. As I finish hanging our wedding photos in a perfect frame.

How on earth can I reconcile this? This happiness for the 1950's monotony that feminism ousted to create a Brave New World for women?

Time will tell as I plan to make sense of my inner commentary concerning this. So prepare for an almost "Stream of Consciousness" approach.

Oh, and the Labrador... prepare for lots of stories about the Labrador.