I'm back! Life has been quite hectic in the H household, and finding a spare moment is getting more and more difficult.
Little Gem is now almost six months old and is the ultimate distraction. Her 'talking' is much more animated, her squeals of excitement have hit all new heights, and she has genuine fits of laughter. Pulling a funny face, tickling her tummy, or blowing a raspberry can lead to the most hilarious exchanges. She is at such a great age, and these interactions are eating up a lot of my day, but I'm certainly not complaining!
Life might be more hectic, but it's also a lot more structured. Little Gem's routine is changing as she grows, and she now has a solid two hours of sleep in the middle of the day, leaving me time to catch up with housework, Christmas present wrapping, cooking/pureeing/freezing food (yey, solids!), and the never ending washing/drying/ironing. That's right. Ironing.
Husband has started a new job (same company) that requires him to wear his 'actual' uniform, instead of the previously provided trade 'whites' that he has worn for the last 8 years. This requires an ironed shirt. Gah. I have mentioned before that while I have succumbed to most aspects of my domesticity, I Do Not Iron. Well, make that Did Not Iron. Husband's inability to iron anything safely, combined with his now increased travel times, mean that I have taken on this colossal task.
But a funny thing has happened between me and my Phillips GC 2560. We've become friends. So friendly, in fact, that I now find the time to iron all of our clothes. Every second day, I clear off my dinner table, perch the washing basket on a nearby stool, and manoeuvre the ironing board to the middle of our dining room. I have enough room on the table to neatly pile my warm, ironed clothes, and I have a clear view into the lounge room to watch TV as I go.
And that's exactly what I was doing at 1.27pm on Tuesday, December 6. And that was the moment that I realised.... I have become my mother.
The routine. The table. The piles of neatly pressed clothes. The 'serials' on TV (Days of Our Lives for Mum, reruns of Grey's Anatomy for me). The more that I thought about it, I realised that this has been a gradual progression, eating into every aspect of my life.
I play music while doing the housework. I get going every morning to make sure the majority of the tasks are done before lunch time. My Christmas shopping was started in August, and mostly completed by November. I send Christmas cards. I talk to Little Gem is a ridiculous voice. I tell off the Labrador using the same phrases that I grew up with ("That's enough!" "I mean it!" "Right, that's it. Into your room!")
Unconsciously, I have endeavoured to make Little Gem's childhood experience as close to my childhood experience as possible. And on the face of it, that is not a bad thing. If there is anybody in this world who I would want to be like, it is my Mum.
I hope you have all had a lovely Christmas/New Year period. One of my New Years resolutions is to keep this blog going, and to post more regularly. Stick with me, kids!
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
She-Ra, Have You Led Me Astray?
Time is a funny thing. My Little Gem is now four months old, and that four months seemed to simultaneously last a life time, while flying by in an instant. What was once a tiny, skinny, immobile bairn is now a thunder-thighed, robust and rolling bub, with her own vibrant personality. I love that I have been able to stay at home and watch this development, all day, every day. Others aren't so lucky.
I decided to take 12 months maternity leave, supplemented by the Government's Paid Parental Leave. It was a Godsend. We trialled various brands and products for Little Gem. We got major annual expenses out of the way, e.g. car registrations, Christmas shopping, insurance. I stocked up on essential items such as nappies, wipes, baby bath soap, tissues and toilet paper (thank you , Costco). And we afforded ourselves a little coastal getaway.
But now my 18 weeks has run its course, and we are officially living off one income. My bank account will be languishing, unnourished and unloved, for at least a few months. And I am not coping with that.
I was a child of the 90s. As a little miss, I watched as
Rainbow Brite defeated the King of Shadows. I saw She-Ra join He-Man in defence of Castle Greyskull. The message was clear to me. Girls are tough! Girls can do anything that Boys can do! Then the Spice Girls came along and gave it a name. Girl Power. (Ok, the Spice Girls were horribly naff. But hindsight is a beautiful thing. It was 1996 people! Think wide-leg jeans and cargo pants. Think Blossom, or, if you're under the age of 25... google Blossom. Any judgemental hipster-types can go and jump of some cliff somewhere that I've probably never heard of...) Then, in 2001 I found a book titled Kiss My Tiara. It was modern feminism to a tee. How to stand on your own two feet, in gorgeous shoes to boot. (Btw, that link will take you to the original website of that book. It's like time travel!)
So, after growing up in Generation Girl Power, having had a job since I was 14, how can I possibly reconcile the fact that I am now completely dependent on Husbands income? We have never opened a joint bank account, and while we both refer to 'our' money, I'm riddled with guilt for contemplating anything other than a 'necessary' expenditure. I should note, this guilt is strictly driven from within. Husband is quite happy in his role of breadwinner, and thinks that it is extremely important for me to be at home with Little Gem right now.
But there is a part of me that is dying to get back to paid work. To be actively working to contribute to our household. And not just in a financial sense. To go back to work would enable me to feel competent, confident and independent. But there is also that larger, more emotional part of me that wants to relish every day of Little Gem, especially at this dynamic and engrossing stage of her development.
To be clear, this is not a debate about whether Little Gem should go into care. She has a Super Nan who is waiting in the wings, ready to spoil her rotten when I go back to work. And realistically, it won't be for a while. Little Gem is still breast fed and I really don't think I could tear myself away just yet. So it will be at least a few months of dependence, and I will simply have to learn to live with it. Or maybe the answer lies within a question... What would She-Ra do?
On the upside for Husband... my guilt has led me to make a bit more effort in the kitchen lately. Hopefully, I'll end up faring a little better than my previous attempts...
I decided to take 12 months maternity leave, supplemented by the Government's Paid Parental Leave. It was a Godsend. We trialled various brands and products for Little Gem. We got major annual expenses out of the way, e.g. car registrations, Christmas shopping, insurance. I stocked up on essential items such as nappies, wipes, baby bath soap, tissues and toilet paper (thank you , Costco). And we afforded ourselves a little coastal getaway.
But now my 18 weeks has run its course, and we are officially living off one income. My bank account will be languishing, unnourished and unloved, for at least a few months. And I am not coping with that.
I was a child of the 90s. As a little miss, I watched as
Rainbow Brite defeated the King of Shadows. I saw She-Ra join He-Man in defence of Castle Greyskull. The message was clear to me. Girls are tough! Girls can do anything that Boys can do! Then the Spice Girls came along and gave it a name. Girl Power. (Ok, the Spice Girls were horribly naff. But hindsight is a beautiful thing. It was 1996 people! Think wide-leg jeans and cargo pants. Think Blossom, or, if you're under the age of 25... google Blossom. Any judgemental hipster-types can go and jump of some cliff somewhere that I've probably never heard of...) Then, in 2001 I found a book titled Kiss My Tiara. It was modern feminism to a tee. How to stand on your own two feet, in gorgeous shoes to boot. (Btw, that link will take you to the original website of that book. It's like time travel!)
So, after growing up in Generation Girl Power, having had a job since I was 14, how can I possibly reconcile the fact that I am now completely dependent on Husbands income? We have never opened a joint bank account, and while we both refer to 'our' money, I'm riddled with guilt for contemplating anything other than a 'necessary' expenditure. I should note, this guilt is strictly driven from within. Husband is quite happy in his role of breadwinner, and thinks that it is extremely important for me to be at home with Little Gem right now.
But there is a part of me that is dying to get back to paid work. To be actively working to contribute to our household. And not just in a financial sense. To go back to work would enable me to feel competent, confident and independent. But there is also that larger, more emotional part of me that wants to relish every day of Little Gem, especially at this dynamic and engrossing stage of her development.
To be clear, this is not a debate about whether Little Gem should go into care. She has a Super Nan who is waiting in the wings, ready to spoil her rotten when I go back to work. And realistically, it won't be for a while. Little Gem is still breast fed and I really don't think I could tear myself away just yet. So it will be at least a few months of dependence, and I will simply have to learn to live with it. Or maybe the answer lies within a question... What would She-Ra do?
On the upside for Husband... my guilt has led me to make a bit more effort in the kitchen lately. Hopefully, I'll end up faring a little better than my previous attempts...
Monday, 24 October 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
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.
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