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...

When You Can't Handle the Heat...

When I fell pregnant, Husband and I made some decisions. Some were easy (what religion to baptise our child into, our stance on circumcision, our stance on vaccination). Some were not so easy (baby names, choosing godparents, our stance on dummies). And some decisions were made for us.
Of the two of us, Husband was clearly destined for the role of bread winner. He earns more money. He has a clear career progression ahead of him.  He can't breastfeed. Oh, and he earns more money. It was a no-brainer.
When Little Gem was born, Husband spent a glorious five weeks at home with us. He cooked, he cleaned, he shopped, he changed nappies, he project managed bathtime to within an inch of its life. I merely strolled around the house in a post-birth daze, took regular catnaps, and occasionally looked down in wonder as a miniature version of my husband stared back at me. (To be fair, I also spent a fair bit of time wincing in pain as a baby chewed on my nipples as though they were a half softened Mintie.)
But all good things come to an end, and as I finally emerged from my post-birth fog, Husband returned to work. And he works hard. They are long and ridiculous hours, and start times that vary from 10pm to 6am. I often end up sleeping half the night on the lounge during a spate of nightshifts. When he gets home, he is rightfully exhausted.
So isn't he lucky to have me, all domestic housewife like, zipping around the house in a beautiful dress and heels, a face full of make up, and not a hair out of place, to greet him on arrival? His clothes have been washed, ironed, folded and put away. The house is perfectly perfect. Baby is cooing quietly in her bassinet. And there is the gorgeous aroma of a gourmet meal simmering away on the stove, awaiting the finest of finishing touches before being served, with garnishes of course.
Ha.
Ok, well the house is usually very clean. Little Gem doesn't move around too much yet, so I do have the time to keep the place in order. And the clothes are usually washed and put away. But I definitely do not iron. And, I think, maybe once Husband came home to his daughter quietly cooing in her basinet. But mostly she's rolling around on the floor squealing. Or, if it's Arsenic Hour, she is red faced and screaming for no reason in particular.
But as far as the food preparation goes, I failed. Not an easy thing to accept. Not something that I'm proud of. But its true. I failed.
Despite the thought of succumbing to that 'dutiful wife' stereotype, I had all intentions of cooking our dinner every night. I was going to be very well prepared, and get it started during the day, while Little Gem had her naps. And I was going to have the time to peruse cookbooks to choose the most delightful recipes. I might even have started trying pastries and cakes (from scratch, of course).
And I did try, I really did. But the thing is, having a couple of recipe books and good intentions does not guarantee a Rick Stein quality meal. And I was starting from behind, as you will come to understand. Below is a brief history of my culinary escapades.

• Beef Stroganoff - A tasty meal that I cooked probably once a week for about three years. It may be from a jar, but I add the sour cream and salt and pepper and it tastes alright. I like it. And I thought Husband did too. But, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, Husband informed me that he does not like it, hates it in fact, and always had. He also turns up his nose at my Butter Chicken and Lemon Chicken. Basically anything from a jar is not acceptable meal time fare.
• Random Pasta- Where I throw a whole heap of stuff in a pan. Oil, bacon, onion, mushroom, maybe a bit of chilli, some tomatoes perhaps, then cook it all for a stupidly long time and chuck it on top of some pasta. Now, even Husband doesn't mind this one. But he cannot help but to give me some pointers on How To Make It Better. I'm sure that not boiling pasta for thirty minutes, and not cooking the bacon until its black, and maybe even stirring the whole thing occasionally may, in fact, be helpful. But to me, its just criticism.
• Silverside- This is a meal that I have cooked successfully a few times (Thank God for pressure cookers). Let's just forget about the time that I forgot to half the cooking time to make up for the smaller cut of meat.
• Roast Chicken- Ok, so by "roast" chicken, I mean "cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken. Artistic licence, whatever. So this one should be pretty easy. How could you stuff this up? Put the bagged chicken in the microwave and press Start. Except, I forgot to read the instructions, failed to put the power on Medium, and completely misjudged cook time. So this actually ends up being "burnt, cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken.

To make matters worse, Husband is a total foodie. And a qualified Pastry Chef. So he has food interest, and the skills to match. His patience with my *cough* average ability has waned. These days, Husband has resumed most cooking duties. I do try to assist him as much as possible. He lets me cut things up, but warns me every three minutes to be very careful with the sharp knife.

I'm sure that my cooking would satisfy some people (particularly those who have lost the ability to taste). But my Husband is such a bloody great cook, that I simply cannot compete. So I have thrown in the towel.

But not the tea towel. I still do the dishes.

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.