SUMMER DREAMS RIPPED AT THE SEAMS

‘Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.’  Victor Hugo.

I was having a particularly low moment the other day when I unexpectedly heard a song by U2. My spirits lifted and my heart was instantly warmed. I felt as if I had bumped into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while who laughed with me about old times. I could write an entire story on the profound effect U2's music has had on me, but put simply, their songs have provided the soundtrack to my life. They have carried me through the best, and worst of times.

I bet if I asked you what your favourite song or piece of music is you’d have an immediate answer, and it would conjure a good feeling or special memory for you. It's interesting how music seems to have this very powerful effect on our psyche, sometimes when we may not even be aware. They say music can have a subliminal effect on our consumer behaviour, influencing what we eat, what we buy and even how long we spend in a supermarket. Music can also elicit mood responses, like boosting your energy and self-esteem. I reckon this could be true because when I listen to Nicki Minaj I’m sure I run a hell of a lot faster than if I listen to classical when I’m hitting the pavement. Alternatively, if I listen to Nicki when I’m trying to go to sleep I’ll be restless for hours, my legs twitching like a dog dreaming about chasing cats. 

At my son’s school, they play catchy pop tunes in the morning to call order to the playground chaos and summon the children into their class lines for morning assembly. It seems to work, albeit in a Pavlovian type of way. If you play it, they come. I have taken a cue from school and I am now playing classical music at home when I want my children to calm down, form an orderly line and make their way to the dinner table. It has yet to be proven effective. Once I played Adagio in G Minor and it made me want to weep uncontrollably and smile ruefully at the same time. Interestingly, this is the same effect my children have on me at dinnertime anyway, so perhaps I didn’t need the music after all?

Sometimes an old song miraculously transports me right back to that point in time when I first heard it. When Summer Nights came on the radio in the car the other day, it took me back to being a kid in the summertime, sprawled on the lounge room floor in a wet swimming costume listening to the Grease soundtrack. I was only four or five when Grease first came out, but my sister had the album, therefore, I had the album. Being the youngest of four siblings is often a cross to bear, but it did have the advantage of having access to lots of big-kid stuff when I was a little kid. My prerogative: what was mine was mine, but what was theirs was mine too. 

I remember sneaking that old record out of the cover and gently balancing it between my little fingers, fearing I would scrape it and render it useless forever. I’m sure this story will provide an amusing anecdote for my Generation Z children who will wonder why I just like, couldn’t like, download another, like… copy?

If you're old enough, you'll remember the anticipation as a record spun around a couple of times before the needle found the music.

Hearing Summer Nights again made me deeply aware of how much I miss those endless summer days, unburdened by all the fears that now keep me awake at night. Days spent almost entirely in the backyard pool, my nose permanently pink and my chest feeling heavy from breathing in toxic chlorine fumes all day. Summer Lovin’. Freedom and happiness. 

Yet I was singing and bopping along in the car that day until I heard myself sing the line I have sung a thousand times before:

‘Tell me more, tell me more. Did she put up a fight?’ 

I doubt my little girl self had any idea of the meaning of those words when I first heard them on my lounge room floor. Of course, as I got older I gradually became aware of the brazen sexual references of the Grease music, but I was ignorant of this one. I suppose when I sing along to popular songs played and played and played on the radio it’s like driving home on autopilot when you don’t remember the journey. You sing but don’t really hear. This song spent seven weeks at number 1 on the U.K. charts according to SongFacts.com. It seemed just so lighthearted, didn’t it? Well-a, well-a, well-a, uh! Nope. It’s a clear reference to rape. 

So, one of the things that I have been thinking about recently as I lay awake on restless nights (not listening to Nicki Minaj by the way) is that if music is so influential that it can make me feel happy when I feel sad, or make me run faster, or shop longer, or make people cry or even make children behave…what about the dark side of popular music? Are we still living in a culture that is so complacent with sexual violence that the words ‘did she put up a fight’ are included in one of the most popular soundtracks of all time?  

If you google ‘songs about rape’ you may be as surprised as I was that it is not the exclusive domain of the gangsta rapper, and may appear where you least expect it. Take Baby It’s Cold Outside for example, which you have probably heard two million times as I have. Until recently I had never really considered the lyrics of this song. It was written as a little ditty by a married couple back in the 40s and they would sing it together at parties, bantering back and forth. I read the lyrics as a little experiment without hearing the song in my head, rather like a poem. Not only does she say she wants to go home, she says it repeatedly. He seems to think this is just a challenge and takes it upon himself to convince her to change her mind, unconcerned about her reputation because they both know his will remain intact if she stays. Oh yeah, there is also the suggestion that he has spiked her drink. Yep, seems that this was a thing back in the 40s too. The discussion around this song has drawn its share of vitriol on the internet, and I hesitate when stepping into murky waters polluted by trolls, but I reckon anything that gets us talking about consent is a good thing.

It is impossible to dodge all the sexually charged grenades pop music throws out. I would appreciate a ‘sex warning’ as well as a ‘language warning’ on the radio before some songs. Something like, ‘The following is likely to offend anyone who only enjoys consensual sex or is currently in the company of their parents or children’. My son, who is only six and for whom I have done my utmost to protect from mainstream media, threw himself off a flying fox recently at a crowded park and to my horror, shouted at the top of his voice ‘Sexy Lady!!!’  I truly hope the other people recognised the line from Gangnam Style and did not judge me. What well-intentioned parent could possibly protect their child from the delights of that song, even five years on? And what does Lady Gaga really mean when she sings ‘Baby when it’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun’ in Poker Face. Maybe she was being satirical. Perhaps the line shouldn’t be taken out of the context of the song. But God help me if my daughter becomes a tween fan and yells that one out at the park. I doubt she’ll understand the irony when she’s twelve.

I am just so goddamned fed up with a culture that has allowed me to sing about rape since I was a little girl, and never even notice. Ignorance is not bliss. Let’s not be ignorant together. I’m not singing along anymore. How about you?

Tell me more, tell me more…will you put up a fight?

What would Jane say?

‘But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible’.  Pride & Prejudice.

No more, no less.

OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

On an American TV show I was watching recently, a college professor was critiquing his student. He thought her writing was mundane. Hating that she was writing nice stories about nice places and nice people, he said she needed to challenge herself more in her life, only then would she write something worthwhile. He suggested she should ‘get out of her comfort zone’. 

As with most American TV shows, she was young, uncommonly pretty and uncannily eloquent. But her response stayed with me for weeks afterwards. She told him in no uncertain terms that he had it wrong. She said that men just don’t seem to understand that women are thrown out of their comfort zone every single day simply by being in the world. Perhaps that’s why her writing was ‘safe’. Maybe she had to create a world where she felt comfortable and not threatened.

I don’t know if the Professor understood his student’s point or not, however, I’m not sure if any man can really understand the threat women feel from men on a daily basis – unless of course, he becomes a woman himself. Leers, once-overs, wolf whistles, dirty jokes, propositions, insults, gropes. We all know men are the perpetrators. 

I think we all have our catalogue of memories. When I was a little girl, a man tried to coax me into his car as I walked home alone from the bus stop. I was terrified and can still recall the sound of him calling out ‘hey Miss Beautiful’. I still know his face and the make of his car. As a teenager riding home on my bike from a friend’s, a group of guys followed me down a laneway, shouting for me to stop. I managed to get away, only because there was a barrier that didn't allow their car through. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if they had caught up to me. I was wearing short shorts. I felt guilty for that afterwards. As a teenager, my boss would openly stare at my legs on every shift, but I didn’t tell anyone and didn’t know what to do about it. I dreaded going to work. In my thirties, a man stalked a friend and me from one bar to another in broad daylight. He took pictures, up my skirt under the table. 

More recently, as I waited at the train station holding hands with my young kids, a man started a conversation. I replied in a friendly manner, but as he took a step closer, he gave my chest a long look, lowered his voice and said something irrelevant about his last girlfriend. My children felt me stiffen and my hands clench tight as a cold chill crept up my spine. In an instant, a lovely moment in the sunshine with them was ruined. I felt like I had been spat upon.

Sadly, we’ve all been there. Sadly, we know the drill. Don’t encourage him, but don’t offend him. It could get worse. Is he going to say something I don’t want to hear? Is he going to follow me? Is he going to touch me? 

IS HE GOING TO HURT ME?     

And what is going to protect me? Sexual Harassment has been outlawed for over 25 years in Australia, but I don’t see that making a difference. It's getting better though. The Everyday Sexism Project allows women around the world a forum to get this stuff off their chests and shine a light on situations that should not be the everyday experience of women and girls. I'd like us to teach our girls and young women that it’s just not OK. I was never told this, so I thought it was normal to suffer through these situations and the rite of passage for us. If anything, it seemed to be impolite or just too embarrassing to talk about. Perhaps there is a whiff of change on the horizon*.

Men are starting to realise that change is in their court. Canada has the Don’t Be That Guy campaign and Australia has the Let’s Stop It At The Start campaign, both acknowledge that teaching women to avoid harassment/assault is not going to stop men from doing it. That’s Harassment is going viral on Facebook and is brilliant. It is uncomfortable to watch and rather sad that celebrity-endorsed videos are needed to point out what is obvious to me, but if it helps people question and reconsider their behaviour then bring it on, and more of it.

Perhaps they’ll finally start to get the message…

GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR COMFORT ZONE.

What would Jane say?

‘There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.  My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.’  Elizabeth Bennet, Pride & Prejudice. 

Lizzy, we all need to channel your strength and courage at times, and a little bit of stubbornness can go a long way. I can certainly attest to that.

*Update: and it was. It was called Me too.

THE BEAUTIFUL TRUTH

Apparently, 93% of American women are unhappy with their underarms, or so the folk at Unilever would have us believe. When I read this recently, it took me about half a minute to dismiss it as the total bullshit it is, yet not before I wondered for the first time in my life whether my own underarms were ugly just as all those American women ‘surveyed’ seem to think theirs were. I don’t know about you, but I simply cannot recall a time when any woman ever turned to me and said, ‘Gee I really, really hate my underarms’. Coincidentally, the underarm survey results were released around the time Unilever began advertising the Dove deodorant ‘Go Sleeveless’. Hmmm. Go figure. 

Fat shaming, wrinkle shaming, hair shaming, age shaming, menstruation shaming, odour shaming, sweat (or any sign of moisture) shaming, pimple shaming, dental hygiene shaming, cellulite shaming, breast shaming and now underarm shaming! Cover it, fight it, hide it, rip it out, smooth it, lift it, shave it, moisturise it, dry it, perfume it, whiten it, botox it (if you can afford to) because the message is you shall be disgraced if any of it is detected.  

Over the centuries, attention has been turned so acutely upon our bodies that even open pores are a deadly sin in the Beauty Bible. How and why did this happen? Can you imagine a cave woman stressing about a stray hair protruding from her chin? And I doubt my lilywhite ancestors stepped off the boat into the harsh Australian sun after 9 months at sea and worried about their fine lines and wrinkles.

Is it any wonder that I have never really been happy with my body? I challenge you to find any woman who does not have a What Would I Change list. Mine includes double chin, turkey neck, blotchy skin, cellulite, chunky calves and body hair - no matter how much I laser, wax or pluck, the little suckers have never got the message. They are like mini-Terminators, even after 25 years they are still coming back. Sometimes I find body maintenance is like house maintenance. Fix up the kitchen and the rest of the house looks tired and in need of a makeover. Like, if you run a lot, you might be slimmer but then end up looking a little haggard from all the effort.    

Thinking it over, a lot of my issues with my body are entirely beyond my control, so the fact that I have never been content with it seems a little absurd. Yet how can any of us be happy with ourselves when the beauty/fashion/fitspiration industry sends us a barrage of images that play on our insecurities? I doubt I would have even considered how my underarms look had I not read what Unilever said about how ugly they apparently can be.

I’m getting mighty tired of it all. Maybe it’s because I am getting older and now have wrinkle shame and saggy boob shame to add to my list of sensitivities, or perhaps it’s because I now have beautiful daughters. I want to protect them from all the stuff in the world that is going to assault their self-image as soon as they're old enough to be aware. Is it just me or do teenage girls these days all seem to have just stepped off the cover of a teen magazine? It can’t be that they are just born more good-looking now, can it? I suspect it’s because they are spending a lot more money and time making themselves look that way and I’m certain there are a lot of unhealthy body images thrust upon them, coercing them to do as such. 

Thankfully we have moved on from the 1990s when all supermodels were twenty-something-freak-of-nature-amazons-with-eating-disorders. Yet I just want to scream violently when I see major department stores selling lingerie for little girls, or hair removal products targeting tweens. And what the f*$% are those bratz dolls even in existence for? I will do everything in my power to instil a healthy body image in my little girls before our beauty/body-conscious world convinces them the way they look is the most important aspect of their personality. I also don’t want them to inherit the discontent with their body that I have carried throughout my life. 

I will also do the same for their brother, but I suspect that being born with a penis, he already has the advantage when we live in a world that can elect a racist, bigoted, misogynist with extremely bad hair and belly fat as the leader of the free world, but Hillary could not have a hair out of place. I bet she wouldn’t have even been allowed to run for the presidency if she was as overweight as her opponent.

Sadly, at times, I think us girls can be our own worst enemies. A couple of years ago when I was entering my 40th decade, a friend warned me that my date of birth was displayed on my Facebook profile page. I was slightly amused by this but the message was loud and clear, I should now hide my age. I also have someone in my life who comments on my weight every single time she sees me. A stranger once called my 9-month baby daughter ‘fat’ – lucky for that bitch, I’m a person who avoids conflict because I wanted to kick her in the shin.    

I would love to make my own changes to anti-discrimination legislation and make it an offence to utter a negative comment regarding someone’s weight. If a woman has put it on, rest assured SHE KNOWS and she DOES NOT NEED IT POINTED OUT TO HER. We all know when we have been indulging and are not at our fittest and healthiest, and sometimes the vicissitudes of life take their toll. If you are a size 8 #Fitsbo addict & self-promoter and exercise up to 3 hours a day, that is wonderful for you, but you are not a better person than a size 18-20 woman nor do you have any right to comment on her lifestyle. Not everyone aspires to be like you. Our looks are determined mostly by our genes anyway. An Australian study of 3,000 women between the ages of 30-55 discovered that 93% of the negative body issues they identified were attributed to genetics, their age and environmental conditions.* I think it's a kind of madness to pursue a body you simply cannot have, no matter how many diets you suffer through, creams you slap on or stomach crunches you do. And why should we fight the signs of ageing? I call a ceasefire on the anti-ageing war, it always wins in the end. So it’s probably not a battle worth fighting. 

Let’s reject the images of perfection that the beauty/fashion/fitspiration industry wants us to aspire to, and cheer on those who are brave enough to portray women as they really are – beautifully varied, hairy, dimply, frizzy, pimply, saggy, wrinkled, grey and jiggly. Also, let’s be mindful of the language we use around each other and our daughters and be careful and kind about the messages we might be sending.

Frankly my dears, I think we need to send a collective finger-up to a society that shames us because of the way we look. My job as a mother is to begin with myself. I am beginning my own journey of acceptance of my body. I will embrace the positives. My body is strong, fit and healthy. I have birthed and breastfed three children and I am proud to see that reflected in the mirror. I am 42 today. I will own it. I will not be ashamed of my age or its effects. After all, it’s not my fault. 

I was simply born in 1974. 

And I just absolutely love my imperfect underarms.

*I just made that up.  I figure if major corporations can make stuff up, I can too.

What would Jane say?

‘Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth.’ Pride & Prejudice. 

See, even Jane knew it was all in the genes.

SORRY. NO, NOT SORRY.

I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman – no matter how beautiful, intelligent or capable she is – who did not lack confidence in herself in one way or another. At work, or as a mother, or when she asked for help, when she was in a competition, when she spoke out about an injustice, when she had to deal with confrontation, when she exhibited something she created, when she started aging or when she simply asked to be loved back. Not to mention every woman who contemplates getting into a swimming costume again for the first time after the winter break. 

We are masters of self-deprecation. Personally, I have it down to a fine art. Self-deprecation is one of my very few talents. However, I have a theory that we evolved this way as a self-preservation technique. It keeps us in good faith with our fellow tribeswomen. Women have always needed other women to watch their backs and be on their side. So maybe we self-deprecate because we want other women to like us.

Let’s face it, we still don’t like a woman who is overly confident. I read an interview with a famous supermodel once, who explained how she simply didn’t see herself the way the rest of the world did. She still felt like that gawky teenager at times. She hated her knees and thought her teeth were too big. I liked her much more after reading that. If she had said something like, ‘Yeah, I know I’m gorgeous’, I would have instantly hated her.

Years ago I worked in the most boring office in the world. It was dull, lifeless and a complete dead-end. A very pretty, lovely and friendly twenty-something came to work there, and she was like a fresh breeze blowing into the place. She was gorgeous in every way. A married man in his late 50s also worked at this office and he was extremely not-gorgeous. I’m not being cruel. It was simply a fact, and it would have been impossible for him not to realise how unattractive he was, just like it would be impossible for him not to realise he had brown eyes. Anyway, one day I bumped into the new girl at the photocopier and she seemed a little upset. We got talking, and she told me something that to this day, I have never been able to comprehend. The unattractive man had just propositioned her. He had said she had been flirting with him for weeks, and it was time to do something about this ‘sexual tension’ between them.

Switch the gender roles and I don’t believe there is a woman on earth who would have that amount of confidence in herself to even contemplate such a fantasy.

TIDBIT:  Did you see the fantastic Pantene advertisement showing various women talking in different situations who constantly used the word ‘sorry’. There were two versions of the ad, and in the second version they used the same woman and the same script, however they removed the word ‘sorry.’ It was a powerful message about women and how we constantly apologise for no valid reason. In the second version, the women all appeared stronger and more self-confident. At the risk of admitting that a mainstream advertising campaign worked on me, it did.  Every time I begin a sentence with ‘sorry’ now, I think about how I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe one day I’ll stop it.

What would Jane say?  

‘Where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?’  

I simply love this quote although it does nothing to relieve me of my constant inner voice that is telling me I may perhaps be wrong.

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, AND NOT PROUD

I have realised that I no longer live in a democracy.  

Recent surveys show that 75% of Australians believe the Same Sex Marriage Bill should be passed in Parliament. In other words, the majority of Australians believe the law should be changed in order to recognise that ‘marriage’ is not only between a woman and a man. Whether they condone same-sex relationships or not, most Australians recognise that equality should be the basis of law.

Twenty other countries, including some that are classed as developing, have passed laws recognising a marriage between same-sex couples. Australia has not. The leader of the Australian Labor Party finally introduced the Bill in parliament earlier this month. It will be voted on later this year. I find this ridiculous and shameful, and I am still not very hopeful that it will be passed. But should I really be surprised?

In NSW in Australia right up until last year, you could actually use the ‘Gay Panic’ or ‘Homosexual Advance Defence’ for a murder charge. This primitive, crazy law could be used if a defendant found the advances of a homosexual person so offensive and frightening that it brought on a psychotic state characterised by unusual violence. You could actually have your murder charge downgraded to manslaughter simply by claiming an unwelcome, non-violent sexual advance from a person of the same sex. Yes, that is for real. It was changed in 2014. Some other States in Australia and most in the US have not abolished the use of this defence.

I’m fully aware that I sound like a whinger, but as an Australian it is my right.  We are supposed to be the lucky country, yet lately, I can’t help but be embarrassed to be an Australian. It’s not supposed to be like this, and I am ashamed.

Aussie Aussie Aussie…Boo Boo Boo!

TIDBIT:  I was thinking the other day how pleasant I would find the world if I could speak to people the way I speak to my children. To the policeman who booked me that day, I would point my finger at him and say, ‘Now, go back to your car, sit there for 10 minutes and think about what you just did’. To the person who cut me off at the roundabout, I would shout ‘Come back here and say SORRY like you MEAN it’. To anybody that ‘close-talks’ to me, ‘Back off. Do you want a slap?’

To our Prime Minster, ‘I’m starting at 1, if I get to 3, you are going to sit in that corner until I am ready for you to come out’.  

What would Jane say?  ‘I am afraid…that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety’. Maybe not, but I think the pleasantness of telling it like it is, is very satisfying.

FREE RANGING

I was reading an article recently about Free-Range Parenting. I am not a free-range parent, but I love hearing about what other people think is acceptable parenting versus irresponsible parenting.

 

Have you noticed how the world is full of people who are experts on other people’s children? Even the unborn ones.

As the name suggests, a free-range parent gives their children a lot of freedom. I’m not talking about letting your kid decide what they want for breakfast. I’m talking about letting your nine-year-old catch the New York subway on their own or dropping off your young children at a local park to find their own way home alone when they are ready. Free-range parents are concerned that if we do not foster enough independence in our children, we take away the opportunity for them to learn important life skills like the ability to assess danger and risk. Which is certainly a pretty important thing to take into adulthood. They also believe by overprotecting your children, you rob them of the opportunity to develop their unique sense of self-possession and autonomy.

I would like to experience the peace of mind that allows this type of parenting. Instead, I think I identify more with A Worrying Parent. I once heard a mother describe having children is like breaking off little pieces of your heart, turning them into tiny boats and launching them out to sea, entrusting the currents and tides to get them to safe ground. It sounds a little dramatic, but isn’t parenting one long melodrama? It’s heartbreaking and wonderful, but at the same time feels a bit like being in a constant state of mild panic. 

It’s those ‘currents and tides’ that concern me. Those things that are out of my control. So I don’t think I’m ever going to be a free-range parent. I’m not alone in this. A recent Deakin University study suggests 51% of parents of 10-12-year-old Australian children do not let them walk to school alone. 

However, I suspect the free-range parents make a very good point. Are we protecting our children too much? Is the risk of abduction or being hit by a car so high that it is far outweighing our own common sense? If we don’t let them roam free, are they growing into dependent little sissies without any resilience? Where is their challenge? My children are never going to have to wind a window up in a car, get off the couch to change the channel or go to the library to look something up, let alone experience the wonderful freedom. Like wandering around in the bush for the day, completely alone, like their father did.

Yet if you want to free-range your children, watch out. There is a case in the US involving a couple who let their children (aged 10 and 6) walk to the local park and back home (only 1.6 km away). They have been charged with unsubstantiated child neglect. Only in America? There was an instance in an Australian city recently where the Police approached a 10-year-old girl waiting to catch the bus home after her piano lesson. They followed the bus and then reprimanded her mother, who greeted her when she got off. The Police warned the mother she should not let her 10-year-old daughter catch the city bus alone, as they themselves would never let their child do it. The mother, fearing being labelled an irresponsible parent, accompanied her daughter from then on. A Father from Manly in Sydney let his 7-year-old walk to the local shop 400 m away from home on a familiar route. The Police brought his son home and lectured the father on his irresponsibility and advised him they would file a report on him for being a neglectful parent. There is currently no law relating to leaving your school-age children alone in the house, or alone on the streets - but is Australia one step away from this? It doesn't surprise me when my South Africa husband calls Australia The Nanny State.

Is the world really that different now than it was when we were growing up? 

I grew up in the Sydney suburbs in the 1980s. I was allowed to roam free from around the age of ten. My parents gave me some strict street rules to adhere to, and as long as I stayed within certain boundaries, didn’t speak to anyone I didn’t know and didn’t go into anyone’s house, I was allowed to wander around the neighbourhood by myself. I used to ride down to the local shop on a busy road, alone. I also got off the school bus and walked home from the bus stop, alone. I came out of that relatively unscathed.

I remember there was a ‘safety house’ in my street that I walked past on my way home. It made me feel at ease knowing it was there. The Safety House Scheme began in NSW in the 80s and was introduced by Police as part of a stranger danger initiative. If you were approached by someone, not to worry, you could always run into a Safety House and you’d be fine! This scheme has since been abandoned. Perhaps kids were safer out on the street than they were in some of those homes?

Anyway, I think there are probably the same amount of people around who do bad things to children as there always was and the majority of the time it’s not the strangers that you need to be wary of, but the people right under your nose. 

TIDBIT: I am very impressed with my sister-in-law who jumped out of the safety of the car recently while inside a game reserve in Africa. Nature called and she had to do what she had to do. As anyone who has travelled for more than an hour with me knows, I have done a lot of ‘bushies’ in my life. I never had the guts to do this in a place where there were lions though. It did remind me of a time when I had to go for one while travelling along the motorway in England. Actually, since there is no bush in England it’s probably not called ‘a bushie’ is it?  A ‘thicketie’ perhaps? Anyway, the thing about England is that there is that horrible stinging nettle everywhere and unbeknown to me it grows a lot by the side of the motorway. That is all I will say about that.   

What would Jane say?

‘I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.’  

Yes Jane, and some of us want to roam like lionesses!

GROOVY KIND OF LOVE

Growing people is the best job in the world. I don’t want to be one of those mothers, though. The type, who talk about their children all the time and nothing else. While I could happily do this, I am aware that everyone else isn’t that interested in my kids. But I feel a bit mushy today so let me just get this out and I promise not to mention it again.

I love being a mother. 

I love the way my baby rubs her snotty face all over mine when she is tired.

I love that when my son sneaks into our bed, he thinks we don’t know he’s there.

I love that sometimes I miss my son when he goes back to school after the holidays.

I love remembering the look of absolute wonder and confusion on my kids’ faces when they first did a poo in the toilet.

I love that when I sing out of tune to my babies, they still smile at me like I am the best singer in the world.

I love that my son’s favourite toys are a stick and a pair of kitchen tongs.

I love that my kids are playing with the same Star Wars toys that my brother and I played with over 30 years ago.

I love that my baby girl farts twice as much as her brother did.

I love that my 3-year-old knows more about dinosaurs and sea reptiles than most adults.

I love remembering how my baby son’s smiley face would make complete strangers smile when I carried him around.

I love that when she wakes in the morning, my baby girl smiles at me and has done so every single morning of her little life.

I love that, although my kids are always the loudest wherever we go, they are always the ones having the most fun.

That’s all I wanted to say about that.

TIDBIT:  One day I was at the supermarket in the ‘Ladies Hygiene' section. There was an elderly man standing in front of the sanitary pads. He pulled out a plastic wrapper from his pocket. It was from a pack of pads, and he had brought it from home to make sure he got exactly the right ones for his wife. Forget flowers, chocolates and Facebook declarations. All of that is bullshit. When I think of that elderly man, I think … This is love.

What would Jane say?

Surely one of the most beautiful, powerful speeches ever made by a man in love. And no, Mr Darcy did not say it.

‘You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that a man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.'

I AM A MOVIE SNOB

Being the parents of young children, my husband and I don’t get out much. So, we stay in and watch movies. A lot.

I enforce a ten-minute rule. If I don’t like the movie within ten minutes, I turn it off. He calls me a ‘Movie Snob’, but if I am going to spend two hours of my precious time watching a movie, it has to be good enough. 

I hate movie clichés, of which there are many. I have made a list of the ones that annoy me the most.

MY MOVIE CLICHÉS THAT DO NOT PASS THE TEN-MINUTE RULE:

1. Dancing Around the Kitchen. Movie Moment = Mermaids.  Who actually does this in real life? If any of my family or friends did this I would film them and show them later how ridiculous they look.
2. The Montage. Movie Moment = Sleeping With The Enemy. The ‘Montage’ appears in every rom-com ever made. The one in this movie is absolutely the worst montage ever produced. You know the scene. Julia Roberts, on stage, ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ playing, she gets dressed up in endless outfits laughing hysterically at nothing in particular, as only Julia can.
3. The Well-Meaning Best Friend. Movie Moment = Sliding Doors. This person is never as good-looking as the leading lady/man. The ‘Best Friend’ does not have much of a purpose other than to be a funny sidekick who will take a bullet for the main character, despite how badly the main character treats them. The ‘Best Friend’ often has a lovely, chirpy Irish accent.
4. Big, Beautiful Homes in Tree-Lined Streets. Movie Moment = all Hollywood movies. Even people who work as waitresses or barmen have funky, cool apartments or loft conversions. People who have never even lived in New York know this is impossible.
5. The Eclectic, Funny Group of Friends Who Appear From Nowhere. Movie Moment = Notting Hill. They are just a bunch of idiots, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love them.
6. The Annoying Kid(s). Movie Moment = Love Actually. This kid is usually on a quest of some kind and he/she is more eloquent than any child who has ever lived.
7. The Hollywood Ending (yes, smarty, sometimes I can tell how a movie will end in the first ten minutes). Movie Moment = Silver Linings Playbook. Mental illness wrapped up in a nice little Hollywood package.
8. The Chase. (Usually involving all of The Eclectic Funny Friends mentioned in point 5.) Movie Moment = Notting Hill again, of course. Maybe I'm a bad friend, but I wouldn't drive all over the city like a maniac for anyone, no matter how much you're in love.
9. The Music Cue. Movie Moment = all rom-coms. Cue sad music when there is a sad scene. Cue happy music when there is a happy scene, just in case you weren’t sure what to feel at any moment due to the bad acting.
10. The Lack of Subtlety. Movie Moment = Sleeping With The Enemy, again. I hate it when they insult my intelligence. There is a scene in this movie when the abusive husband is looking for a clue to find out where his wife has escaped. He pulls out a box. Written on the box is something like, “Sarah’s Personel Effects”. JUST IN CASE YOU WEREN’T SURE THAT IT CONTAINS HER PERSONAL STUFF!

TIDBIT:  I wish I had the courage to let my hair go fully grey. I’m certain the amount of money and time I have spent on covering my grey hair could be put to a much better cause. 

What would Jane say? 

‘Pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked’ . 

Me too Jane, me too!  

GOOD ENOUGH MOTHER?

There have been a lot of those emails and Facebook posts lately about 'How you know you are a mother of boys' or 'You know when you are a mother when' blah blah blah.  I find them amusing, so I thought I would compile a little list of my own, courtesy of things I have done myself, and have seen others doing.

So....it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman who does any of the following things must be a mother of small children:

1.  Wipes her daughter's snotty nose with the tracksuit pants her son just did a wee in.
2.  Has a tantrum and throws a toy and breaks it, in front of her children.
3.  Does the 'poo check' while driving down the motorway by sticking a finger in the nappy, and then finds there is a finger covered in runny poo when it is retrieved.
4.  Pretended she did not see the child smash the toy because she just cannot handle the tantrum that will follow if she reprimands as she should, and she also knows she did the same thing an hour ago with the can opener.
5. Walked swiftly away from her children and pretended they weren't hers, leaving them with her partner/wife/husband because she is embarrassed by their behaviour.
6. Told her son the police officer was a 'bad guy' because he pulled Mummy over and booked her for going through a stop sign near school.
7.  Asked her elderly father to take out his teeth and show his toothless grin to her children saying, 'Now this is what will happen to you if you that fourth biscuit'.
8.  Picked ear wax out of her baby's ear with a fingernail and wiped it on her jeans. Ditto for a bit of snot.
9.  Pulled the covers back and let the sun dry out the wet sheets on the bed because she could not be bothered washing the sheets AGAIN.

And finally ...
10.  Has a serious discussion at the dinner table about what Darth Vader's farts might really sound like.

TIDBIT: While waiting at the Doctor's this morning, my mother and I discovered an interesting bit of trivia. Lord Nelson was the only British Admiral to have sight in only one eye. My mother, showing she still has her brilliant wit, remarked beautifully; 
'He was the only Seaman who could say "aye". All the others had to say "aye-aye"'.

What would Jane say? 

I suspect Jane had a little thing for men in uniform because many of her female characters are attracted to them 

'The Streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers...She saw all the glories of the camp; it's tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once'.  

Lydia Bennett, you were always going to get yourself into trouble with that attitude!

JERRY YOU'RE NOT A SIZE 31 ANYMORE

Today I bought some new underwear and I’m a bit upset because I went up a size thinking they might be a bit baggy… but they fit me perfectly. My arse is much bigger than a year ago. I blame it on the breastfeeding. I am envious of those women who say whenever they breastfeed it is like stepping on the treadmill because ‘the weight just falls right off me’. Just. Shut. Up. As my son likes to say, ‘poo-bum’ to you. Not me. I have accepted the fact that it is near impossible for me to lose the baby weight while breastfeeding because I am constantly hungry. I eat, therefore I am… there is no end to my appetite for carbs.

My underwear incident reminds me of that Seinfeld episode when Jerry cannot accept that he has gone up a jean size after being size 31 for years. He changes the size on his Levis from 32 to 31 with a sharpie. Oh, the vanity, Jerry, the vanity! I am going the opposite way and celebrating the fact that I was not stubborn or vain as I have been previously where I have bought the smaller size undies and worn them even though they gave me a serious VPL and made me very uncomfortable. Maybe because I have turned 40 and I am older and wiser, and can finally accept my post-baby body because I am too busy being a mum/wife/daughter and don’t have the time or energy to jump on the treadmill currently sitting in the garage gathering dust.

TIDBIT: I love watching QI. I think I would have Stephen Fry as my other guest (besides Jane) sitting next to me at a dinner party of famous people of my choosing. The other night they were discussing Nanny goats and why they are named as such. No, not the stay hairs that appear on your chin! The real goats. Nanny Goats were used to feed abandoned babies in foundling hospitals in Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries. They would lead a goat to a babe’s crib and the goat would stand over it so the baby could suckle. Once established which baby was theirs, a nanny goat would return to the same baby to feed it and refuse to feed any other baby. Quite interesting indeed!

What would Jane say? Probably nothing complimentary regarding this subject. Our Jane sadly did not care very much for children: Regarding a will, ‘The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise…’.  

Jane, you would not last an hour in my house!