A relative brought my sister a parenting book.
My sister does not believe in parenting books.
The book is divided into two sections -- how to bring up boy babies and how to bring up girl babies. For example, boy babies cry less than girl babies, presumably because they are all tough and manly (no one has told my nephew this though).
My sister does not believe in gender typing.
There is much ranting.
I am not happy with this relative either.
Back when women didn't let a posh 'do' get in the way of doing a bit of gardening.
As you’ve probably gathered, recent family events (of the variety not to be detailed on a public blog) have meant that I’m currently much more involved in the care of my nine month old nephew than I ever anticipated would be the case.
Being as I have no experience of babies and have never had any desire to have such experience, this has been an adjustment.
Any illusions I might have had about my auntie role being all fun and games were finally dissolved yesterday night at 10pm after a day which included two serious nappy incidents (complete with leakages of poo all over clean clothes), one vomiting incident (warranting another change of clothes) and three full scale tantrums. My nephew has severe eczema which makes his life uncomfortable and right now he’s teething on top of it, which means that nappy rash and diarrhoea have been added to the mix. Last night I was sitting with him in the play pen so my sister could get something to eat while he screamed in rage and I suddenly thought “What am I doing in the play pen?” Actually my sister said she was never going to get a play pen because they are “cruel” to which I now respond “Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Have you seen how fast babies can move? It’s frightening.
But, considering his health problems, I think he’s an amazingly cheerful baby. Yesterday was just a particularly bad day.
Living with a baby is a unique experience because there’s no other situation in which you have someone who thinks you’re totally amazing for pulling faces and singing very silly songs. Right now my nephew thinks I am unbelievably awesome and I can put him in ecstasies simply by helping him to stand up or playing a hiding game. I wouldn’t have thought anything could make me drop down on the floor, hide behind a chair and pop my head over the top repeatedly, but when someone screams in delight whenever you do it, it does become rather gratifying. Watching him develop is also rather amazing. In the last couple of weeks we have had crawling, pointing, clapping and, today, waving. His favourite activities include eating, trying to stand up and anything that involves music. His favourite tunes are Frère Jacques, Baa Baa Black Sheep, and the William Tell overture by Rossini. He also likes Abba and I started him on 1960s pop music today in a (no doubt futile) effort to develop good taste. I do treasure these times because I’m sure that when he’s 14 and I’m his embarrassing lesbian-feminist aunt, our relationship will be a lot more complex, although possibly not less rewarding for it.
Really, my job at the moment is to look after my sister so she can look after the baby. The whole situation does play into my almost pathological need to look after people. I get to cook a lot, which is fun for me. I love cooking, but I’m not a huge eater myself, so it’s nice. (One day, I would quite like to live in a big rambling house in a community of friends who come and go as they need. The house will have a large warm kitchen and I’ll always be baking bread). But my sister is so distracted; I try and remember to do the little things that sometimes escape her, like putting his teething rings in the fridge to chill, buying ingredients to make fresh baby food, remembering to take baby food out of the freezer to defrost, getting the washing dry etc. So much to think about.
The situation does have its psychological dangers for me. As long as I can remember, I’ve been the responsible one, the one who takes on the worries, keeps things ticking over as well as possible, tries to look after everyone and sort things out for them. My parents are putting in a ton of support, but it's still very, very easy for me to fall back into this role. The result is that while I appear super efficient and capable on the surface, I’m smoking in the back garden and putting down far too many bottles of red wine. There has already been one dalliance with Dr Nicotine in the last two weeks so I’m keeping an eye on it.
But I’m very glad to say, I learned a long time ago never to get complacent or inflexible because you just never know what life is going to throw at you.
If you let the baby play with the phone, he will call somebody.
This morning my sister came in and said "I think I've got wee in my hair."
I then spent the next 5 minutes sniffing her hair saying "No, no, can't smell any wee there. I'll try the other side. Nope you're ok."
What have we come to?
Ok, my nephew is nearly nine months old and I see a lot of him, so why did nobody bother to inform me that babies have a HOLE at the top of their heads? Why did people leave me to discover this for myself while playing with him? If you don't know that a freakin HOLE in the kid's head is a natural phenomenon, finding one there is pretty fucking scary. I mean, what do I know about babies? I've only ever looked after my nephew. Apparently it's called a 'fontanelle,' which is a deceptively pretty word for something totally gross.
"Orrible isn't it?" said my sister "When he gets stressed it swells up and pulsates."
Courtesy of Finn's Girl.
The main characters
Butch lesbian doctor who runs an abortion clinic, wears a leather jacket and rides a motor bike.
Lesbian abortion doctor’s late partner who was also a lesbian abortion doctor and died of breast cancer
Their bratty daughter
Her (possible) sperm donor father
Tough but understanding black lesbian cop who takes care of everybody
Another lesbian abortion doctor
Bratty daughter’s sensitive straight male friend who has evol fundamentalist Christian parents
The plot features
Murderous pro-life protestors (who don’t notice the contradiction in their position)
Driven Lesbian abortion doctor refusing to give up the clinic because it was her partner’s life's work, despite attempts on her own life and her daughter’s not unreasonable fear of getting killed
Bratty daughter acting out, feeling like a “freak,” shoplifting from local gay book shops and stealing her remaining mom’s dope
Black lesbian cop trying to shake some sense into everyone
Sensitive, wise beyond his years, male friend informing bratty daughter that one lefty feminist mom is much better than two evol Christian fundamentalist parents who want to send you to boarding school the first chance they get
And, because this film goes beyond the call of radical lesbian-feminist duty, a plot twist involving PARTHENOGENESIS.
Some of my favourite lines (paraphrased)
Sperm donor to lesbian doctor: “She was your WIFE!” (I really hope the novelty of this kind of dialogue wears off soon).
Lesbian cop: “Isn’t the butch femme thing a little passé?”
Lesbian doctor: “I’m just sick of the way the male medical establishment has fucked women over.”
Lesbian cop: "I saw your partner speak at a rally once." (trans. you are in serious radical feminist film territory now baby)
And the classic lesbian break up line: “I don’t have to deal with this shit!” (because you don't)
At one point, I think one of the lesbians behind us was actually crying, I hope not because she was overwhelmed by seeing our lives so accurately represented.
But, I really don’t want to put you off seeing this movie. For a film based almost entirely on lesbian clichés and stereotypes, in which the radical feminist agenda does get just a tiny bit in the way of the art, the plot doesn’t make sense and there are far too many threads left unresolved at the end, I found it marvellously entertaining. If it had been made in 1977 it would have been a classic and could now form the basis for a pretty good lesbian drinking game. Also in its favour, the two main actresses are hot and do look like real-life lesbians, which is huge boon in these post L-Word days.
When the lights went up my friend said “I really can’t decide if that was bad or good.” I think I’m going to go with “both.”
Last night after a couple of beers, a friend and I decided to write our ‘Things to do before we’re 40” lists.
I went first: “Let’s see, I want to have a buzz cut and bleach my hair blonde because I’ve never done that and I want to get another tattoo, maybe two more tattoos. And I want to have sex outside in the open air. Put all that down to do before I’m 35. I need to learn to drive. I really want to visit New Zealand. I’d like to do a course in filmmaking, not sure if I’ll ever make a film, but I want to know how it’s done. Oh, and publish an academic book.”
My friend looked at me, her mouth slightly agape, “You do realise” she said, “That mine are going to be things like settle down, have a nice house, get married and have kids?”
It was one of those moments that makes me fear I have the emotional maturity of a 14 year old boy.
Last night I thought about posting Munch’s Scream simply with the title ‘I’m Going Bra Shopping Tomorrow.’ Then I thought ‘No, why be so negative when it might be fine.’ After all, I haven’t been fitted for a while and there seem to be a wider range a bra shops around these days which are probably better stocked with different sizes.
I’ve been aware that I’m wearing the wrong size for some time now, but have put off getting fitted because a. large bras in unusual sizes are extremely expensive and b. I don’t really want to think about how big my breasts are relative to the rest of me. I feel completely out of proportion as it is. Still, I set out in a fairly positive frame of mind, deciding to welcome new bras into my life.
I started at the Triumph International shop ('For the way you are!'). A friendly woman ushered me into the fitting room with a big smile which made me feel reassured. But her smile and my sense of reassurance faltered when she actually measured me and mentioned a size that sounded truly jaw dropping. “Hmm” she said “I’m not sure we have many bras in that size but we’ll try a few.” Now this is a shop that specialises in bras. She came back with a couple that weren’t even close, told me I had no chance of finding a sports bra there, recommended I try Bravissimo and made for a sharp exit.
I knew about Bravissimo, of course, but wanted to avoid them because they do almost exclusively under wired bras and I don’t like under wired bras. I was looking for a comfy every day bra and a sports bra. The shock of being too weirdly shaped for a bra shop called ‘Triumph’ sent me over there though. I attempted to warn the woman in the fitting rooms that it might be a difficult case. She didn’t seem at all perturbed, but as the bras piled up on the chair, she did start to get more serious. Eventually we found two that fitted to their standards. Neither of them were what I wanted. I wanted a plain seamless comfortable bra to wear with t-shirts and cotton shirts, and a sports bra so I can start working out again. Bravissimo had no such bras to fit me. All they could offer were two lacy under wired things. Even my hopes of being able to buy bras off more well-stocked internet shops have been somewhat dashed by the woman telling me my size is so unusual that I’ll probably just have to try on lots of bras until I find one that fits. The two that we did find are different sizes.
Almost in tears, I bought the frilly things because I was panicking about the possibility of never again finding bras to fit me, which basically means I’ve gone and bought two very expensive bras that don’t meet my current needs. It was just one of several experiences I've had recently which make me feel like retreating to wimmin's land..
Bogged down in marking and family crises.
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