Day in the Life of a Sydney Stay at Home Mum

Even in winter we're at the beach

OK, so while I wait for the Institute of Teachers to approve my teacher status, I am wiling away the hours at home with my little one. It's a sweet reminder of what the first year of her life was like, and now that she's just turned two, a hell of a lot more fun. It's also a welcome reprieve from what was a hellish year of huge challenges and changes as I trained as a teacher. I am now done! And I have a long hot happy summer stretched out before me.

Peppermint Vagina

Cup of tea anyone? How would you like it served? In your vagina?

I don’t think I’ve ever Googled something so much or worried about my vagina so much as when I suffered a Bartholin cyst, a mysterious little, or big, swelling on the Bartholin glands. 

Overnight I became an expert on these little glands on both sides of my vagina.

Several weeks later I woke up in a pool of my own blood with a sore vagina after an operation on my infected cyst called marsupialisation.

I experienced a lot of pain and annoyance from this episode, as you'd expect from gynecological surgery, alleviated only mildly by a box of oxycontin from my doctor mum (thanks to my gyne for the box of Panadeine Forte but I think I'll take Endone instead.) The bottom line though, is a cure I want to share that I inadvertently discovered. 

Teabags.

Four months after the operation, I was still experiencing pain and regular eruptions of inflamed glands, probably due to the stress of work and study while parenting. They completely stopped and healed almost magically after I applied a hot, wet, plain old teabag.

Another several hours on Google bought up scores of cures, and this was first on my list, just before turmeric paste and milk soaked bread. It actually worked. I placed three teabags over a day inside the vagina, and by the next day the infected cysts had ejected the gunk inside and were soothed and normal looking. I couldn't believe it. This apparently also works for boils. If I had a boil I would apply disinfectant and boiling water, but I tired of doing this on my poor vagina. I'm so glad to have found a very easy and accessible cure.

So any of my readers who may suffer from blocked Bartholin's cysts - about 2-5 per cent of women - please do try teabags. Lady Grey is my natural choice, with high notes of bergamot and citrus, but ginger and lemon worked well as well. Just don’t add milk and honey.

Fifty Shades of Nothing

Where's a real bondage queen when you need one?

Besides the silliness of the plot and the shocking writing, this bestselling book is doing a great disservice to authentic BDSM communities, to bona fide Christians who would hate to meet someone like Ana, and to writers who can actually write erotica without resorting to cliche.

Why even bother? But yes I have to admit that before I slag it off, I have yet to read the most discarded book on earth. I will go to a hotel room to find a copy this week.

My daughter's child care worker has the full Anastasia meets Christian - (and-bites-her-lip-and-crosses-her-legs- and-wonders-if-her-hymen-may-tear-from-too-much-masturbation) set in her front room bookshelf and declared it the best thing she ever read. I think it may be the only thing she's ever read but that's not very nice of me to say.

Until I borrow it from her, the loveliest lady from a small village in Croatia, I am happy to make do with the slather of hilarious reviews on the book from amazon ("Did a teenager write this? 16,691 of 17,270 people found this helful"!! ha ha), and my favourite part of The Guardian, their digested read section. It really does save a lot of time and I do honestly doubt, from what I can surmise thus far, that I will be capable of reading more than a few pages before I toss the offensive item to the dust.

But who knows? Judgement shall be reserved as I do have a chequered literary past including, truth be told, trysts with Virginia Andrews, Marianna Keyes, The Sweet Valley High and Babysitters Club and other light chick lit. I may yet fall for some steamy clit lit, who knows? I'll keep you posted.

And the Zoe Williams of the Guardian, thank you:

That's what the pornographic slavering was about – not sex, but diamond bracelets, jet skis, hosiery, purest silks, smart day-to-night dresses, Power Macs and 19-bedroomed houses with glass walls. In the orgy of self-adornment that was meant to characterise her sexual discovery, along with the torrent of outlandish gift-giving that supposedly betokened the adoration in which she was held, Steele fixated on the stuff. Her only moral quandary was whether or not it made her a whore, or a "kept-woman", to accept an expensive gift. What a tangential, trivial consideration, set against the travesty of letting your sex drive be all but erased by your consumer impulses.

ps: Couldn't resist tearing a chuck off amazon for your amusement if you don't go to the link:

The main male character is a billionaire (not a millionaire but a billionaire) who speaks fluent French, is basically a concert level pianist, is a fully trained pilot, is athletic, drop dead gorgeous, tall, built perfectly with an enormous penis, and the best lover on the planet. In addition, he's not only self made but is using his money to combat world hunger. Oh yeah, and all of this at the ripe old age of 26! And on top of that, he's never working. Every second is spent having sex or texting and emailing the female character. His billions seem to have just come about by magic. It seriously feels like 2 teenage girls got together and decided to create their "dream man" and came up with Christian Grey.

Then come the sex scenes. The first one is tolerable but as she goes on, they become so unbelievable that it becomes more laughable than erotic. She orgasms at the drop of a hat. He says her name and she orgasms. He simply touches her and she orgasms. It seems that she's climaxing on every page.

Then there's the writing.

characters roll their eyes 41 times, Ana bites her lip 35 times, Christian's lips "quirk up" 16 times, Christian "cocks his head to one side" 17 times, characters "purse" their lips 15 times, and characters raise their eyebrows a whopping 50 times. Add to that 80 references to Ana's anthropomorphic "subconscious" (which also rolls its eyes and purses its lips, by the way), 58 references to Ana's "inner goddess," and 92 repetitions of Ana saying some form of "oh crap" 

the entire first-person narrative is filled with Britishisms. How many American college students do you know who talk about "prams," "ringing" someone on the phone, or choosing a "smart rucksack" to take "on holiday"? And the author's geography sounds like she put together a jigsaw puzzle of the Pacific Northwest while drunk and ended up with several pieces in the wrong place.

an awful lot of frowning for a woman who experiences "intense," "body-shattering," "delicious," "violent," "all-consuming," "turbulent," "agonizing" and "exhausting" orgasms on just about every page.

I am no literature snob. However, this book feels like it us on a 5th grade level made to seem better with a thesaurus. It's repetitive and just plain bad.

Next, the non-existent plot. Seriously, nothing happens. They meet, they have sex, they email each other, the have more sex, the bite lips, they have more sex, the end. Just plain boring.

Last, bad sex. "Down There?" are you kidding me? It's called a vagina. Grow up. This book most likely intrigues bored housewives and hormonal teenagers. If the author was aiming to give that demographic the tingles she most likely succeeded. However, a book that it 70% sex should at least be good sex.

While I was out...

Leopard print for the boy!!!!!!!

So I haven't posted anything for about two fat months but they have not been slow lazy sun and sex fuelled months, believe me.

While I was finishing the practicum placement of my teaching degree in Sydney, which involves me teaching four grades of pimply but rather hilarious teenagers for 80 days full time, ten hours weekly commute, $500pw in childcare and fuel bills, no income, student fees and tiresome hard to communicate with lecturers...the media simply did not let up on mothers and mothers kept on bitching about other mothers!

I felt exhausted just thinking of all the problems mothers are responsible for, including that my daughter turned up to childcare wearing wispy Balinese sundresses in the middle of winter because my husband said she wanted it, and that Sue on Puberty Blues had developed a drinking problem and a nasty habit of teenage sex.

The media was busily keeping tabs on the mothers of the world while I was swotting away. August and September saw Jessica Simpson pilloried for not shedding her baby weight in under six months, Kendra defend her by saying she was focused on her baby and couldn't run due to her large tits anyway, some unfamous British personal trainer given a tongue lashing for telling new mums to get a grip and stop getting so fat, and my favourite Kardashian, Khloe, start fertility treatment. Snooki also happily birthed a baby boy and showed him off in a bassinet replete with leopard print blankets. Awww...a must have for every guido baby.

The shock event of the month was when X grade celebrity Charlotte Dawson tried unsuccessfully to top herself after being urged to do so by several 4chan members on Twitter. I mean, this is someone who makes a living being nasty to vulnerable people, which may explain her fragility of self. A feature quite apparent in her shaky psych ward 60 Minutes interview. If 4chan told me to put my head in an oven I'd chide them for putting me in the same literary league as Sylvia Plath.

And even while I was up to my teeth in lesson plans on medieval Europe, Mussolini, women's lib and federation Australia, I still had time to start yet another novel, this time a fan fiction inspired by yet another sex fuelled debut novel, book several flights, organise my daughter's 2nd birthday party (that's an overstatement as there's nothing to organise, just a box of booze, some fairy bread and turn up at Sydney's Palm Beach next week) and read several interesting books to undermine my cultural values including Sex at Dawn, The Sex Starved Marriage, and Mating in Captivity. Darned good reads I will review shortly.

I have nothing of value to add at this late hour in the day. I think the media sums it up best by saying to mums: "if you can't cope with your kids, why did you have them in the first place? YOU made the lifestyle choice, YOU deal with it!!"

On that note, remind me to write something soon on private school mothers, and on darling Khloe and her imminent baby with Lamar, what a treat that child will be, and so dearly awaited.

Don't Blame Mum

The last dress she ever wore

Another baby has died at the hands of her mother, the very person who is supposed to champion her rights above all else.

Why this keeps happening is anyone's guess, but it is an enduring feature of humankind, and our friends in the animal kingdom, that babies die, sometimes often, and often at the hands of their mum or dad.

The biggest cause in modern Australia is depression. The self loathing some mothers feel when they 'fail' to breastfeed or settle their babies is all consuming. The effects of sleep deprivation, a popular and very successful torture technique, combined with clinical depression can be toxic. I do not want to demonise mothers with depression or even try to imagine the horrific combination of factors that could push you over the edge.

What I want to do is mourn the loss of this little child's life, just a baby girl starting her life. Eighteen months is the most adorable age, when grandmothers come up to your little one in the street and say My Goodness, I just wish they'd stay like this forever! Their eyes sparkle with mischief, their little cheeks dimple and their fat rolls are irresistible as they skip ahead of you, tiny versions of their future selves.

This little eighteen month old was deliberately left by her mother to drown in the one place most toddlers adore, the bath. The image of her scrabbling for air, trying to get out, screaming and finally choking in the bathwater is deeply upsetting. She died alone in her own home. After her death, her little body was dressed in a christening gown and she lay next to her suicidal mother for two days before someone found them, or missed them.

It is this image that speaks to the core of what I am constantly concerned about: the isolation of mothers in our harried society and its lack of support for new mums. If they feel like there aren't a lot of options out there, it's because there honestly isn't.

Baby health centres, playgroups, local libraries, modern hospitals and highly regulated childcare centres are wonderful but many of them could be more accessible to mothers. For my baby's first six weeks, for example, I couldn't walk or drive to the shops so couldn't access my baby health nurse. She was also solidly booked weeks in advance. So I didn't find out my baby was losing weight steadily for two months until she ended up in emergency. Some of the reason she lost weight was my low milk supply, something I wasn't given information about because I did not have any lactation support. The complex list goes on.

Our one playgroup is 30 minutes away. There are no support groups, meals or anything to help a new mum without mobility, unlike the elderly. A lot of what is on offer is expensive. And many in our generation can forget about grandparents: our parents tend to be more interested in their next promotion or trip to Europe than their new grandchild.

It's not just lack of governmental and civic support for mums, it's also our cultural expectations on mums and our opinion that bearing children is a lifestyle choice, like being gay (ha ha ha), choosing solar or driving a BMW. We don't berate car accident victims that they shouldn't have bought a car. We don't even tell lung cancer victims they shouldn't have smoked, or diabetes sufferers they should lay off the sweets. So why we tell mothers they shouldn't have chosen to have children when they hit a rough patch is beyond me.

I think it's the old Women are to Blame acorn. Blame the ladies for men's collective inability to retain self control. Blame the rape victim's dress for the crime. Blame the mother who kills her baby for her isolation and untreated depression. "You chose to have kids, didn't you?" is the one thing most mothers really do not want to hear when they are in trouble.

Not to mention the glaring fact that about half of all babies are unplanned (for more, see contraception failure or heterosexual couples having spontaneous sex) so were not actually conscious decisions or choices. And of the babies that were planned, not all of their parents carefully planned on having a child with autism, with projectile vomiting that lasts for 3 months, who screams ten hours straight every day. No. Not many parents happily make a choice to sign up for that! It's a miracle more babies actually survive babyhood considering the raft of pressures on their new parents, and a glowing reflection on the stamina of parents that more are not relinquished to state care. 

So let's think carefully on what we're expecting of new parents and consider how we might as a society offer more support and relief to new parents and activities for young children.

Sex at Dawn in Australia

The myth of monogamy?
Try the myth of primary care!

Apologies to anyone who thought this post would be about pre-coffee coitus. It actually touches on the brilliant bestselling book Sex at Dawn which puts to rest once and for all the myth of monogamy, and how this premise fits in with the Australian cultural context...and its denigration of mothers who work.

So let us define our Australian cultural context. We have an increasingly matriarchal society, where women and men enjoy sex freely from puberty. Serial monogamy is still the standard, contrary to what Sex at Dawn explains is against our nature, but we have quite a few features of a matriarchal society.

Many individuals of both genders are free to pursue multiple partners without fear of legal consequences or social censure. When a couple, hetero or homo sexual, decide to live together they often move to the female's home. And women in Australia are generally strong, bossy and all too quick to put in their $6 worth. Most husbands in Australia will agree their wife has the final say.

Sexual jealousy and male aggression similar to chimp societies are, however, so much a key feature of Australian culture that is would be folly to suggest Australians are becoming matriarchal. An examination of these aspects as well as our sordid recent past of female convicts, institutionalised rape and floating brothels, and our current reality of unfavourable rights for working women, expensive childcare and the persistent gender pay gap will render any claim to matriarchy null and void. Australia is far too diverse to impose one social context, so what I am really referring to is modern Sydney.

Here we see women flaunting their sexuality with abandon, free to pursue as many sexual trysts as desired. Just watch The Shire, visit a beach or peep into a nightclub and you'll see women of every age and persuasion available for free. And happy about it.

I would go as far to suggest that the myth of monogamy can be held up to another biting parallel: the myth of the primary caregiver. Women are forced to read study after study showing that children under three thrive under the care of only one primary caregiver. Try telling that to the billion of infants who thrived in the village!

The idea of being a primary caregiver, while flattering, is simply outdated. So How Not to F--k Them Up and all those other books can go back to their studies and start looking at incorporating some of the multiple realities of post modernism, one being that a father or mother may easily hand the baby over to a close relative or paid mercenary (this is my only option, thank you to my government subsidised day carer) and baby will NOT SUFFER.

Not only is this true, but this is how almost every generation have been raised: not by one person, typically an isolated female living in the burbs, but by a collective.We have plenty of modern, successful examples of happy infants in kindergarten and childcare in Scandinavia, in addition to millennia of farming and pre-agricultural gatherer communities raising children together, to prove that infants don't suffer if mummy works.

So let's just admit child rearing is about multiplicities and stop making rude comments (to me) at the shops or writing mean spirited newspaper articles that unless I stay home with my infant she will end up disabled. She's doing great and if she were to contract permanent emotional damage, it will be due to my emotional blackmail of her as a teenager, not her happy early days with her carer in the garden because mummy was working.

Ban The Burqua? Part 1

Friendly faces

After laughing my way through a new documentary “Dumb, Drunk andRacist” on what Indians really think about Australians (a topic for another day), I had to think.

Who really cares about the burqua, besides that slightly confused middle aged gentleman driving his “Ban The Burqua” van?

In just one week I have seen several hours of Australian TV dedicated to the issue of the burqua, including Channel 7’s “Sunday Night” current affairs program. I don’t know how they found these women. Muslims make up four per cent of Australians, and anyone wearing the burqua is far less than half of all women - in other words, well under one per cent of Australians.

I personally do not give a toss if someone wants to wear nothing at all, or a tablecloth on their head. Certain times in your life you feel vulnerable. When I was a teenager I was covered in acne scars so I wore a tea towel over my head. Or before major facial recontruction surgery, you might want to cover up.

Who cares, does the face really matter so much? The answer no, not if you don’t want to show it.

The burqua is not a security issue. If you need to show your face like everyone else to police or border control, show your face. This means removing your glasses, hoodie, helmet, scarves or balaclavas. If you don’t want to, don’t leave your house.

The only instance I could see myself caring about a burqua would be if I sent my child to school and her teacher wore a full face cover - I would wonder at my daughter’s language development given that forward facing prams and the poor Mr McLaren are being blamed for a plunge in language skills internationally! 

I do think kids of women who cover their face would suffer language impediments, although to be fair they see their mum at home uncovered so they must actually think, what is wrong with my mum's face that she covers it in public? I wonder really what their kids think. They probably don’t give it a passing thought, as long as dinner's on the table, the Nintendo console is loaded up and someone’s tucking them into bed.

There are clearly workplace policies and certain occupations that require a definite clear stance on the burqua. This is what the law defines as a “genuine occupational requirement”. I would suggest burquas are impractical for occupations where the face needs to be seen and where a huge cloth and lack of peripheral vision might cause a safety issues, such as teachers and some medical positions and trades.

To Be continued...