As if I didn’t have enough to do, already.

I don’t seem to have much left anymore! I have too much!

TAFE is excellent, but I hate it too. I’m learning lots, I have some vaguely irritating tutors, but y skills are developing nicely. Unfortunately, since starting the course I have missed a few weeks due to surgery, complications requiring further surgery and then a hasty holiday followed by a sick baby who neede care at home.

I am almost 3 weeks behind. And by the time I get home from TAFE in the afternoons, cook dinner, get lunch stuff ready for the following day, its almost 8pm and I’m mentally toasted, which is not so good for the homework side of things, which is mountaining. Nor is it good for the housework side of things, also mountaining.

While off with a sick baby to care for I have tried to catch up on some of the written stuff, in between caring and cleaning. So really I have not had much chance to start and finish. And I’m so desperate to sew! Sew Desperate!!!!!
I have a list of things in my head, and also in my homework, that I need to work on, and I just can’t. It is driving me crazy. I’ve had to drop doing my once-monthly market stall for mousepocket cause I cannot commit to it now.

I have been considering putting tech on hold, but i’m almost halfway through the year (and certificate!) so it feels stupid, but I’m spread so thinly.

One great Other Thing has been a friend of mine announcing her wedding date (a measly 6 months and 3 days away!) and, like me 7 years ago, she has her ideal dress in mind and trouble finding it in stores. So we have a project! We have to source fabric (I love a textile challenge!) design the dress, have the pattern  and toille made (we could probably nut it out if we didn’t have children and we did have an extra year to keep fiddling with the fit), and then we may make it between us, or get a local lady to do it. Bridesmaids are sorted, and we also have to find fabric for flower girls (pastel pink silk with white polka dots).

This was all sparked because while away on my family holiday, I was given a few short hours in a  rather amazing fabric store, with a whole floor dedicated to buttons and millinery supplies.

*ernest nod*

uhuh. So, being the friend that I am, and knowing full well my Lady T had not even decided solidly to have a wedding this year, I sniffed around the vintage and antique millinery section. (this stuff can be hard to find, you take what you trip over!)
I discovered some seriously fab 1940’s silk velvet daisies, and some ecru millinery netting in mint condition, just thinking that they looked like Lady T (cheerful, out going, and with a certain something!)

I sent a text. “Have just found your little wedding veil supplies.” got a panicky response “Don’t go overboard! it might not happen!” sent back “If you don’t use them, I’ll make soemthing dinky for my own sweet curls.” never got a response.

I wondered if maybe I had jumped the gun, made her worry. They were not expensive, and I really would have used them myself.

On arriving home, a jittery Lady T came to catch up, and to tell me that I the 13 days since my text message she had booked a ceremony venue, paid for it, and was hot on the trail of reception venues, bands, cars and flowers.

Crikey! I love a good wedding, I love a good deadline! I’ve done a couple of cakes for people, lots of flowers, and tonnes of beading. Even invitation design. But not really a frock. I’m super excited to be a part of this one, especially during a time when I am already honing my design and pattern making capabilities. And its great working with brides who aren’t fussy, who have a broad vision and don’t mind a little creative pushing!

Oh yeah, and I turned 30! I love it, its really nice being here!

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I’ve been linked to by one of my preferred bloggers, bluemilk . And once again I find myself thinking and not being able to answer my own questions. So, please do it for me and then ask some other people as well?

I am often bemused and bewildered by feminism and motherhood , and while i am very keenly experienced in one and not well read on either, I suppose I form my own opinions from experience and common sense. A fundamental point seems to be that there will always be a basic conflict between mothers and fathers. Our brains are wired differently, that’s just how it is, and we notice different things and have different priorities. I saw a telly show recently which did some cortisol level readings in children’s brains and it showed the chemical was present in frightening amounts in the brains of children while being looked after by their fathers. Even the child of the eco-hippy-dad (who was just about the most at peace male I’ve seen and obviously very involved and caring) registered dangerously high levels of cortisol in the brain. I remember years and years ago a New Scientist article statistics which showed that children who were cared for their paternal grandparents had several years shaved off their life expectancy. (some of us are aware that if our children were primarily cared for by their paternal grandparents, they would have no life expectancy.)
Cortisol is not good for kids. It isn’t good for grown ups either, and I suppose I’m not attempting to make a value judgement here, as my husband looks after our kids often, and increasingly so, but it really does make sense in a way. Dads do stuff differently. They just don’t have the same level of instinctive/intuitive care that mothers give. Even I have “eyes in the back of my head”. There are certain silences and moments when I am outside, or involved, and I just know to yell/run to stop/save someone from something silly. DishPig just doesn’t have it. He doesn’t even register about half of the dangerousness/silliness going on. No blame placed, its just what it is.
The few dads I have come across who do the early-babyhood care while mums go back to work, look dreadfully tired and, well, haggered. It took me a while to realise that every time I breastfeed my baby, I get to sit down for up to an hour, and I get a nice flush of endorphins to zone me out and give me some happy rest. (well, once the initial pain of breastfeeding subsided anyways!) Dads don’t get any of these hormones! Of course they look/are more tired!

Some other thoughts I have often thought….

Why does feminism mean not having babies and staying in paid employment?

Why does feminism seem to mean returning to work 10 mins after giving birth?
Why does it seem that the “choice” of synthetic liquid baby food is healthier than breastfeeding so you can return to work quicker?
Why does it mean that women who return to work to earn money are more feminist than those who don’t?

Can you stay at home full time and be a feminist? How do you articulate this?
Why does feminism seem to be so tied up with sex?
Why does having lots of sex=feminist?
What makes being a female pron star or a sex worker seem to be more feministic to some than staying at home with kids?
Can you be the primary care giver in the household and be a feminist? How?
Can you indulge in the “gentle arts” (sewing, knitting, crochet, etc) and have feminist street cred? Can you be smitten/preoccupied with the history of such domestic arts and still have street cred?
Is it possible for a feminist mother to recommend The Wiggles when that fucking dinosaur is such a twit? On those grounds is it then possible that the females portrayed in Hi5 are actually more realistic than the females in The Wiggles?

What is feminism about now? Is it simply about having “choice” (a confusing notion to me, as I feel that many choices we are “given” as mothers under the guise of “freedom”/”independence” are more often compromising to the health and well being of our offspring)? Is it about maintaining the hard fought right to make a choice, rather than just choosing?

Is having such a plethora of choice helpful to us anyway and do we feel more free for it?

Does the fact that many women/mothers now work just as hard as their male partners to earn money actually mean that we have earned equality of the sexes? Or does it mean that we are simply of more use to the consumerist society so many of us claim to be bucking against?

Are you still are full-card-holding feminist if you don’t split living costs equally with your man/woman/elephant?

And finally, When a 4 year old boy you have never met starts telling you about how he and his dad play violent virtual games which involve men killing men and that girls can’t be in the army, and you interject and say that girls/women can be in the army and shoot to kill as well, have you gone too far?

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For some time now, my good friend Nikki has been pregnant complaining of feeling snotty and nauseous. I recall that during her last pregnancy she also complained of these things. So last week, during a mid morning walk to a nearby suburb for coffee, sunshine, exercise and playgroup, we were discussing our various ailments. Me and Mine have been in the clutches of what has become affectionately known as “Catholic Flu”, as we all fell ill the week the orange back packs rocked into town. A hideous ailment involving fevers, sneezes, snooziness and then blocked sinuses, sore eyes and dreadful coughing. Amen.
Nikki’s mob have had similar, and while my daughter vomited during her round, it was down to her “delicate and precious digestive response to a basic respitory tract infection” rather than some dire Inner Westrian gastric bug. So the idea that Nikki was feeling spewy didn’t match with the illness that my kids had.
We discussed such pleasantries over decaf and real while Josh gagged on marshmallows cheerfully shoved too far un-chewed and Darby eyed up the waitresses from the comfort of his pram.

That night, I needed a question answering and knew Nikki might have the answer and I phoned.
Z: “Hi I have a question” (insert question).
N: “yep” (insert answer here) “and I’m pregnant”.
insert hysterics from me and nervous chuckle from Nikki
Z: “see! You are just the same kind of sick as you were with Josh! Tell me all the info and I’ll use my trusty calculater to work out how far in you are.”
Insert more hysterics from me and nervous noises from Nikki.
Z: “16 weeks Nik. Yer almost halfway through, bonus!”
There was more laughter, and more still after I hung up and told DishPig. Laughter at how the universe can throw such an amusing curved ball, laughter in relief that this kind of surprise happens to other people, not just us. Nikki had been fine with 2 kids but obviously it just wasn’t going to be that way!

Lucky Nikki, 4 months in, within 4 days of knowing she was pregnant she also knew the gender of the baby and somehow managed to secure a spot at our local birth centre for a VBAC.
Noice!

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What a crazy week and weekend!
I’ve started my new pattern-making course, and it is great! Although I am supposed to be making up 7 toiles this evening, which won’t be happening, due to slippy disc in my back.
Today we dragged a car load of junk to the local markets to shift to some other hoarders. Books and fabric and some odds and ends. Luckily we were put next to a cake stall in a dappled sunny position, and lots of locals dropped in for a hello and chat, so it was a beautiful, relaxed late winter’s day.
Except for one amusing moment.

Leah and I were enjoying a coffee, and people watching as we are want to do. A young sharp lass with horn rimmed glasses and a funky frock burrowed through my wares and announced she’d be back after yum cha. As she wandered off, we commented on how nice she looked, how cheerful she came across, how fortunate some people were to be able to wear horn rimmed glasses and actually look cool.
We continued enjoying the sun, idle conversation, the funny clothes walking by.
The girl returned to buy 5m of red fabric and some embossed pin whale. Be in no doubt here, readers, she was in possession of a supreme bargain. “Cool! Enjoy your fabric!” I said cheerfully. “Thanks.” She said. “No worries!” I jovially threw back, as I often do. I sat down and resumed my conversation with Leah. Suddenly, Glasses Girl was behind my right shoulder. “Hey, you shouldn’t say that. The human brain is totally incapable of processing a positive negative. When you say it, the positive is wiped totally by the word worries and so the listener is filled with the fear of worry. You should try ‘my pleasure’ or ‘have a beautiful day’.”  I paused, unsure how to rebuff the lecture. “Hmmmm. I might try that at some point.” I replied, carefully non-committal. She arched a brow. “Try? No! Don’t try, just do!” Flipping her hair she humphed her way off into the afternoon.

Exercising my right to treppenwitz, here is my never to be delivered response to Glasses Girl.

“No, actually, No Worries is exactly what I meant to say. It is a pleasant and cheerful way of saying “You are welcome” or “hey, its ok!” in Australia. I’m a pleasant and cheerful Australian, and this is what I choose to say. I chose not to say the things you have forcefully recommended I say, as they don’t match my personal lexicon. It is not in my nature to speak that way. Perhaps, as part of your daily life, and indeed, in the general method in which you share your opinions with others, you could recall another great Australian saying, which I find particularly appropriate to share with you at this particular moment.  Bugger Off.”

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