Choosing your battles

I have a relative, let's call this relative Mr/Mrs Racist, who is quite relaxed about saying things at social functions that aren't normally contemplated in our milieu, much less spoken aloud.
You may have guessed that this relative's bent is making fairly racist comments. But his/her musings aren't limited to race. Mostly anything s/he finds different or unknown is fair game (hairy legged feminist lesbos, for example).
Clearly I have a major beef - Porterhouse steak sized - with this kind of view. However, I also believe in his/her right to say it. I am of the firm belief that enlightenment comes from a robust exchange of ideas and experience.
But I also believe I have a moral obligation to challenge a view which I believe is destructive and dangerous and not supported by fact.
I have made gentle comments to this effect. Such as pointing out the use of certain phrases is considered offensive by the people to whom those terms refer. But my comments appear to have fallen on deaf ears (it seems at 33 I'm not in possession of enough life experience to make any kind of political or philosophical judgement for myself - those things are probably best left for my husband to decide for me).
So my quandary today is what to do? Make a bigger fuss and risk complete alienation and familial discord without changing anyone's mind, or keep chipping away slowly but surely on my one-woman campaign of enlightening this relative, or at least offering another point of view to consider?
I am thinking of making a donation (as a Christmas present) to a charity organisation for the group of people about whom this relative was recently spouting, in a bid to gently, but firmly reaffirm my dislike of the views expressed.
I'll post on what happens (if anything!).

Paying for the privilege of being female

Today's news cycle contains a story about how most people (read: men) won't have enough superannuation in retirement to keep them in the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed.
The academic report also found that women have roughly half of what men have in superannuation at their time of their retirement (this part isn't news by the way, I can only assume because men have been found not to have as much super as they thought, this latest study is considered news).
I can't help but relate to this story because for the past four years, I have been the primary carer of our two kids, and haven't made any super contributions in that time. Why? Because I am self employed and I need to spend the money I make on our immediate needs. I accept fully that this is my decision. I have decided to forgo working full time, being stuck in traffic, being an absent parent - physically and emotionally, for a lifestyle which means our family earns less, but which I feel happier with for the time being.
It really sticks in my craw, though, when I read stories like this in which we're on the one hand expected to do our duty (thanks Peter fucktard Costello) to the country by having kids (which entails at least some time out of the work force, if only for the period of the labour), and yet we're also expected to pay our way in retirement.
Oh, and by the way, when you are lazing on your fat arses having those nation-saving kids, ladies, how could you possibly be expected to be paid for that time so that you maintain your financial status while you're lying back and thinking of Australia?
And if you are working anyway, don't even think about getting equal pay for equal work. I don't understand why more of a fuss isn't made of these insidious inequalities in our society. There was a Productivity Commission into paid maternity leave which found that there ought to be a paid parental leave scheme but then the GFC happened and now women's human rights don't seem to matter anymore. Again. When will the legislators in this stupid country realise this is not a gender issue, it's an issue for the whole of society and everyone benefits from the security and stability of a woman's livelihood whether or not she bears children?

Baby Chocolate's a doll

I was really surprised after my relatively short and bearable labour with my second child to deliver a baby girl.
I don't know why I was surprised, really. I guess having had a boy already, she was an unknown quantity. When the midwife proclaimed, "it's a girl" I didn't know what to expect.
Obviously when babies are immobile blobs, sex doesn't really make that much difference in their lives.
But when they start to get mobile, and specifically, play with toys, it has become more of an issue for me, at least.
To begin with Baby Chocolate* played with her brother's infant toys which are all gender neutral. Now she's reached an age where she has soft toys she favours.
We've had a couple of little baby dollies around the house among the soft toys (one of which was a hilarious joke gift for my husband when he expressed a desire to have children) and Baby Chocolate has taken to one dolly especially, cuddling her at night. But am I doing the right thing giving her the doll at all? Or am I, by worrying about it at all, a neurotic middle-class feminist who takes her amateur psychology hobby far too seriously?
Baby Chocolate's brother was mildly interested in the doll when I was pregnant and I was preparing him for a new baby in the house, but soon began looking on any doll with the pinched-lipped disdain he reserves for Dora the Explorer and the colour pink.
Baby Chocolate is in every other respect more of a what you might consider a stereotypical "boy" than her brother. She climbs like a mountain goat, loves cars and Lego, and lacks the caution and reserve characteristic of her brother.
Is her attraction to the doll predetermined, following the hypothesis that female humans are more nurturing? Or have I subconsciously foisted it on her because that's the way I was programmed?
Should I encourage or discourage this behaviour? Should it matter at all?
I confess to putting hair clips in her wispy baby locks, so I wonder if it's not just a contradiction** to even worry about a doll?
It's one to add to my list of quandaries.

* Not her real name.
** I reserve the right to behave in a contradictory manner whenever I like.

Don't walk on my clean floor!

For my status update on Facebook the other day, I wrote: By up-ending all the chairs on the dining table in order to clean "properly" underneath, I have proved irrefutably that I have in fact, turned into my mother.
The response from my friends was amusing and showed that I'm not the only one who is house proud.
It got me thinking why we get annoyed at our kids (and partners) for messing up our freshly mopped lino or leaving clothes all over the floordrobe.
These are, in the scheme of things, unimportant. We all work - both paid and caregiving - and these tasks are menial and they'd be jobs we'd pay someone else to do if it was practical and affordable.
And it finally dawned on me that the reason I and my peers take these things seriously is because it's the only validation we get sometimes.
Having kids requires, for most working women, the inevitable compromise of leaving a fulfilling career for the less cerebral tasks of cleaning up spew and poo and being the primary carer.
These are tasks which society doesn't place much value on - as evidenced by the lack of statutory paid maternity leave - and often goes unnoticed by those we're caring for, so if we don't place any importance in it either, then why bother.
If we don't take it seriously, then we're reinforcing the view that being a carer isn't real work and doesn't have value in the same way as paid work does.
And that's today's amateur psychology lesson.

Racism begins at home

I ran into a neighbour at the shops today. Lovely bloke, very chatty. Told me the guy a couple of doors down from us died suddenly last week. He was only young and apparently had a heart attack. He has/had a relatively young family, and I feel so awful for them. So my neighbour was telling me the story - at this point, it should be pointed out that these neighbours are clearly practising Muslims, as the bloke's wife wears a hijab - and he says, "they really keep to themselves, don't really talk to the Aussies." and then he went on to say that "she talks just like us" with an element of real surprise in his voice. Of course she does, she's a bloody Aussie too!

It was this incident and a number of conversations I've had with people recently which has jolted me out of my idea that Australia isn't a terribly racist country. It pretends it isn't, but scratch the surface, and people's prejudices aren't buried particularly deeply.

Someone relatively enlightened mentioned the other day that there were a lot of Asian people in Australia. Well derr... Asia is our closest neighbour geographically, if not culturally, and the statistics actually show that Brits and Kiwis are still the most numerous immigrants to Australia. It's just that they look like "us" and "Asians" don't, apparently, so you notice "them" more.

When you really start to think about it, it's quite confronting to start to think about your own in built prejudices. Are you more likely to lock your doors in the car if a swarthy man walks by? Or do you make assumptions about a woman because she wears a hijab?

We have such a long way to go.

Don't be a hater, be a celebrator... in a sec

So, I posted a little while ago about people who have hurt me in the past. I've been very good and been quite creative with my writing. Not today.
I had lost contact with a friend who was very close and with whom I always picked up from where we left off, no matter how much time had passed.
After probably two years of not much contact, I found her blog which I was mentioned in. Not only was I mentioned, but I was a thinly veiled character in a story about her turning 30 crisis - how I was a rebel, but now I had the "perfect" life, married, child, good job, so somehow I had turned my back on all the values she associated with me. That, by my life having taken this particular path, it was a personal slight against her.
Perhaps she always thought that she would be the one to "succeed" (and I use the term loosely, because I don't define my life as particularly successful or otherwise, it just is). That I would always be the chubby one, intellectually challenging, but perennially awkward. And she could always perceive herself as the superior one.
It's interesting, because I didn't peg her for someone who would think like that. But her blog was telling.
I put it to her directly to see if I had done something to offend her, but she claimed no.
However, she has since not taken up many passive opportunities to get back in contact with me. So I guess that's it. I spent a long, long time grieving for that friendship. And actually spent some time (in a very Woody Allen-esque way) talking to my therapist about it, until I finally realised it wasn't my problem. It's her problem.
So at the risk of devolving, I'd like to say to this person: Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking it's OK to be so pass agg to blog about me. And fuck you for lacking the courage to talk to me about it instead of talking to the world about it. And fuck you for using me and my life story to assuage your insecurities about your perceived inadequacies. I didn't make you choose what you chose, so don't blame me and don't use me and my life as psychological fodder for your narcissistic psychobabble. In short: fuck you.
Aaah, I feel better. Now back to my perfect life.

Excuse me, would you like a seat?

During both my pregnancies (and god and some pretty effective contraception, there won't be any more), I caught public transport pretty almost daily.
I can count, on one hand, how many times I was offered a seat on a bus or a train.
Admittedly, I am of the festively plump persuasion, so I can understand people's hesitancy in leaping to their feet lest I just be retaining chips, rather than a foetus.
But when I was eight months along and had 10kg of baby and amniotic fluid and guts and black stuff sticking out the front of me, it was kind of hard to miss.
And I'm not complaining (well, maybe a little bit). Pregnancy isn't an illness and I was still pretty fit and well, so perfectly able to stand for 20 minutes or so.
But it got me to thinking about people offering anyone seats, or opening doors or showing any other common courtesy.
People of my father-in-law's ilk use this as the reductionist argument against those crazy feminists who "won't let blokes hold the door open for them". The thing is BLOKES DON'T OPEN DOORS for anyone. Actually, NO ONE OPENS DOORS FOR ANYONE ANYMORE.
Besides which, since when are good manners sexist?
I was taught to think of people in a more difficult situation than you, and to do what was practical in order make their lot a little easier. Get up for the old lady on the bus, help the guy with the crutches off the train, whatever.
I can report though that the pursuit of shitty manners is an equal opportunity concern. I will always remember the day when I was on the bus about eight months pregnant, and two fat bitches (see the festively plump comment from before, so I can say that), watched, from the reserved-for-less-mobile-passengers seats (being fat doesn't qualify you, molls), as I helped a woman with her small child off the bus with her pram and they didn't lift a goddamed obese digit to help.

Good manners don't demean the "fairer" sex, they show respect for your fellow humans. And as far as I can see that isn't a gender politics issue.

Whine 'flu

My daughter had a fever yesterday, so naturally, I thought she probably had swine flu and imagined her little body hooked up to tubes and an oxygen mask in the ICU.
And here I am, edumacated media-aware journalist as victim of MEDIA HYSTERIA (which by the way is a misogynistic word because its origins are from the use to describe women's "unusual" behaviour).
I've probably got too much time on my hands (like my neighbour who patrols the street like a war-time volunteer should someone mistakenly pull into his driveway, or accidentally brush leaves into his immaculately concreted yard). I consume a lot of media. Radio on ABC all day, practically attached to my phone and the computer with a USB, TV in the evening, so it's very hard to protect yourself from overexposure to the same message. As well as the 24-hour news cycle which demands a fresh story for each update.
It also makes me think about how you control a message from a PR perspective as well where you have media champing at the bit for new information, and you want to give it to them without creating panic.
And from a consumer perspective how do you protect yourself from overreaction?
The democratisation of information is a truly wonderful thing, but it places quite the burden on responsible people to invest a lot of time and energy into getting balance and perspective from their information.
It's actually a pretty cogent argument for "real" journalism, that you need to be able to trust the source and information.
*gets off soapbox*

My daily Twittascope

Today, you will spend a lot of time reflecting... on yourself. The morning may begin with some strenuous physical activity you feel the need to share with everyone, followed by the inevitable gripe about work.
Later in the day, you may find yourself in the middle of a flurry of activity on the internet where you spend a lot of time talking about what you're doing (not much), which others find endlessly fascinating.
Watch out towards the end of the day, you might go out with the gfs and who knows, you could meet the man of your dreams... which you will document in minute detail on the interwebs. Or perhaps you'll just sit at home and watch a chick-flick (and Tweet all the way through) because you're sad.

Charlie

Charlie was my dog. He was a beautiful tan and white beagle and he would have been seven in August.
On June 25 Charlie died. He had lymphoma. My husband and I decided that rather than put him through chemo, we'd euthanise him instead. What an awful decision to have to make, and how it's made me ponder on life, death, faith, regret as well as happiness and love.
It's divested me of any vestiges of a sense I might have had that there is a "higher power", because who would put a wonderful animal like Charlie through cancer? (or anyone for that matter).
It's made me incredibly sad too. Telling my three and a half year old son that his "big brother" Charlie wasn't coming home was truly one of the most painful things I have ever done.
Everything I do around the house reminds me of him. When I open the front door, I always look down in anticipation of the little brown nose poking around the edge of the door and the whole body wag that would greet me and the kids each and every time we returned home.
When the kids have leftovers in their bowls, I have to stop myself from going to scrape them in his bowl. When I drop some food on the floor I wait for the instinctual click of dog claws on lino as Charlie scampered into the kitchen to see what gastronomical delight had fallen into his territory.
The way he would bark and feint resting on his front paws while Baby Chocolate would lunge at him cackling with joy. And the way he would come to my side of the bed on a cold evening and use his nose to flick at the edge of the doona in the hope he could scramble underneath for a cosier night's sleep.
I have also been meditating on how I was very impatient with him at times and yelled at him. What I would do to take back all those angry words I had for him from time to time. He was a great dog, but had a distinct naughty and willful streak, which only made him more lovable.
Even with two crazy little kids screaming around the place, it seems so very quiet without his gentle and quiet presence.
It's also caused me to ruminate on regrets and how I'd like to live a life without them.
Dogs are amazing creatures and if you like them, I highly recommend Dogs Never Lie About Love (sounds crap, but it's a great book). They are pure creatures who express emotion purely, and frankly, we'd be nicer if we were more like them.
As much as I regret Charlie's passing, and god I do, my life is better for having known him.

Girls are pink and boys are blue

I have two kids. One boy and one girl. With both of them, I have tried not to reinforce gender stereotypes when it comes to how I dress them (I don't put my son in a dress, I'm not that progressive) and what toys they play with. My son has a couple of dolls, and my daughter likes to play with her brother's cars.
But one day, my son told me he "HATES" (in capital letters) Dora the Explorer, because she's a girl and she likes pink. I have no idea where it came from, but it goes to show you the power of socialisation. After much counselling, he's softened his stance on his hatred of pink. (I pointed out that daddy has a couple of pink shirts).
I dress my daughter (who is an infant and is wispily bald) in a reasonably neutral way, despite the mass of sickly candy pink clothes that spill from her (blue) cupboard. Yesterday she was in denim overalls and a blue and white striped t-shirt (with a pinky/purple cardigan with a rosette on it), and still a slightly older lady at my gym thought she was a boy. Older people do it to me all the time. If she's in blue, as far as they're concerned, she's a boy.
But even with me, when I am shopping for my little girl, I unconsciously reach for the pink toothbrush.
I don't know what the point of this blog is really, other than to point out why we have such social conventions and why they're so important to people. Is it because they provide order and predictability?
BTW I don't like Dora either, but mostly because of her oversized head, not coz she wears pink.

Death and shit

It fascinates me the way people are lauded in death. The furore over the Chaser's song the year before last about all the dead celebs was a great example. Is it because we're confronted by our own mortality in a world obsessed by 24/7 media coverage and celebrity? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jade Goody, the young British woman who tragically died from cervical cancer on the weekend. In anyone's language, it's a tragedy. She was only 27 and she had two young sons. The unusual thing about it is that her death was reported by the BBC World service as an actual news item. You may well ask why, I certainly did. Apparently her death was newsworthy because she was on Big Brother in the UK where she thought the region of England called East Anglia (or East Angular as she pronounced it) was in another country. Her fame grew for the wrong reasons when she was on Celebrity Big Brother and made racist remarks to one of her housemates.
Why oh why are people captivated by this? The grotesque thing, which is probably fitting really, considering she lived by reality TV, she also died by it, with her final days managed by PR "guru" Max Clifford. She said she did this to ensure her children were provided for. But what is that going to do to them when they grow up, and even now? Not only do they have to deal with their mother's untimely death, but what is normally an intensely private situation has been played out in the full glare of the media. People have compared it with the death of Princess Diana. And it's true. There was misplaced, mass hysteria then, and now too.
And if people in the public dare call it for what it is, they're lambasted. Noel Gallagher of all people actually put it the best I have seen:
"I mean, I've got fuck all against Jade Goody, that's nothing to do with me," Gallagher continued. "But it bends my head. That, to me, sums up, in one tiny five-minute thing on the news, what an embarrassing place Britain is right now. You might as well shut Number 10 Downing Street down and get Max Clifford to run the country"

Fuckby League

Sorry about that last post. It was a bit vociferous and self indulgent. Oh hang on, that's what blogs are for isn't it?
I've had a shitty 24 hours, so you'll have to excuse me once again because it seems I have at least one leg in my cranky pants today. A lack of sleep and chasing small, screaming children has a way of doing that to a body. Luckily I have a lot of good TV series on DVD that keep me just enough in a fantasy world to make all this a little more bearable.
It's such a middle class whinge, isn't it? As soon as I typed all these complaints I thought of all the other people in the world doing it so much tougher than me. And that would be most of them, really. As if I have anything to complain about.
Today, I'd like to rant about the abhorrent way in which the Manly Rugby League club went about its tawdry little smear campaign to try and discredit the alleged victim in the sexual assault case against Brett Stewart. Media Watch did some great coverage of it. You can see it here on their website.
I can believe the club would do this because they seem to operate in a boozy misogynistic bubble (actually, I do worry it's more wide spread than that), what I can't believe is that it made it to air on Channel 9. Surely there was someone in the newsroom who voiced concerns over running "news" which wasn't actually new, and which has no relevance to the case at hand. Trying to discredit the victim in this situation is what the defence counsel always does and even they have been asked not to do this kind of thing in court, but we all know TV journalists are above the law (hello Ben Fordham). Watching Peter Overton reading the story I thought to myself "you have a daughter, how would you feel if she was in this situation and someone tried to use something you'd done to discredit her claims of assault". It's just appalling.
What I wonder is if it's just isolated left wing housewives like me who think this kind of shit is wrong, or can most people see it for what it is? I hope so.

What kind of fuckery is this?

I have been trying to be a better person. I suppose that was precipitated by being pregnant with my son, and learning a little bit about Buddhism. I guess I am still on a bit of a personal quest to have right thoughts and actions. So you'll forgive me this lapse. I'm tired and the kids are driving me a bit nuts. I am not the Dalai Lama, you know.
Since I started writing this blog, I realised I have a public (well, sort of public, given that I only have one follower - hi SJ) forum where I can tell the people who've fucked me over to, well, fuck off with cherries on top.
So, here goes (I might only get on to one at at time, but I might get on a roll of hating, so you never know):
The person really getting my goat is a former friend from uni. The thing that annoys me most is that I was too gutless at the time to just tell her to fuck off then. I'd like to tell her to fuck off now too, but somehow, I don't feel I will be building my pagodas to nirvana by doing that. Plus I will look petty and spastic and everyone will see me for the insecure nutjob I am.
She used to tell a mutual friend that she was anal for washing her bed sheets regularly. I should have said then that it's just disgusting to be an ugly fat moll who has such a sense of entitlement that she can pass judgement on others and tell them how to live their life. (I'm pretty sure she's still fat, so that's something).
Once she told me not to be uptight about using my stereo for a party because I was worried it would get broken. She said "it won't get hurt" in the most patronising tone, and guess what, it got broken. I guess when mummy and daddy sort everything out for you, you probably don't need to worry about such trivia.
Another time I wrote and told her how badly I was suffering from depression, because I thought I could rely on her to help me at least by listening. She never even called.
She also felt it necessary to get on her high moral horse and cast the first stone to save the finer feelings of someone she cared little about knowing full well she would end our friendship.
I don't know what pisses me off more about it; her treachery or the fact that my friendship didn't mean anything to her at all and I got played.
It was more than 10 years ago and I'm still haven't really reconciled it with myself. Why do I hang onto so much anger about it?
Not a very good Buddhist. Ohm.

Feminism: 2009 style? I bloody well hope not.

I was walking my dog today and I heard on the radio a song by Mahalia (daughter of Jimmy) Barnes. The song was called How Strong is a Woman, with the following lyric:

"I had a mind to join the women's liberation/ that was before I had the touch of love's sweet sensation."
Now if it takes all my strength to make my man feel tall/ Then I'd rather be weak in love than have no love at all."

Hey, awesome way to pay tribute to all the sisters who helped you take for granted that you're a young independent woman with your own career, Mahalia.

So, by rights, being married and having two children, I probably should have given my husband my drivers licence and the bank details and just be lying on the floor so people can wipe their feet on me in the manner of a door mat in order to make sure my husband doesn't feel I'm getting too jolly big for my boots.

I can't believe a young woman in 2009 would admit to thinking such a thing, much less writing it down. God, what's going on?

If you expect equal rights for men and women (and I suspect Mahalia wouldn't like to have her right to vote taken away on account of her sex, or her drivers licence, or her right to work) then you are a feminist. Why are women scared of calling themselves a feminist when that's really what most of us are? Feminism and a fulfilling relationship with a man are not mutually exclusive.

Fucktards who judge others and say stupid stuff generally

OK, I don't like writing all in capitals, it really goes against the sub editor in me, but THIS MADE ME REALLY ANGRY.

(Actually, it also makes me angry that the SMH covered this. Why give this retard oxygen?)

This guy tried to blame the fires on the decriminalisation of abortion in Victoria.

This is so all sorts of wrong, I just don't know where to begin.

A general theme and hatred of mine is the speed with which people judge others and decide their own world view is the one everyone else should live by.

What I'd love is for people like this mentalist to see that his house is in order in terms of his actions on his values and ethics. Does he help people in need like the amazing work of the Salvation Army in counselling prisoners convicted of the most heinous crimes? Does he feed the homeless and all comers without judgment and moral high handedness? How about trying to be an actual Christian, it would really help.

I don't know anyone who has gone through the horrendous experience of an abortion without doing the most serious soul searching just about anyone can do and being permantly affected by the experience - myself included.

No-one has an abortion without a heavy heart and a lot of misgivings. How dare someone impose their religious beliefs on anyone who makes this decision. How can someone else decide this is right or wrong for this person? Interesting too how often men are outspoken on the issue.

There are very few things (well, actually, it's a growing list as I get older and crankier) which make me as furious as the mealy mouthed protestors outside abortion clinics. I often wonder if these people with their little foetus dolls have a clear conscience about all of the decisions and choices they have made in their lives?

If you're passionately against abortion, then let your intellect and passion make a sound argument against it. And by all means, don't have one.

But how about you stop wasting your time by terrorising people in what is their darkest hours and abide by a real Christian moral code. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, anyone? That's John 8:7 by the way, Pastor Danny Nalliah, are you familiar with it?

I don't know why I am surprised by this, and I don't even know if I should be disappointed by it. But why is Barack Obama judged on what he does and his wife is judged on what she wears? This story in the New York Times is being cute and using political language to describe the "bi-partisan" support she received for her sartorial choices during her husband's inauguration.
The same happened for Therese Rein when Kevin Rudd was elected Prime Minister here. Therese (and I love, love, love you for keeping your name) copped a drubbing for fashion choices. Never mind that she is in her own right a very successful business woman (who earns much more than her husband) and is an accomplished person and mother. The only thing people seem to care to have an opinion about is if she's chosen the right colour.
There's nothing wrong with enjoying fashion and getting gussied up, but do people need to take it so seriously.
I would so love someone (and another first lady fashion plate who probably has the chutzpah to do it is Carla Bruni-Sarkozy) to turn up to one of these official engagements in a potato sack. Now that would be something to talk about.

To love, honour and lose your identity

For Christmas, we received several Christmas cards addressed to Mr & Mrs My Husband's Surname. Only trouble is, they're his parents, not us, because I didn't change my name when we got married.
For me, in my career which I had been cultivating as me for more than 10 years, I felt it made no sense to change my name. Not to mention the fact that I feel very strongly that getting married is a partnership, not a melding of one individual into another.
When I mooted the idea with my husband (a long time before we even got to the idea of marriage), he was vaguely offended by it (despite his protestations). He's a modern guy, not a sexist bone in his body and yet this idea was confronting to him. I suggested he change his name to mine, which he found down right preposterous and I said to him "now you know how I feel!".
Obviously I got my way or we would have remained unmarried, I can assure you.
It felt to me natural that in the wake of the third wave of feminism I, and probably most of my peers, would keep their names if and when we tied the knot.
So imagine my surprise when I have found myself in a minority of married friends who have kept their names.
Why have they changed their names, I wonder. I try not to judge, but I can't help but feel it's a really dumb thing to do. My friends who have changed their names are smart, independent, career orientated, educated women. So why do they feel as though their identity isn't as important as their husbands'?
I know they probably don't think about it in those terms, but it is something that really puzzles me and I find quite anti feminist.
I've got a lot more to write about this subject, but I have to go and be a modern housewife now, so I will pick up this thread later.

Hey fatty boomsticks, why haven't you lost all your baby weight in a month?

I don't know about you, but I saw this on the Sydney Morning Herald website the other day and it made me want to throw my computer out the window.

The story is about how Naomi Watts miraculously lost all her baby weight in a month. What a thing to aspire to. I don't blame Watts for saying she lost the weight through breast feeding.

Good for her, it works for some people. BUT WHY IS THIS REPORTED ON???? IN THE SYDNEY MORNING HERALD no less.

I don't know why I am surprised. The SMH website is a different beast to the old timey broadsheet people read for actual news.

Here are the things I think are wrong with this:

1. It's not a story, much less something you flag on the home page of a NEWS site.

2. It's wonderful that 40-year-old Watts had a healthy baby and looks fantastic, but she probably has help with her kids and is able to rest much more than a normal woman who has just had a baby. Normal women need to remember not to compare themselves with people who have the luxury of nannies and a good night's sleep and a team of professionals assisting them with nutrition and dieting.

3. Someone like Watts, whether she likes it or admits it or not, trades on her looks, and as such investing her not inconsiderable income in its upkeep is something the rest of us don't need to do, or simply can't afford to do in the same way. It really irks me the way people always report on how amazing Elle McPherson looks. Well d'uh, she maintains her chassis like someone who drives for a living would maintain theirs. Only she has millions to maintain it with, unlike those people who drive for a living.

4. What if breast feeding didn't work for you. So while you and the breastfeeding Nazis are beating you up about poisoning your baby with formula, you can add being fat to your list of sins.

Measuring yourself against these standards in unrealistic. I am susceptible to it as anyone else, and it makes me cranky. So let's all just STOP IT, shall we?

Eat good food, rest as much as you can, enjoy your children, be a good person and give yourself a break.

Diaries of a yummy mummy.

Hello, this is my first go at the narcissistic world of blogging.

I hope someone, anyone, enjoys reading this, and if not, at least it's cheap therapy for me.

The Modern Housewife's Companion is about my experience as a young mum in Australia in 2009. Obviously my experience is just that, mine, but I have to believe there are other people who share some of these experiences.

It's about how when you've been immersed in a career where you're "someone" and you suddenly become an anonymous "mum".

It's about the terror of making the wrong decision as a parent.

It's about being judged by your peers and anyone else who wants to put their two bob's worth in about how you're doing things.

It's about how our society pays lip service to motherhood and won't put its money where its mouth is.

It's about the enormous guilt you feel when your children don't bring you the complete and utter fulfilment you're always promised.

And it's about the pressure you put on yourself to be that yummy mummy (and I hope you appreciate the irony in the title of this post), who bounces back, does a million things, balances career with family, earns good money, has a great figure, a wonderful husband and a mind-blowing sex life.

So, in short, it's about me having a rant.