tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62775258009156713912024-02-08T22:55:13.025+11:00MummySeaBreezeFrom Mayhem to Motherhood.
Come along as this ex-corporate, party girl tackles the greatest challenge of her life! Motherhood.SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-78653869350541852382011-09-20T14:36:00.002+10:002011-09-20T14:37:58.062+10:00Sex does NOT sell - Enough alright already<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Enough! I have truly had enough!</div>
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I am sick and tired. Sick and tired of being presented with soft porn
or even main stream every time I turned a corner on the road, visit a
shopping centre or even chose to rally for a cause I feel passionately
about – animal rights.</div>
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Peta (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) are about to
launch a xxx website to draw attention to animal cruelty
(http://news.ninemsn.com.au/world/8304493/peta-switches-to-porn-for-animal-rights).
As a long time proponent of animals rights and a vegetarian for much of
it (until I became pregnant and craved KFC – but let’s not go there), I
am at a loss as to how the debasement and exploitation of women can in
any way improve the plight of animals. I hope you are having a ‘huh?’
moment as much as I am.</div>
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Peta have long been known to use shock tactics in the form of
pornography to drive its message
(http://www.rachelstavern.com/uncategorized/peta-sexism-and-racism.html).
In doing so, has appealed to a demographic I would hardly consider at
the tipping point of progressive activism – Neanderthal males without a
clue.</div>
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Peta have not even generated positive controversy as it is the want
of many sagacious advertising agencies (for example, the Pure Blonde
ad). All sex sells is....sex. Research suggest that sex-based
advertising get in the way of the consumer remembering the brand or the
product
((http://www.fastcompany.com/blog/mark-dziersk/design-finds-you/myth-rational-buyer-how-too-much-thinking-can-hurt-your-brand).</div>
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Really using sex to sell is the hallmark of sloppy, uncreative
marketing wedded to the concept of shock tactics (though sex has now
ceased to shock due to overexposure!).</div>
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And the mainstreaming of pornography has a host of other social
ramifications – none of them associated with animal cruelty – including:</div>
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a) Increase in child on child sexual abuse</div>
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b) Pervasive increase in STDs</div>
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c) Poor self image for young people (and now older!)</div>
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d) Depression</div>
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<br /></div>
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And the list goes on – trust me.</div>
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And gone are the days parents could sit and watch TV with their
child. Honestly, I hardly know how some of the music video clips shown
on Rage of a Saturday morning get past to be shown in the morning time
slot!</div>
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<br /></div>
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The debasement of human intimacy as a poorly scripted, exploitative
performance art is in process of debasing ourselves. As a mother, this
concerns me greatly as I do not want my child growing up thinking that
what is shown in porn is intimacy. It is not. I do not want my son to
think of women objects to be used for his gratification.</div>
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Please, please join me at Collective Shout – and organisation devoted
to working against the objectification and sexualisation of women and
children in popular culture (<a _mce_href="http://collectiveshout.org/" href="http://collectiveshout.org/">http://collectiveshout.org/</a>).</div>
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Enough is truly enough.</div>
SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-70608124808554211422011-07-27T12:59:00.000+10:002011-07-27T12:59:24.713+10:00Tough Love - the parenting oxymoron I do not believe in tough love. I do not believe that controlled crying has any place in the parenting vocabulary. So, I take with a fist full of salt the works by baby experts such as Gina Ford and Tizzie Hall who advocate harsh approaches to parenting (and I include sleep training in this). So, it is with a great deal of alarm that I read about mums on this forum worried about their 2, 3, 6 or even 12 month old babies not sleeping through the night. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Here’s an interesting statistic for you – 80% of children do not sleep through the night until they are toddlers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t start out planning on being an attachment parent. To be honest, when we decided to become parents, I didn’t think much beyond the pregnancy and delivery. So, when I brought home a child who appeared to be a reincarnated banshee, screaming from the early part of a evening to midnight or even the next morning, rarely settling for more than twenty minutes at a time – I threw my door open to all and any advice on settling my child.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I got the ‘ignore him’, ‘he’s just trying to control you’ to ‘show him who is boss and leave him outside in a pram’. By the time he was three months old, I was so exhausted from sleepless nights, we booked ourselves into a sleep school masquerading as a mother-baby unit.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> The first inkling that ‘mother baby unit’ experience was going to go horribly wrong was when they told me that they were going to take my 12 week old baby to sleep in another room. I should have listened to my instincts and walked out then. The second night we were there, my darling son cried so much that he threw up in his cot and they left him in there in his vomit. I should have slapped the head nurse and walked out. By the time we left the stupid place, my son started breast refusal because he was so traumatised by the experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> He was back sleeping in out room in his hammock three days after we got out of sleep school jail.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Anecdotally, most children who visit mother baby units lose weight and show signs of psychological distress. And sleep schools, which advocate the tough love approach to parenting, rarely look at the root cause of the problem.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> It took another six months of persistence on my part (and the firing of two paediatricians) for us to get to the bottom of why our son was so unsettled. He had chronic reflux exacerbated by multiple food intolerances. He was not crying to control me, he was crying because he was in pain. And leaving him that stupid cot while he cried was tantamount to me (the person who is supposed to love him the most in this universe) ignoring him in direst moment of need. And yes, I still feel so guilty about this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Don’t get me wrong, children cry, misbehave and carry on like pork chops – but it is for a finite time. They can’t control you if you don’t let them. Sure, we went through a period when our little boy insisted on wearing the same yellow skivvy for six months straight. I used to have to take if off him when he slept, washed it and dried it and had it ready for him the next morning – but it’s stopped now. Like all thing, it too passed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div> I am all for cuddling my child, co-sleeping and allowing them to play games. Don’t get me wrong, he has boundaries and we reinforce them firmly but gently. I am enjoying our mid-night cuddles and nose rubs now because I know in a few short years, he’ll be embarrassed to be seen with his mum and will not like to remember when cuddling up with his mummy in the nuddie was the best thing.SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-89327913885926090912011-07-15T15:45:00.000+10:002011-07-15T15:45:09.826+10:00Do as I 'say' not as I..ahem..err..'say'<div class="MsoNormal">Ok, I confess. I have a potty-mouth. I should have my mouth washed out with dish washing liquid; but I do swear. And swear a lot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I never used to swear. Educated in a Catholic convent, a dropping the word ‘damn’ earned you a double detention in the hot tropical sun with a the placard around your neck saying; ‘I will not take the Lord’s name in vain’.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t even swear much in high school. I was in too much culture shock from having moved from my convent in to state run, rough and tumble school in the outer suburbs of Melbourne to say much really. I used to hide in the library and wished I could disappear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But something happened in University. I hooked up a with bunch of country girls (love my peeps!) who could swill beer faster than they could set a sailor to blush with their vocabulary. And somewhere between attending B&S balls with these girls and earning my undergraduate degree, I learned how to swear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not that things got much better when I got into my professional career. Working in a technical environment, I had to learn to “keep up” with the lads and swear. They didn’t take me seriously if I could not. And, then I went onto work in multimedia – holy moly – that was when the fun really started!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, when our son was born – my husband and I made a concerted effort to curb the excesses of our language. The odd f-bomb and sh*t would be dropped when he was an infant, and then after a while we got lax and just went back to our potty mouth ways. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until the f-bomb fell out the petal soft lips of our boy. My husband and I stood there in awe as he said, ‘Mummy, the f***ing phone won’t work. Do you think we should call the d*ckheads at T**tra?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, began the long process of deprogramming my son’s language. The F-bomb became a fart and so on. At the rate he was going, my son was facing expulsion from Kindy!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway after months of “de-programming”, I put my son to bed last night and wondered into the kitchen to make myself dinner. As I was riffling through the contents of my pantry looking for the salsa (and why does it always disappear?) a can of tuna fell on my barefoot from a considerable height.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Confident my son was sound asleep, I hopped around the kitchen with my eyes squeezed shut holding my foot in pain saying words that would make a Hell’s Angel squirm. I finally leaned against the walls and opened my eyes. And there was my son, looking at me, gobsmacked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Did you hear all that?” I asked him innocently.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yup”, my son said from around the dummy he sucks on much like a cigarette. He is able to speak without the plastic plug falling out. He's even able to shout!<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know that is naughty to say those words, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yup”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good, so you won’t say them?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You're shittin' me right?" he asked, a perfect imitation of me.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Guess, it's back to the de-programming again. Sigh.<br />
</div>SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-73820933108664278642011-07-11T13:54:00.003+10:002011-07-11T13:58:52.994+10:00Boys vs. GirlsI always wanted a little girl. A little girl I could dress in overalls, teach how to climb trees, roll in mud and kick a football. So, when I found out at my twelve week scan that I was definitely having a son, I must confess to feeling a teeny tiny bit disappointed. That feeling was soon replaced by embarrassment at the sight of my husband punching the air in the radiographers room.<br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my son. Yes, I dress him in overalls, teach him to climb trees, encourage him to roll in mud and he teaches me how to kick a football (it’s usually him screaming ‘MUMMY I DOO!’)<br />
<br />
But a tiny part of me still yearns for a girl – fingers crossed for number 2 – to right the wrongs of my own childhood. See, being a girl in my very traditional South Asian household, was like being a second class citizen.<br />
<br />
Who had to wash the dishes never mind the fact that my brother used them? Me. Who had to sweep the house and tidy up never mind the fact that my brother had created the mess? Me. Was I allowed out after sunset? No. Why? Because I was a girl. I was forced to capitulate on any argument with my brother brought in front of my mother for adjudication. Why? Because I was a friggin girl and ‘women must learn to compromise’. But why? Just because. Who was fawned on he got great results in Year 12? My brother. And when I kicked his butt a few years later with better Year 12 results, I had no accolades. Why? Because you’re a girl, it doesn’t matter what you do because you’ll get married anyway!<br />
<br />
It’s enough to start hating your own femineity.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I have been able to rationalise my childhood as the by-product of a misogynist <a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/India-4th-most-dangerous-country-in-the-world-for-women/Article1-709595.aspx">South Asian culture</a> still wedded to the concept of <a href="http://www.economist.com/node/15606229">female infanticide</a>. So imagine my surprise, reading research that suggest that the same may be case in the enlightened West. According to recent<a href="http://www.gallup.com/poll/148187/Americans-Prefer-Boys-Girls-1941.aspx"> Gallup poll</a> , 40% of Americans prefer to have son’s over daughters when asked if they could have only one child, which would they prefer. The rate of female infanticide in China does not seem so ludicrous now.<br />
<br />
What? Huh? What is the attraction of boys (from a parental sense that is – I am a heterosexual woman and I like men)? If you could have only one child, which gender would you pick? Would you pick at all?SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-43931126644616893832011-06-28T13:51:00.000+10:002011-06-28T13:51:33.360+10:00Raising Resilient ChildrenFACT: The world is full of nasty people.<br />
<br />
This was really brought home to me when I was about seven months pregnant with my son and on my daily walk around the block. I was enjoying the later summer sun on my back and the serenity of the Bell birds chirping in the trees overhead when a charming young man drove by in a ute, complete with the a Eureka Stockade bumper sticker, yelling: ‘Go back home you black <acronym title="bitch">*****</acronym>! And take your effing baby with yah!’<br />
<br />
And to make sure, I got the message, he pelted me with the core of an eaten apple. And since he was drunk, his aim was pretty poor and the apple core landed in someone’s garden.<br />
<br />
Delightful, really.<br />
<br />
Just to be clear on this. I am brown. More of a latte colour than black. He should be sent to back of the class for the lack of originality! If you want me to take you seriously as a racist bigot, come up with something more original rather than ‘black <acronym title="bitch">*****</acronym>’ or ‘go back home’. If I had a dollar for every time I have been called that over last twenty-five years, I’d be able to pay my gas bill for this awfully cold Melbourne winter.<br />
<br />
Racists don’t bother me. They really don’t. Neither do bullies, rude people or Machiavellian bosses. After thirty-something years, I have built a defence system. It is based on the understanding that people who belittle, bully or harass someone else are fundamentally unhappy themselves. Nobody who is happy can spread such unhappiness.<br />
<br />
But I worry. I worry about my child, and not just from the racists. But the bullies and the nasties out there. A part of me desperately wants to jump in and protect him, then another part of me wants to raise him so that the nasties won’t bother him. Besides, there is a bucket load of evidence that shows that victims of bullying are on a pathway to poor mental health. Having suffered depression, I’d like to spare my child such torture. So, I have been reading ‘Tough Times’ and ‘Raising Resilient Kids’ by Drs. Brooks and Goldstein.<br />
<br />
Central to raising a resilient child, according the good doctors, is ensuring that they have high sense of self-esteem, are confident and have a wide social network. But how do you build the self-esteem of a three-year old? How do you teach a three year old confidence?<br />
<br />
So we’ve been doing dramatherapy at home. Working on little skits on how to handle nasty people and how to walk away. We take turns at ‘playing’ nasty and learning how to walk away. And I keep telling him that his father and I love him very much.<br />
<br />
How are you ‘bully proofing’ your kids? How have you dealt with the nasties in your life and your children’s life?SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-71507556983058836842011-06-21T16:01:00.000+10:002011-06-21T16:01:11.270+10:00Human Canon Ball - a game with No WinnersSo, today I turn thirty-seven<span style="color: #1f497d;">! Whoo hoo! Anyhoo - </span>upon reaching this <span style="color: #1f497d;">momentous </span>milestone, <span style="color: #1f497d;">I have been</span> forced me to reflect on my life and share with you some precious nuggets of wisdom<span style="color: #1f497d;"> I have learnt so far</span>. <span style="color: #1f497d;">Sure the list of things I’ve learnt is long Harry Potter-style-six-volume grocery I take down to Woolies before Christmas, but I have narrowed it down </span>to five<span style="color: #1f497d;"> top</span>, and here goes:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">1)<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #1f497d;">Never mix alcohol with antibiotics – you’re feeling crap anyways if you’re using antibiotics and it is perfectly possible to feel worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">2)</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #1f497d;">The Poodle perm was not attractive in the 1980s, 1990s and never mind what that ultra-cool hairdresser says – it is still not attractive. Nobody except 1980s Kylie as Charlene can pull it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">3)</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #1f497d;">Date nerds; they end up being the bosses of the jocks and earn more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">4)</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #1f497d;">A girl with E-cup boobs can never wear a strapless dress without the whole thing ending in tears. Accept it. Move on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">5)</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #1f497d;">NEVER EVER PLAY HUMAN CANNON BALL. If a god meant us to fly – he’d have given us wings goddamit!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I really wish I had listened to No. 5. I really do. I really wish I could get into a Delorean-style<span style="color: #1f497d;"> time machine and zap myself back in time to the morning of my seventh birthday.</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">See, a the day before</span> <span style="color: #1f497d;">my before, my brother and I had watched American’s Greatest Hero. This superhero was the least likely of superheros as he was completely gauche and not very smart. And he was forever flying into things and had the best misadventures. My brother and I loved him of course!</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">My brother, was also bit on the nerdy side complete with horn-rimmed glassed and a wheezy laugh, was desperate to re-enact the whole flying thingy. And I was more than happy to humour him. After all he’d bought me a plastic cooking set for my birthday with his allowance and he’d convinced me I owed him. </span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">So while our mother was busy preparing for my birthday bash, my brother and I sneaked off into the guest room and set the mattresses up for this feat of flying. First we jumped off the bed for a good ten minutes and that started to pale. Then we jumped off the dresser. We just weren’t getting the height. We were convinced we could fly if we could just get up in the air enough. </span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">Come in Human Canon Ball - my brother convinced me to stand on the soles of his feet while he was lying on the ground with his legs bent up in the air. The plan was that he’d propel me up in the air with the action of his legs and I would fly into the sky through the open window.</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">Needless to say, I didn’t fly out the window – thank god cause we lived on the tenth floor of our apartment block – but I did fall badly, cracking my head and nose on the reinforced concrete walls. But worst of all, or so we thought at the time, I’d landed on my brother’s glasses breaking the horn-rimmed frame to good effect.</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">Mum was too busy to give us a good tongue lashing that day, but she certainly didn’t spare us the next. She was so mad at us that I didn’t have the guts to tell her that my nose hurt like hell and that it had bled for a good ten minutes. A fact we’d managed to keep from her by hiding in the bathroom.</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">By the time I was fourteen, it was blatantly clear that my nose was hooked and bent out of shape. In teenage angst and lack of funds, there was no option to have it fixed. Until earlier this year when a visit to the GP identified that my previously broken nose was probably the source of migraines I suffer on a regular basis. </span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">Sure I don’t<i> need </i>the surgery, and a part of me is totally embarrassed about having a nose job done at thirty-seven. I mean, surely it’s the height of vanity. I have lived with my crooked nose for thirty-years already, another forty or fifty won’t kill me. Yes, it’s for medical reasons but I must confess feeling a little joyous at the thought of not having a hooked nose any more. So, for my thirty-seventh birthday – my gift to myself is rhinoplasty.</span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1f497d;">Am I being vain? Have you had any plastic surgery? And how have your siblings scared you for life?</span></div>SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-7828854472766434192011-06-07T22:20:00.000+10:002011-06-07T22:20:06.988+10:00Where have all the kick-arse chicks gone?<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The other day, I ducked into the Boutique de Circle Rouge (Target) for my month for my monthly toy top-up. You know what I mean; the harried whip around the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brightly lit toy section of the department store; looking for presents for the birthdays, christenings, thank-you for coming to play, sorry you couldn’t come to play and bribes- for-good behaviour for the upcoming month.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">If motherhood has taught me anything, it is never to bring my child along to these excursions lest we all end up in tears. So I was spending forty-five minutes of peace ambling up and down the toy aisles looking, in relative peace; comparing the relative merits of one toy against the other, marking off the list of children for whom I had to buy for.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">And toy shopping is not child’s play either; a subtle code of etiquette governs the fine art of procuring gifts for children. Firstly, is the family pro- or anti- plastic? If they are anti-plastic, the gift will be proportionately smaller as the cost of purchase is significantly higher. Then are they a TV or no-TV family? Allergies? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age appropriate? Toys of violence (and one strange mum classified little plastic dinosaurs as toys of violence!!)? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trust me the list goes on!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">So I was ambling up and down the aisles, looking at the latest offerings from Mattel, Vtech and the like, making my way down my list when I came of short. What? A girl on my list? How did that happen?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">For the record, I have a son. And his friends, by and large, are boys. And a large number of my friends have sons too. By default, my toy shopping has restricted to automobiles, blocks and sporting equipment. I occasionally try and mix things up with a bit and buy cooking sets (Junior MasterChef anyone?); but my default position is automobiles, blocks and sporting equipment. However, as of late, a few girls have started appearing in our Tonka-toy, testosterone filled midst, so girl-toys it had to be.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">With a jaunty little spring to my step, I skipped over the girl’s section and started hunting. I must confess to feeling an unmentionable sense of glee; after all I do love my son and his mates, even if I do have to live through the pirate wars every weekend – but I was dying to buy a girl’s toy after many years.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I steeled my eyes against the garish candyfloss pink and went into the fray. I immediately dismissed all the twee pink and purple unicorns, baby dolls and freakishly misshapen Bratz dolls. I also then dismissed Barbie and her colleagues, although it took me a while to figure out what I was looking for.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">I was looking for the Thomas The Tank Engine equivalent; but for girls. I hunted high, I hunted low, and all I came up with was -Dora the Explorer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Really? I mean there are some great boy-toy heroes. Thomas the Tank Engine is one. Chuggington (again a boy), the Wiggles (boys..ahem..men..ok..boys..whatever), Charlie Bear (boy), Giggle and Hoot (both boys), Waybuloos (who knows what they are?), Elmo (boy) and all girls have is Dora the Explorer?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the pint-sized Latina explorer who never uses violence, but is that the only female hero in little girl land?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">I drove home with a distinctive sense of unease that afternoon. When I cast my mind back to my girlhood (ok – no need to point out that it was looong time ago), my little girl land was filled with a bunch of amazing kick-arse female characters. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">For crying out loud, I gave myself a nosebleed by spinning around and around to be like Wonderwoman. I even convinced my dad to buy me a tiara with a star on it for my fourth birthday. My brother and I spent endless hours trying to come up with the faux-metallic sound of Bionic Woman while trying to jump off the couch in slow motion. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">And as I grew up, the great female characters in TV programming kept coming. There was Murphy Brown who appealed to the tween feminist in me, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (need I say more?), Agent Dana Scully from the X-files, Xena the Warrior Princess and even the three witches from Charmed. These women taught me that I could do anything, aspire to anything, challenge anything – and that woman could be a superhero too.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">These women, characters in sitcoms I grant you, represented more though. The embodied the female archetype of Diana, the powerful huntress and protector. Brought to mind characters rarely talked about today – women like Bodicea, Joan of Arc and Marie Curie – who are women who are powerful in their femininity. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">And in an age where TV and mass media is almost the only purveyor of information, I cringe at the lack of strong female archetypes. And I think these archetypes are important; so that little girls have role model and characters they can draw on for inspiration and strength.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">There are those who will argue that we have some great female role models here in Australia; our PM is female as is our Governor-general. However, most media discussion about the former is currently so derogatory and when it is halfway complimentary, it is purely about her clothes and hairstyle! Huh?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">What characters are there for little girls to aspire to today? Am I missing something? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><!--EndFragment-->SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-11718590193577432902011-03-03T10:59:00.000+11:002011-03-03T10:59:03.621+11:00Slippery SlideAfter a long hiatus..I am back!<br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>You have a cranky, tired toddler after an afternoon of swimming strapped in the backseat of car. Your decision is bleak. Do you overload the system and do a quick spot of grocery shopping, or do you haul yourself out to shops in the dead of night when all you want to do is sleep yourself? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span></span>Well this was the decision before me last Saturday afternoon. My almost three year old was tired and cranky, and he’d finished the last drop of milk in the house before we’d set out for swimming. I clearly didn’t want to shop <i>before</i> swimming only to leave the milk to go sour in a hot car. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">So, I convinced myself, against my own better judgment, to do a surgical strike. It’d be precision incursion into the supermarket. The target was milk. I even had the right change in for a rapid tactical retreat!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Only someone had hidden a Wiggles DVD in the dairy case! WTF! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Of course my son wanted the DVD. And he wanted it now. Never mind the fact that we already had two copies of that particular DVD. And thus began an almighty temper tantrum that made John MacEnroe’s little theatrical displays on centre court seem mild in comparison. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">We had everything – the ear piercing screams, the flailing arms, the stiff legs, biting and scratching. All in front of the milk fridge at my local supermarket! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">‘All that boy needs is a good slap!’ a helpful elderly man pointed out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Granted my son and I were in his way – so I manhandled my little boy around the corner and ignored him. At which point, my son kicked me in the stomach. Hard. I reeled and blinked rapidly to stem the tears.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span> </span>‘Hit that boy! Show him who’s the boss!’ my annoying drill instructor from the sidelines ordered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">I was too focused on calming my son to pay the geriatric general any notice, so after a few more comments on spoiling the child by sparing the rod, permissive parenting etc etc, he left. My son eventually calmed down and we left with the milk.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Only I was ambushed again at my car by my ancient stalker.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">‘It’s parents like you who are ruining children of today! Children need discipline. Don’t listen to the media and these ‘experts’. I hit my children and they turned out fine!’ </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">I just ignored him and drove off. After all, it was my fault entirely. I should have known better than to take a tired child shopping.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Mind you, I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. I wanted to tell him that my stand on anti-smacking was not in deference to media pundits or to new fangled parenting techniques; that my decision to never smack a child of mine was made over thirty years when I myself was only a child of five.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Trigger warning – the rest of this blog contains explicit information about childhood abuse. Read at your own discretion.</i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span></span> My best friend when I was a little girl growing up in Singapore was another little girl named Rani (not her real name). Rani was about nine months older than me and lived in an apartment on the floor above. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Rani was a lovely little girl who was always full of smiles, slightly dreamy yet full of spunk. But her mother always complained that Rani was lazy, unhelpful and messy. She also said that Rani was naughty and prone to back chat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>And Rani’s mother was not the sort to spare the rod to spoil the child either. Supple bamboo canes, or <i>rottans</i> as they were called in Malay, were hung strategically around the tiny apartment – so naughty behaviour could be caned out within moments.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">She even convinced my mother to follow a similar austere regime of discipline. My mother brought home four or five canes and hung them around the apartment. But I was lucky; I had what Rani did not have; I had an older, much smarter brother. He took one look at the canes and hatched a plan. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">The plan was that one of us (me) would create a diversion while the other (him – because he had the height and could reach) would throw the canes out the apartment windows while mum was sorting out the diversion. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">On behalf of my brother and me, I now offer a profound apology to those passers-by who were donked on the head by falling canes thirty years ago in Singapore.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span> </span>Mum gave up the whole cane business after about the third mass extinction of canes. Besides, she found it difficult to hit my brother and I at the same time cause one of us would bite her while she smacked the other. She soon found that the smacking form of discipline only resulted in <i>all</i> of us being covered in bruises.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Anyway, one day my mum dropped me off at Rani’s for a play date so that she could go shopping. Rani’s mother was pregnant and expected us, two five year old girls, to make her spiced tea in bead. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">I was a bit nervous by the request as I was not allowed near the hot stove at this stage. But Rani expertly lit the gas stove and set the water and milk to boil. And we then did what any two normal five year old girls would d;, we started playing with dolls and completely forgot about the tea.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">The stench of the burning milk alerted Rani’s mum and she came ambling up. Her rage at the burnt milk still scares me today. She screamed at us both. She wanted to know who was responsible only we were both rendered mute with fear. She started smacking us both with anything she could grab only my mother knocked at the door. My mother quickly grabbed me and dragged me away, but I did hear Rani’s screams of terror as her mother scalded her with the boiling water through the reinforced concrete walls of the apartment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">I can still hear her pleading for mercy as her mother rubbed ground red chillies into her lips for not confessing for being responsible for the burning the milk. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">And that was the day I promised myself that I would never hit a child of mine. It was degrading for both the mother and child. And it served no purpose other than relieving the anger of the mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Though that incident was just the tip of the iceberg. Rani was regularly belted, burnt and had her knickers dusted with red chilli flakes if she wet the bed at night. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div>I know there’s an ocean of difference between a tiny smack to remonstrate a child and the child abuse Rani endured. But I prefer not to step down that slippery slide. When does one smack give way to two? And what happens if the child turns around and smacks you? What have you taught your child?SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-58553794862413810942010-04-14T13:31:00.002+10:002010-04-16T14:33:44.065+10:00My SBS Insight ExperienceYou may have missed it, but I was on Insight last night for about 20 seconds! Whoo hooo! I am a celebrity in my own lunch time!<br />
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But I must confess the experience was rather disappointing. Look, it was lovely to wipe the dust off the old high heels and jump on a plane to Sydney, but the show just completely missed the point of what women want by wholly focusing on the stereotypical "IT" woman. The woman who does the mad juggle to have the career, the prescribed number of children, husband and mortgage.<br />
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Though Jennie Brockie was lovely, I thought the point was to focus on the fact that many women were finding that in the mad balancing act unsustainable. And the people who suffer the most are those who with least ability to speak up for themselves. Our children. The show completely forgot that often the children of career parents are the victims of distracted and haphazard parenting, and they are made to feel secondary to their parent's careers. Lets not forget that heart disease and stress related illnesses amongst women in the cohort is also increasing at an alarming rate as women try and be men to compete on an equal footing.<br />
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Sorry Jennie, when addressing women and work, you forget an essential part of the equation, and that is children.SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-47465109404336275702010-04-12T22:12:00.002+10:002010-04-14T10:03:02.997+10:00I can have it all, right?<div class="right-img"><img alt="Blog: I can have it all, right?" src="http://www.kidspot.com.au/admin/images/contentarticles/3021.jpg" /></div><br />
A blast from the past….<br />
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I was at my local café last Sunday afternoon for Mummy Time, getting my weekly fix of the Brangelina saga, when I ran into an old colleague. I had worked with Anna in my first job out of University. She was ten years older than me, smart, sassy, confident and capable. She not only broke the glass ceiling in the company we worked for, but she also cleaned up the shards of glass so we could follow in her footsteps. At 22, I wanted to be exactly like her.<br />
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We quickly gave each other a rundown of what we’d been up to. Anna had run her own business before joining her present employer. She was now a Senior Executive with a large team and an astronomical budget. And she had two new dogs to replace the two that had passed on.<br />
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I had done a few things too; I had climbed the corporate ladder, managed a team, travelled, and got married. Oh and my dog had died. Only I replaced him with a child.<br />
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“So, what do you do now SeaBreeze?” she asked looking a little flummoxed.<br />
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“I am a stay-at-home mum,” I said with an easy smile.<br />
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“What a waste!” she blurted out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way!” she said and when I didn’t answer, she dug herself a little deeper.<br />
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“I mean, you were really smart,” she continued. Strange, I am sure I had said I had a baby, not a lobotomy.<br />
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“But I suppose you enjoy a life of leisure now” she sneered.<br />
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“No, Anna, I wouldn’t call looking after a two-year old a leisurely activity,” I said with a wry smile.<br />
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“Don’t you get bored?” she asked.<br />
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“Not really. I mean I work from home too,” I said earnestly, suddenly feeling the need to prove myself to my old mentor.<br />
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“Surely it’d be good for your child to be at crèche and for you to go back to work. For his socialisation,” she parried.<br />
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“He goes to playgroup twice a week and has play dates ,” I said. I glanced down at my handbag, overflowing with Tonka toys, and discreetly kicked it under the table.<br />
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Anna’s friend joined and she introduced us to each other. “Meet SeaBreeze, she was a really promising graduate but now she is a stay- at-home mum,” Anna said with great flair.<br />
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“Don’t you even work part-time?” came the opening question from this complete stranger.<br />
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“No” I said defensively as the waitress put a steaming cup of hot chocolate down in front of me.<br />
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“What a waste of all your years of study,” Anna commented.<br />
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I really wasn’t in the mood for this. Besides it was none of their business.<br />
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“Hey, is that the time?” I asked abruptly looking at my watch. “I have to go, young child stuff you know,” I said quickly and skulled my scalding hot chocolate. I hadn’t been a beer skulling champion at University for nothing and I am pleased to report the old girl still has it in her!<br />
<h4>Out of the birthing suit straight into the boardroom!</h4>The next morning I was multi-tasking between reading the online news, working, cooking, stopping my son from using my saucepans as his potty when I saw an article in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Age</span> by Virginia Haussegger – <span style="font-style: italic;">Women, Ambition and the Baby Boom: what’s going on here?</span><br />
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You can read the article yourself <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/women-ambition-and-the-baby-boom-whats-going-on-here-20100329-r5hx.html">here.</a> However, a rough summary is that Australian women are finally breeding like rabbits (praise be to the Baby Bonus!), but they are losing their career ambitions along with their bladder control during childbirth.<br />
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How does Virginia know this? It’s all because more and more women are opting to work part-time to balance young families and careers.<br />
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Imagine that! How dare women? Surely a real woman must be able run a corporation full-time, breastfeed and have a body ready for that Vogue photo shoot just a week after childbirth!<br />
<h4>My Decision</h4>Now that article just annoyed me. Anna’s comments hadn’t fazed me in the slightest. She really hadn’t said anything I hadn’t thought of myself - I had struggled with whether I was wasting my tertiary education, being lazy, pissing my potential down the drain by being a mum. However, my decision to be a stay-at-home-mum had nothing to do with my lack of ambition.<br />
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My decision to stay at home was a no-brainer. My son had chronic reflux as a baby, which caused him to be fearful of food. We had to Naso-Gastrically tube feed to prevent him from starving himself to death. My choice was easy, I could either stay at home and teach him the joys of food, or schedule him for major abdominal surgery to have a feeding peg inserted so that he could be fed at crèche. I chose the former.<br />
<h4>But is it just me?</h4>Although my choice had been clear and simple, my friends with perfectly healthy babies have faced similar dilemmas. From hairdressers to office administrators, from teachers to lawyers, all have struggled combining careers with motherhood. Some have been forced back into full-time work to pay bills, while others with the best intentions, have pared down full-time work to part-time work.<br />
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We women are also completely aware of the risks we are taking by hitting the pause or slow motion button on our careers while we raise our children. We lose out on career advancement and take a massive hit on superannuation savings.<br />
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RMIT researchers Karen Elgar and Andrea Chester also report that while most women feel positive and engaged by being employed, they also struggle with having to do everything. They often feel that they sacrifice on something, usually their children, to keep all the balls in the air.<br />
<h4>If you want me to read you a bedtime story, book it in my Outlook Calendar!</h4>Don’t get me wrong, I applaud women who are able to combine full-time work and motherhood. But for effective career advancement in Australia, women have to work twice as hard as men. This means putting in more than your regular 40 hours. Unless you have a very supportive partner, your child will be spending between eight and nine hours in crèche all day. By the time you factor in drop offs, pickups, dinner, bath and bed, you’ve barely spent a hour in your child’s company, except for weekends.<br />
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If this is how a person envisions parenting, having to make an appointment to spend time with your child, I’m afraid I am going to have to agree with Dr. Laura Schlessinger who wrote Parenthood by Proxy, who bluntly states “don’t have em if you don’t wanna raise ‘em”.<br />
<h4>What do Frank Sinatra and I have in common? We both do it My Way!</h4>Combining part-time work with motherhood seems like a good answer for juggling both a career and parenting. You get to spend time with your child to nurture and bond with your offspring while still keeping your foot in the professional door. Sure you’ll get overlooked when it comes to advancement; but your time will come when the children are older and don’t need you as much.<br />
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So Virginia and Anna, I haven’t sold out. My tertiary education has not been a waste. I am still as ambitious as I have ever been. But for now, my priorities have changed. I need to get my family in order. After all it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind and do exactly as she wants!SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-26903025724447089722010-04-12T22:09:00.000+10:002010-04-12T22:09:57.259+10:00Blog: I can have it all, right? - Kidspot Australia<a href="http://www.kidspot.com.au/MySpot-my-conversations-Blog--I-can-have-it-all-right+3021+171+article.htm">Blog: I can have it all, right? - Kidspot Australia</a>SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-3450956879566978562010-04-12T13:57:00.001+10:002012-02-20T17:48:09.279+11:00Having it all...but not all at the same time!<div style="color: #3d85c6;">A Blast from the Past:</div><div style="color: #3d85c6;"><br />
</div>SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-58095290641092476112010-04-12T08:03:00.001+10:002010-04-12T13:44:46.545+10:0010 Thing I Love About Being A Mum!When they laid my son across my chest, I knew unconditional love for the first time in my life. <br />
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1. I love the fact that I am only person whose kisses can heal a bump, bruise or fall. I am still my son's best hero!<br />
2. I love waking up next to my son every morning and watching him sleep.<br />
3. I love watching the clouds in the sky with him. He sees beautiful, magical shapes just like me.<br />
4. I love showing him new things. His exuberance and wonder at the world still untainted by cynicism amazes me.<br />
5. I love teaching him new things. He is so quick to learn and so eager to please.<br />
6. I love our extra special cuddles. We have the best cuddles together.<br />
7. I love the fact that my nose his most fascinating toy. He measures my nose, looks at it, bites it, pats it and if he could put it in pocket or cuddle it to sleep, he would.<br />
8. I love the fact that at age two he takes the mickey out of me by mimicking all my worst mannerisms. Yes, I have the next Jim Carrey on my hands.<br />
9. I love the fact this favourite place to fall is asleep is on my chest. Still. Just like the day he was born.<br />
10. I love the fact that he has taught me so much about love, life and hope. He is my hero!SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-41410506046389756692010-04-10T14:55:00.000+10:002010-04-11T18:25:33.494+10:0010 Things I do not like about being a Mum!I love my son but...<br />
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1. I wish I could leave the house with just my handbag. I really do. I wish didn't need to pack like Victoria Beckham on her way to Europe simply to go to the supermarket!<br />
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2. I wish I could leave the house safe in the knowledge my clothes were clean! I was at David Jones the other day and wondering why the ladies were giving me strange looks. It was because I had two hand prints made of Weet Bix on my arse!<br />
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3. I wish I could sleep. Yes, sleep the whole night without waking up three times a night.<br />
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4. A corollary 1 to the above, I wish I wake up without finding my son's foot in my mouth or his fingers up my nose.<br />
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5. Corollary 2 to the above. I know my son that you have a wonderful sharing spirit. I do not want to dampen this beautiful character trait of yours. But mummy really does not need a dummy to sleep. Really. It just wakes mummy up.<br />
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6. I wish I could go to the toilet. Alone.<br />
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7. I wish I didn't know that bananas gave my son grainey poos. Really, I could have lived my entire life without that knowledge.<br />
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8. I never really liked the TV Show "Seconds from Disaster." Oh why, oh why do I feel like I am living in an episode of that apocalyptic show every time I venture into public with my son?<br />
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9. Sleep is not an optional activity.<br />
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10. Mummy is really not a spoilsport. She used to be the life of the party. I am sure there is plenty of photographic evidence to this ala Lara Bingle style of me dancing on stools in bars etc. Mummy is not trying to ruin all your fun by stopping you sticking forks into the sockets. Honest Injun. It's for your own good.SeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6277525800915671391.post-66953679846423229462010-04-08T16:14:00.000+10:002012-02-20T17:48:09.459+11:00Some Days You Just Need to SleepSeaBreezehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08368994223108627222noreply@blogger.com0