April 2nd, 2010 §
When I was growing up, we didn’t get chocolate at Easter.
Well, my mother says we sometimes did, but I distinctly recall getting some popcorn and a banana one year. Perhaps this caused some psychological damage which I shall now perpetuate with my own child.
Yup. That’s right. I haven’t bought him any Easter eggs. Not a one.
Maybe when he’s older.
But unless someone can tell me a way to explain to a 3 year old that Easter is this thing with this story about this guy that some people believe is true but I don’t but it is part of our culture so we sort of celebrate it by eating chocolate which makes zero sense and doesn’t really seem special to you anyway because you get a Freddo Frog once a week and yes I know you’ve been seeing those chocolate eggs and bunnies in the store for three months now but they are really just supposed to be eaten on one particular day because they are symbolic of new life and spring or something even though it isn’t actually spring here it’s autumn and all the leaves on the trees are dying because we live in the southern hemisphere and the way the Earth tilts and goes around the sun….
Yup.
If you can tell me how (or even why) to explain that, I’ll go out right now and buy him a Bilby.
Or maybe my disinterest is really just because I don’t like chocolate. When’s that pancake one? I like pancakes.
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March 8th, 2010 §
Starting back on this abandoned blog with a series of thoughts on women’s issues this week. Today is International Women’s Day and also, in Victoria and Tassie, Labour Day so work seems an appropriate subject.
“Women in today’s workplace still earn less than blokes, they work harder for promotion but are often overlooked in favour of men for more senior positions, and when they retire, have far less income to retire on. If they have children, most of the childcare, or organising it, will be left up to them. They will often work in poorly paid casual or part-time positions in order to prioritise family, especially in the pre-school years. ”
— Trish Bolton, Feminism is more than a memory
THE FACTS:
- Women’s average full-time weekly earnings – 17.2% lower than men
- Women’s average, inc. part-time and casual work – 35% lower than men
- Women’s likelihood of old age poverty – 2.5 times higher than men
- Women’s average lifetime superannuation – 50% of what men have
MY RESPONSE TO THE FACTS:
Are these figures quite appalling? Yes. Are they unjustifiable? Certainly. Do I feel enraged? I simply… don’t.
As a lifelong feminist, I have always found it difficult to get worked up over the pay equity issue. Partly, it is a question of triage. If the average woman has enough money to feed and clothe and house herself and her children, then my focus will be on other issues. In the face of serious threats to women’s health and safety, for example, the question of who is getting the biggest piece of the pie becomes rather trivial to me. Will a few more female CEO’s or female millionaires – often lauded in the media like some kind of breakthrough for women’s rights – change the daily experience of the average woman’s life? Make her more free? The average woman, and even the average man, will never have access to that rarified air.
Incidentlally, the pay gap is actually at its widest in that rarified air. (Women CEOs, for example, are often earning 50% less than a male in similar positions.) The lowest paying jobs are where you will find the smallest gap. And yes, yes… Women are over-represented in the lowest-paid jobs. It kind of makes that old catch-cry of “Equal Pay for Equal Work” seem rather silly when women don’t get ‘equal’ work.
And perhaps I should be more outraged about that. Because that IS about cultural attitudes and stereotypes which inhibit a woman’s power to choose. Of course I agree that any woman who wishes it should have equitable career rewards and opportunities for advancement but the reality of this capitalist, consumerist Western society is that the majority of all people do work that is not particularly fulfilling or financially rewarding. The issue for me is not whether women should be getting more of the pie: It is whether or not that pie is worth buying into at all.
Can we measure someone’s societal value by their earnings, or by the prestige of their position? Should we? Yes, I know we do… but should we?
What exactly is wrong with those “low-paid” jobs anyway, apart from the fact that my telly might not be as big as my next-door neighbour’s? Would I somehow feel more important and valued if I was an accountant than I would if I was answering an accountant’s phone? Would I actually be more important, or are we really just talking emperor’s new clothes here? Can my paycheque really define my value as a member of this society or, after a certain point, actually improve the quality of my life, not just its appearance?
I might sound facetious but I am actually serious. Our society places a lot of emphasis on work (in that old male ‘public sphere’ anyway) as identity and it grades identities with a rather ridiculous scale. Doctors sometimes save lives. But garbage collectors do more to make my life livable every week.
Isn’t there the danger of actually creating another yoke around women’s necks with the pressure to be ’successful’? Isn’t this simply another double-edged sword for women, like sexual liberation, where more is expected and less is given? (Not that I’m knocking sexual liberation, but any number of conversations with women worrying that making a phone call after sex might be overstepping the bounds tells me there is some power imbalance there.)
I would suggest that this social pressure already exists. Over the last decade several older feminists have come out and said, “We got it wrong: You can’t do everything. That Superwoman thing was a big mistake.” And we know what the crux of the Superwoman problem is, and it is a significant part of the problem with pay disparity: Motherhood.
In a brief discussion on Facebook earlier today, it was pointed out to me that because of lower earnings, often women are dis-empowered in the negotiations at home about who will work and who will care for the children. If women earn less money, they will obviously be the ones who will stay home, or do flexible, low-paid work to supplement the family income. This does take some choice out of the equation, it’s true, but I am not by any means convinced that even with equal work and equal pay there would be equity in those negotiations anyway.
And this is where the way we value work and the way in which we assign social value really comes to the fore: Even when both (heterosexual) parents are working full time, the majority of housework and childcare falls on women. The vast majority of all unpaid work has no (acknowledged) social value and continues to be “women’s work”. There will most certainly never be equal pay for equal work while this division of labour remains so firmly in place. And while perhaps some legislative action and governmental changes might improve a woman’s pay cheque, and even her social status, the price is the expectation that, if a mother, she will have two full time jobs and will often feel that both of them represent a failure.
As a single mother myself, one would think that I might sometimes wish for the support of a partner, and perhaps if I had one my finances would be less of a worry, but the feeling I most often get looking at perfectly happy relationships is relief.
“The cost in human terms of feeding him, grooming him, humouring him and financing his recreation is way out of proportion to the contribution he makes in return, even if he is a sensitive and attentive lover.”
– Germaine Greer, The Whole Woman
Equal pay for equal work? How about just getting paid? Yes, now I am being facetious, but if anything is to change in the experience of work for women, there needs to be a societal shift in the way all work is valued and it can’t be measured in cash. For all the achievements of feminism made in the last century – and they are enormous, and I am exceedingly grateful for them – we still live in a society of irrational hierarchies and I’m not sure that climbing the ranks is the solution.
Women should have choices. Affordable and accessible childcare should be a priority. Longer and paid parental leave should be a priority. And I am in favour of equity in the workplace and at home. I am all in favour of women having career goals and financial goals above and beyond the necessities of life, if that is what they want. I truly am. I simply can’t find in myself the feminist urge to march in the street for it.
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June 16th, 2008 §
Yes, a rare photo of Cas AND his Mum.
We went to see The Medieval Imagination exhibition at the State Library a little while ago with a couple of friends; Brett from Airminded, and HG, who wrote that beautiful guest post for me. That meant there was somebody other than me to hold the camera and that is, I think, one of the best presents you can give a single parent.
In other news…
I haven’t been very well, hence my long absence.
I haven’t been very well, hence 1st semester uni was really screwed up. I’ll do better next time.
A girlfriend gave me her old car. Hooray for being able to grocery shopping with ease! (And see friends at the State Library). The car is sadly purple but my friend still rocks, obviously.
We’ve received some parcels for WinterWarm, which is also great, and I’ll be working on some blog posts for that this week.
There is a couple of other (possible) good news items but I don’t want to jinx them so… we’ll see.
And my Mum will be visiting soon which means I will get to have a sleep in for the first time in a year.
I’ll also be able to get to see my doctor, with Mum babysitting and me in my shiny, purple car. So hopefully health won’t be an issue for much longer.
Hugs to everyone I’ve abandoned and I will be trying to catch up with you all soon.
xx
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April 15th, 2008 §
Caspar loving gadgets as he does quite some time ago ate my phone, which involved so my drool that he fried the circuits and I was phoneless for quite some time. That didn’t bother me too much, because I’m somewhat phone-phobic and hate talking on the damn things. I do however, like SMSing. It’s short, to the point, and happens in my own time frame. And useful for things like “Get milk” or ‘Home in 5. Make coffee.” So after a while a long suffering friend, who I don’t talk to enough, posted me an old one of hers. And when I say old, I mean old.
Smessing (That’s what I call it – Spread it around.) on it is a pain it the butt. The screen is microscopic and it takes a dozen button presses just to get to the smess screen and you can’t even set the default to predictive text. But it serves its minimal purposes, and all my numbers and old saved smesses were on my SIM card so nothing was lost. But another thing about it that doesn’t function well is that there is no keypad lock. Left alone in my bag or pocket, it’s free to dial people I haven’t spoken to for years, or people that would barely remember me whose numbers I really should just delete. I can live with that. The amount I use it, a couple of random calls won’t increase my monthly $20 bill.
Today, however, it did something very bad.
It deleted all my saved smesses. Including the few I had kept from Caspar’s dad.
They weren’t really important, I guess, in the scheme of things. There were just a few simple things. A line from one of our favourite songs, a one word message which said, Tulips, and other things in the private language of our short-lived, ill-fated, star-crossed romance. And I know that I don’t need the “evidence” that our relationship was meaningful – because I know it was despite its end – but it made me sad that they were gone. All I have left now of him which is concrete is the worn Ralph Lauren Polo cardigan he loaned to me which never got returned and a letter opener in the shape of Richard the Lionheart’s sword, and the empty envelope from the flowers which arrived after Cas was born; the ones that did not need a card. It isn’t much.
It isn’t like I looked at them every day, or even think of him frequently. He’s there in the background, in my memories – as a good memory – and life moves on. But now I’m feeling a little tristesse. Perhaps I’m sentimental but I guess that that is a far better thing for a single Mum to be than angry or hurt or bitter. Well… I might be a little angry.
At that damn phone.
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March 8th, 2008 §
[This post is part of Lightening's Smiley Saturdays.]
My Favourite Suburb
On my way to university each day, I pass through my favourite suburb, the one I want to be living in again as soon as Ii can. It’s not the most beautiful, or the most stylish, or the most avant-garde or… Well, it’s not the most anything, but on my first day, walking through those streets, from the train station to the tram, I remembered what it felt like to be ‘home’, both in a place and in myself. It just lifted me up.
Reading
For a long time now I’ve been having trouble reading, depression making the kind of concentration necessary very difficult. But since I brought my textbooks and course materials home, I haven’t wanted to stop. Not only am I reading again, but my mind is alive with ideas again. And that means I feel alive.
The Weather
Yes, the sun has been shining and that makes me feel wonderful, even though my face is now horribly freckled brown, but this is Melbourne. The four seasons in one day we have also make me feel at home. Running around barefoot in floating cotton dresses, or jumping in puddles, or reading outside under the tree, or snuggling up under homemade blankets… They’ve all made me happy this week.
Watching Caspar climb into my bed (the mattress in the living room) and snuggle down into the pillow then pull the blankets up to tuck himself in made me smile too. He knows what contentment is.
This Conversation
I was working at the computer, Caspar climbs up onto my lap, and we have this conversation… (I’ve abbreviated it a little.)
Mummy: Would you like to go to the park?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to ride your bike?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to read a book?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to do some drawing?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to make music?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to watch telly?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to have a bath?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to have a bottle?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like some chocolate?
Caspar: (shakes head)
Mummy: Would you like to sit on Mummy’s knee and have cuddles?
Caspar: (Nods emphatically and snuggles in.)
Yes, my love is better than chocolate, but I have saved the best for last.
A New Family Member
Caspar is no longer the youngest boy on my mother’s side of the family. On 1st of March at 8:58am, my cousin gave birth to a baby boy. He weighed 3565 grams and his big brothers think he is cool. I haven’t met him yet because he lives in Sydney, but I was so excited to hear the news. Congratulations to B and M, and J and J.
And welcome to the world, Archie.
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March 3rd, 2008 §
Hello. My name is Caspar. You probably know that already because my Mum writes about me a lot.
Anyway, I now have the worst haircut in the history of the universe. Except perhaps for the early 1900s, which is the era I now look like I was born in even though I’m totally a 21st century boy.
You see, my mother has been trying to cut my hair for 2 months, but I’ve resorted to the most devastating tactics to avoid this. She finds it difficult to get near me with scissors when I’m screaming and struggling. The screaming she could live with, but when I move around like a shark in a net, the scissors just seem far too risky. Today, however, she was determined.
She put me in the bath seat. She gave me an entire bag of chocolates to play with. I still didn’t cave and it required about 20 minutes of randomly snipping whatever hair she could get a hold of before the chocolate bliss finally set in and I stayed still.
She tried to tidy it up as best she could while I complained about the hair falling in my bag of chocolate, but this is what I’m left with. She’s a bit annoyed because she really likes my hair and is quite a good hairdresser normally. But I guess I only have myself to blame.
By the way, she’s still alive and will return to tell you all about O-Week and what she’s been up to soon.
Love Caspar.
ps: My belly button is really funny.
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February 12th, 2008 §
This isn’t a rant, because it doesn’t piss me off. It’s just something about human beings which boggles my mind.
I had a great day out today. It was my friend’s birthday and we met for lunch, in the suburb I most consider “home” which I don’t see enough of these days. It was sunny. Caspar didn’t sleep all day but behaved like the angel he is because he was out and everything was interesting. I’m proud that he only says one word, and that he said it to the waiter who brought him his babycino.
“Taa.”
So we walk to the train station to go back to the suburb we actually live in. It’s sardine peak hour and I have a pram. I check one door then the next and think there’s no way I’ll be squeezing in, even though I know the next train will be just the same. Then I see a young man waving at me from the next carriage. He very politely rearranges the people inside and squeezes me in, and then goes to another carriage to find space for himself. Phenomenal. I love him.
And, obviously, he’s not the man I have a problem with.
So there’s this man in a suit standing next to me. I’m jammed up against the door, the handle pressing into my spine, only able to reach Cas by stretching over the top of the stroller. And that’s fine. Because despite his exhaustion and slight crankiness, Caspar is a beautifully behaved child and he doesn’t cry and screech about being strapped in with no one to talk to.
So the people thin out and the man goes and takes a seat. Now that I have room, I squat beside the pram, silently playing peek-a-boo because I am considerate of the passengers and there is only so much you can expect, even from an angel, when the train journey is an hour long.
And this tosser sits there in his navy blue uniform like the stuffed shirt he is, giving me dirty looks and sneering, and whispering to the person sitting across from him.
WTF? So I’m running through my head what on earth he thinks he can disrespect me for. What? I made sure Cas didn’t bother anyone. I was a smiling and happy, attentive mother. Caspar didn’t have a pooey nappy. Does he think that parents and children don’t have a right to go where they want whenever they want? Be on public transport when “working people” are? Did he not like the fact that I was wearing a low cut top? What?
Like I said, not a rant. I’ll never have any idea what his issue is. But what makes the human mind think however he was thinking? What judgements did he make, based on standing next to me, silently, as commuters do, for half an hour? What the fuck does he think he knows?
I just don’t get people.
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