those creative types

I have been mulling over this post for ages now (hmm – probably since I was 12?) The topic always seemed too big to deal with in one feel swoop. But here goes!

I just read this article courtesy of my buddy Lance. It’s about the ways in which modern Americans (and I suppose, modern Westerners) develop ceremonies to replace those lost when we lose religion or ethnicity. The article gives the example of the “gender-reveal party” at which friends gather to watch expectant parents cut into a bakery cake, which will tell them the sex of their unborn child by the colour of its crumbs, based on the results which have been sent direct from the Ultrasound office. The author notes that the flaw in such ceremonies is that they focus on the individual, rather than family or community. In short, these new ceremonies fail to connect us with something bigger than ourselves, which used to be the point of rituals.

This has troubled me or interested me for many years. As a post-Catholic, I have long missed the rituals that used to come with my religion. I do wonder about where the species of humanity is headed. In evolutionary terms, we cohered together in groups, not because we particularly liked everyone in the tribe, but because it gave an otherwise unpromising species an edge. Our brains developed the “god-spot,” which I think is not because there necessarily is a god, but there is a need for humans to rally around something bigger than themselves from time to time, for the sake of the group’s survival. Otherwise no one would ever agree to fight, or die for a cause greater than themselves. The “god-spot” in our brains is the biological manifestation of the evolutionary importance of the group, and with it, the deities and the rituals that once connected us to them.

So what happens when we don’t need to be part of a group any more for survival?

We ditch god, that’s one thing. And we throw out the rituals, the candles, the incense and the gatherings of my childhood. And there is good in that, for we also rid ourselves of didactic, faith- rather than evidence-based rules; and we unchain ourselves from the sexism, nepotism, and power mongering of some of the world’s, once, most bloated institutions.

For me personally, however, it presents a challenge. I want my baby to grow up with a set of values that are Christian values. I do think I can handle that with my husband. But I also want her to know the feeling of community which I knew (without knowing I knew it) as a child. The old ladies who were kind to me and my sister, for no reason other than that it was the way they had been brought up; it was what Jesus would do. The lesson that sometimes you have to be good to others, even if you don’t like them and there is nothing in it for you. The occasional importance of the group rather than the individual. The setting aside of personal gain for the good of others.

And of course, the rituals. It is important to have stuff that binds us – and I mean, stuff. The fire that we lit on Easter Vigil night, and the familiar sound of Luke’s gospel. “In the beginning, there was the Word.” I still think that is some of the finest poetry around; but more than that, it was a shared story. It was our story; and it was my story, not as an article of my faith but as a thread in my autobiography, in that it was part of the tale of how I lived and how I grew up and where I came from. The cross we venerated on Good Friday, and looking for a spot on the wood to kiss that no one else had. The water we dipped our hands into on the way into the church, floating with the grease of other hands. The genuflection we kept up even when the Eucharist was not on the altar, because we liked it, because it said something about how long we had been going to church and who we belonged to. The ash on my forehead, left on all day to say, I am part of something bigger than you or I (and I got up early to do it.)

So much of it I did not like. So much of it I rebelled against, and so much of it made me feel like an outsider, living with a group of people who did not know who I was. But how to capture this without having to embrace things we do not believe in, not any more? Can we have the group without the god? Can we have the hope without the faith? Can we come together and give for something beyond ourselves, with eyes wide open?

Where is it we are headed? More people are living alone than ever before according to the ABS, and I used to be one of them and I loved it. We don’t need each other, any more. Not at a fundamental level. We are optional to each other.

Because we are optional, this means choices. I wonder if we will rise to the challenge and create a new way of communing. That is what it means to be in a community: we commune with each other, and with the shared spirit that arises, that is bigger than us, that is somehow more important than us. We give us ourselves over to it. That was a beautiful thing about god – the idea that we could surrender our burdens and simply rest back in someone else’s arms. Jesus said that “where there are 2 or more of you, I will be there.” He was talking about the group. Maybe that’s what god is. The spirit of the group; the spirit of something you are part of.

I guess we can join sports clubs. And there is still Christmas and Easter, even in the secular world. And new year’s fireworks and ANZAC day. I know I can create family traditions for the three of us.

I am thinking though, that maybe it would be nice to have a group of people, not necessarily friends, but just people who might want to get together on a regular basis. Not for yoga. Not for a class about anything at all.

A friend of mine who is also a priest once said, the Catholic have faith that after darkness there is always hope. I do not want to go to mass and hear gospel from a man any more. But I would still like to share my hopes, and hear those of others, and hope for them also. I would like to hold myself in a room with people and close my eyes, and it not be about me. I would like to stand quietly and share the mystery of this life, and hope out loud and silently too, that we will be all right. I want to let go into the grace of a group standing quietly and alone. I want to bow my head with people who are also bowing their heads, and pray.

There are lots of lists of things one needs when one has a baby, but as I mentioned in my last post on the topic, absolutely critical is having some good trash TV to watch.

Here are my top tips.

THE LAST THREE MONTHS OF PREGNANCY

1. Upstairs Downstairs – the original series

There are about 5 series, from memory, and they are really quite good. They have a goodly amount of British period piece cheese, as they were made back in the day, but they also address some rather shocking social issues of the times, from illegitimate pregnancies, aristocratic flings with the maids, the wars, the Titanic, the Great Depression, and so on. There was a recent follow-up of three episodes made, as a kind of sequel 50 years later, which was also a really nice bit of closure for the fans like me.

2. The Tudors

It’s all about the costumes and sets, this one. The heaving bosoms get monotonous, but the gold chalices don’t. I got as far as the fourth series before not caring any more about the next wife. And anyway, I knew what was going to happen.

3. Mad Men

Of course.

THE FIRST THREE MONTHS after the baby arrives

1. The Gilmore Girls.

Nothing bad happens worse than {SPOILER} Rory dropping out of Yale for a semester. No one ever raises their voices for real. It’s perfect for the first three months of having a baby, when your nerves are shot and you can’t bear anything too deep, meaningful, gory or hard to follow, but you still want some snappiness to your dialogue and writing. There are also seven seasons, so you can keep watching it without having to resort to thinking about what else to watch.

2. Scrubs, Flight of the Conchords, Arrested Development, or other sillinesses

Some fun is a very, very good idea for these early months.

3. Downton Abbey

This is a very straightforward period drama. Good costumes and British accents are so soothing in challenging times. The old BBC Pride and Prejudice is also a good one for this reason.

I tried re-watching Will and Grace and Frasier at this time, too, but found that Will and Grace was too shrill for me, and as I had already seen most of them and Frasier, they didn’t offer enough of a reward for my efforts.

THE NEXT THREE MONTHS

1. True Blood

I tried to watch this when bubba was a month old, but it was too gory and scary for me. But now that I am getting sleep once more and bubba is older, True Blood offers the perfect mix of lameness and suspense, with a good dash of fantasy for me.

2. Mad Men

Of course.

3. Modern Family

This is such an easy to watch comedy about families, but I didn’t include it in the first three months because it might be just a little too close to home. Or not – I might be overthinking it. I have heard “Up all night” is also good fun for new parents.

I also tried watching Boardwalk Empire (Martin Scorsese), and we got through it, but it wasn’t one I will hold my breath for until the next season comes out.

Anyone else have some top TV tips for new parents?

20 days ago, I wrote the post “Losing weight.” Since then, I have been on the waggon, off the waggon and now in the last two days, back on again. It appears I have lost about 2 kilos so far. 15 to go.

In that time, I fell off the waggon when I got tired. Getting up and going for a walk is just not the incentive it used to be . I also fell off the waggon in terms of diet when I started mainlining chocolate last week as a work deadline loomed. I don’t drink tea or coffee, because it just makes me more distracted, so chocolate / sugar has always been my drug of choice.

Basically what I have decided to do is to go on an actual diet. I have been decreasing my portion sizes over the last few weeks, trying to stick to an amount which sates me rather than over-fills me. It’s sort of like asking myself consciously: Are you actually hungry, or are you eating because you are cold, or bored, or tired, or because it tastes nice?

But now I am going on a diet-diet. It has all going a bit too slowly for me. I know the research says that crash diets don’t have lasting impacts, and I don’t intend a crash diet. But I do want to lose weight at a slightly quicker pace.

The last time I lost weight was when I was on an anti-candida diet, trying to work out what was wrong with me – it turned out I was gluten intolerant. So the anti-candida diet requires you to go off sugar and complex carbs almost completely, sticking to protein, low GI vegies and fruit. You also replace breakfast with a protein shake plus a mix of seeds and berries (that’s your fruit for the day). It’s kind of like those no carb diets, but a bit more hard core because you are also eliminating as much sugar as you can from your diet.

I am not going to go all out hard core. I do need to concentrate, and take care of bubba. I don’t want to be cantankerous and weak for the next few months. But I am going to substitute my breakfast of GF muesli, which has always irritated me anyway as being high in sugar and low in sustenance, with the above protein and berry shake. And I am going to replace sugary snacks with almonds and fruit and low fat yoghurt. And keep an eye on portions.

I don’t want to do all of this. Just writing about it makes me annoyed. But the way I am framing it is this: do I want diabetes when I am older? (No.) Do I want to be able to take bubba bushwalking? (Yes).

I suppose this is the core of delayed gratification. You have to focus on the long-term benefits rather than the short-term irritation.

At the same time, I am trying to turn down the volume on the voice in my head which keeps up its low self-esteem patter about being “fat” and so on. I don’t need to elaborate. You probably have all heard it at some point in your own heads. It’s unhelpful, it’s damaging, and it’s the worst motivator I have ever had when it comes to trying to be healthy. Instead, when those thoughts come up, I want to hug myself on the inside. I want to think: You’re beautiful. You’re seriously hot. You’re so good-looking right now. Check you out. You’re an attractive woman. You are doing this walking because you want to be fit and less stressed. And you are doing this diet because you want to take bubba along bush trails.

I have a friend (Rachie) who always focuses on the positive in people. She’ll say something to them and you see their shoulders go back, their head straighten. You see them think, maybe I am OK. Maybe I can do this. Anyhow, not long after bubba came along and I was feeling a bit dumpy in the dumps, she told me that I had great calves. She took a photo to show me and prove it.

Here I go, walking up my hill for the fifth time. Check me out. I have awesome calves.

Sometimes I look at bubba and she looks just like I used to when I was a little kid, all cheeks and smile. It is easy to forget that she is actually not a mini-me.

I am pretty much the exact opposite of my mum, possibly as a reaction, but also possibly because maybe personalities naturally develop to complement the other main people in your life? Along with genetics and nurture, could this also be a factor? For example, my mum is chaotic, impatient, likes lots of noise and has tvs and radio all going at once, she is extroverted, and is sociable. I am introverted, can read literally all day and night and into the next day, enjoy small, intimate gatherings and hate noise.

Maybe this is largely because I followed in my dad’s footsteps and so was genetically programmed as the foil to my mother. So maybe there is not much I can do in the way of programming my bubba’s personality.

Or maybe if I am really meta about it, I could be one way in order to get bubba to be the other. Like the Commonwealth Bank ad in the 80s, anyone remember it? Where the besuited young man comes home to his punk rocker parents, who are woefully disappointed in his success? Ahah! They could have said to themselves later. Gotcha!

Upon reflection, this level of double triple thinking is even beyond my powers of planning. I will just have to wait and see what she is like. And crucially, see her differences not as a personal affront, but rather as her own, special evolution. Life before bubba was like a hothouse, such a controlled environment that I could plan my own surprises. And now this. I hope I can channel my own mother and rise to the challenge.

Is it wrong to apply the skills from work to your 7 month old baby?

I just read this post on Mamamia from a mum who applies her skills as a lawyer to her children. She has spreadsheets and applies the SMART principles to parenting.

This struck an OCD chord with me. I have thought on occasion that I could actually map out my goals for bubba. Not in terms of making sure she can play the Moonlight Sonata by age 3 (4 should suffice ). But rather, in ways to make sure I am covering off things I wouldn’t naturally do, but probably should in order to give her own character the chance to develop along its own lines rather than mine.

So in terms of things like, making sure she has a balance of adventures, time at home and things I don’t enjoy doing but if they are on a list, I might do them. Like going out more often – I am a couch potato so sometimes need to review whether I am doing this enough for bubba. Or water polo, or dolls, or playing with other kids. A sort of baby’s bucket list.

Not that I think it is a good idea to get too OCD about it. I put enough pressure on myself to be a good enough mum, and a lot of confidence in mothering is really about thinking I as a person am pretty ok, and am probably setting a decent example of a human being for bub just as me.

But lists. I do like lists.

So maybe a short one? And one of things I might like to do with bubba:

1. Blow bubbles. They are so fun and beautiful.
2. Spend some time with flowers. So pretty!
3. Now the days are shorter, go outside rugged up, and watch the sun dip through the leaves on the balcony
4. Snuggle time, not just before sleep
5. Airplay. Maybe we can do aeroplanes in the park, as well as the living room
6. Upside down baby. I think I may be more into this than bubba.
7. Food fun. Try new things, like roast chicken, and kiwi fruit.
8. Sand. And dirt. And grass. Everywhere.
9. Shopping. I don’t like malls, but I imagine they must be a welter of lights and sounds for small, wondering faces.
10. Music and dancing. Bubba likes to sing, especially to cocktail music.

I like this list. It does not make me feel anxious about getting things done, but like all reflective activities, it reminds me of the simple things I can do to enrich my day as well as hers. I like bubbles too.

I have a confession to make. Sometimes, I do not enjoy having a baby to look after.

Of course I love her. Of course I would do anything, anything at all for her. If there was ever a danger I could protect her from with my own life, then I would do it.

But there are times when it is not all that fun. There are times when I can think of a host of things I have done in the past which would be funner. Like, going shopping alone. Or, walking to a cafe alone. Or travelling overseas, to a beach, with a book, alone. Or with my husband. I am seeing a theme emerge here.

When I was alone, or alone with my husband, I did make sure I relished my time. But you can’t really make the most of something unless you actually have tasted its absence. That is why the freaky Friday, body swap movies keep coming back, or the alternate life movies, from It’s a Wonderful Life all the way through to The Change Up. We are fascinated with the idea of what might be if….

Most of the time I am profoundly grateful for her. But sometimes I think nostalgically about the days I absolutely had nothing I had to rush home for, and no reason to get up in the morning.

And then I think about that. Nothing to rush home for. No reason to get up in the morning.

Sometimes, having a baby is not fun. Or it is a downright chore. Sometimes, I catch myself dangerously close to thinking about life as a never changing thing, of never again being free of responsibility. Sometimes I forget that fun, or happiness, are not absolute concepts; I forget that they are not grapes hanging from a vine, simply waiting to be plucked.

And then I remember that babies change, and grow, and leave. And when she is grown, my heart will ache to have her back in my arms, and I will sink dangerously close to thinking my life is empty without a child in my home. This is samsara; this is what I chose. Unlike Gautama Buddha, I am not going to walk away.

Anything could happen.

I was walking to my Pilates class last night, after a good day with bubba. We had managed to convince her to sleep for two cycles per nap, so she was better rested in her awake time, and I had a chance to get some things done between play session. She had gone to bed for the night with little resistance, and I had made my exit in the knowledge that all was well on the home front.

When it hit me: absolutely anything could happen. As bubba gets more mobile, the size of her world increases, and so does the number of possible outcomes I can now speculate on and worry about. Parental worry has a kind of photosynthetic relationship between the breadth of carpet she pinches, and the air I breathe.

She could toddle off a ledge. She could jump from a high place. She could whisk herself in front of oncoming traffic. There is no end to the things she could do to herself, with a smile on her face.

And that’s just the things I can try to guard against. What if she gets sick? Because that can happen. I saw a lot of that growing up with an ill sister – I saw a lot of how bad things can happen for no apparent reason to small children, and I don’t want to think like that, but it’s really possible. And what would I do then?

In ‘Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant,’ Anne Tyler’s mother character had three children. She described the panic attached to just having one: the need to have back-ups. In the first ten days or so of total sleep deprivation-induced desperation after bubba was born, I absolutely did not want to contemplate another child. But a few months later, as I got my head above water, I did want another one, some time in the future. Now, I am so in love with bubba that again, I can’t contemplate another child, simply because I can’t bring myself to picture anyone taking away any attention from my little one. That might change again, of course; but then, as Anne Tyler’s character realised, I would just increase the amount I had to worry, by increasing the number of children I had to lose.

I wish I could Time Machine my baby girl. I wish I could build her a bubble of fun and play that could encompass the world, but keep her safe. My arms are not quite big enough to prevent acts of God, and possibly even acts of bubba herself. In ‘Something Happened,’ by Joseph Heller, the father squeezes his son so tightly after a near-miss accident that his son actually asphyxiates.

I think perhaps that there is no solution. There is just sheer, parental terror, kept at bay most of the time with a few laughs and jokes at our own expense; and the common sense to let go – not just of bubba, although of course that too, with the common sense I can display when not mentally hyperventilating; but of the fear that would otherwise keep her pinned to my chest, until I lost her in a way all of my own devising.

This morning started at 6.00. I heard my bubba rousing, and wished through the wall that she would drowse again. And she did – until 7.15 am! But I was up. I am like a superhero, with special hearing powers attuned to one station: the sound of my baby’s slightest sniffle will wake me from a deep slumber and then I am on alert, waiting.

When she got up, I breastfed her. She likes to play games with me now as she feeds, watching me out of the corner of her eye and then springing her head backwards and smiling, as if saying, “Tah dah! Here I am!” Then she chortles and goes back to the boob. There are the inevitable, internal motions put into action by feeding, and so we, ehem, deal with that next. Then bubba is ready for fun. She can wriggle backwards these days, so I plant a trail of toys in a strategically wide circle, like the Howard government’s erstwhile Pacific arc of instability – both of us using our net to keep someone distracted from the main game.

Now begins my dash in and out of her bedroom, running chores which I can’t do while she is asleep. I refill wipes, nappies, check sheets, sort clothes, change bin bags, and grab my own clothes to wear for the day from the bedroom cupboard. I sweep back through the living room, making eyes and smiles at bubba, thus making sure I have a bit more time. Then I get myself and bubba some breakfast, and settle down to read the news on the iPad and eat some muesli while bubba shifts her weight experimentally from side to side.

At some point into my bowl of breakfast, I usually have to down tools and feed bubba her own oats and fruit. That is always a pretty hilarious business, especially now that she thinks the coolest sound in the world involves opening and shutting her mouth like a guppy, disregarding the food therein.

By now my husband is up, and having his breakfast and offering me a cup of tea which I like the sound of in principle, although I have become accustomed to drinking it lukewarm. He cuddles bubba while I do something or other which involves coming in and out of the room again. I check my schedule for the day, noting my first tele-meeting. My husband is ready to take care of our little angel when that comes up, interrupting his own business day. We cover for each other in this way throughout the day, although I still like to think of myself as primary carer – and am definitely still primary masher of all things nutritious into orangey brown purees.

When bubba complains, I put her into a sitting position for a bit of variety. We play like that for a while, and eventually she gets grumpy, and it is nearing nap time. We read Winnie the Pooh – the story of how he got stuck in Rabbit’s hole from eating too much honey. It is a touch and feel book which bubba now likes to turn the pages of before eating, which represents progress of the first order.

Two hours after her waking time, she is back in bed, and it is now 9.20 am, and I am readying my notebook for my meeting. I have a breathing space of a few minutes, because my interviewee is not answering just yet, having been delayed. I think of checking the emails, or reading the paper some more. But I sit, staring at my hands, enjoying the silence. Knowing that in these short moments are my daily breaks, which turn the squirly, busy feeling in my insides into a calmer thing which will purr rather than snarl when in company once again. I like morning time. It’s always the start of something new.

I have a new baby. She came into my life two days ago but is already just shy of seven months old. Se looks a lot like my old baby, except that her head is bigger.

This baby can stay awake for two hours or more at a time. Like my old baby, she will only nap for a cycle at a time during the day, but unlike my old baby, she sleeps for maximum 2.5 or 3 hours a day. From about 2.30 pm she won’t sleep, and if we put her to bed, she will complain in the voice of an older baby, which is a voice you can practically hear the thoughts within. And they are not gentle thoughts like my old baby’s. Oh no. They are thoughts of wilful destruction, of havoc in the living room, of jumping and swiping and general mayhem.

I am learning the tired signs and the hungry signs of this new baby, and I am a bit slow on the uptake, because I keep mistaking her for my old baby.

This baby is a lot cheekier and it has to be said, more fun than the old baby. She likes hiding games, and surprises. She really looks at you, and touches your face with intent to know. Whilst she is more demanding than the old baby, wanting much more regular stimulation and rough and tumble games (this baby loves being held upside down and swung around, whereas the old baby would go so far as to let you bounce her in your lap), she is also sparking with smarts. The neural electrons are zipping around our apartment, zinging the air with the energy of the age of discovery, once considered in the distant human past, yet recreated every time my baby wakes up and says with her little, craning neck, “Go!”

I love my new baby just as much as my old baby. She is definitely harder to handle, and I get more exasperated and exhausted than before, a taste of things to come when this baby is replaced with a new toddler, and so on as the cycle goes. But I am also in the slightest awe of her. Watching my new baby take the world and try to play with it, eat it, see it and understand it is like watching our ancestral arthropods clamber into the sun for the very first time.

My husband was just reading on Business Spectator, about the anachronism of government regulated, public holidays. The author, Caleb Samson, makes the point that, workers can make the choice for themselves if they want to work on a public holiday like Good Friday, for example in return for more pay or an extra day of leave.

This is a fair point. My husband and I work on public holidays regularly because we are self-employed, to the point where often we don’t even realise a public holiday is looming unless a client tells us that they can’t meet with us on such and such a day. But I still advocate public holidays, not for reasons of saving workers from meanie, profit-driven bosses (although there is probably still a place for this in some industries), but for social and communal reasons.

I have always liked Good Friday and, in the past before shops were open, Boxing Day too, for the very reason that they are, as the term says, “public holidays.” I love that everyone downs tools (well, everyone except emergency workers) and as a community, is sharing the same experience of a day off. Good Friday is so much better than a weekend because even the shops are closed, so we, as a community, are forced to take a break even from consuming, buying and shopping. I love the way that on Holy Thursday people stock up for the next day, thinking ahead in a way we just don’t really need to do any more. There is something really basic and simple about it. It’s like driving an old VW Beetle and hearing the gears actually crunch and shift each time you pull the handle – you are reminded that this thing you are operating is a machine with moving parts, not just a smooth, computerised system which divorces you from the experience of being alive.

I think it is good for us as a community to take a breath together. There is so little we have in common these days, and so much of what used to be locally driven, like support for new mothers, or helping old people with groceries, or aiding a disabled person, is now taken care of by state infrastructure. And that is good, and takes advantage of economies of scale, and guards against any one person’s lack of support. And it’s not that people don’t still help each other out – they do – but to me it feels like the glue that binds us together is just a little less sticky these days, as we go about our individual lives at times that suit us rather than times that suit the populus.

Sometimes it is just nice to know that everyone out there, beyond the walls of your own apartment, is having the same experience as you are.

It’s good to take time off, collectively. It’s good to be reminded that there are things to do with our spare time other than shop or eat out. It’s good that everyone is doing the same thing, maybe not together, but simultaneously and in a very physical, not just metaphysical sense – everyone is going to the park, or having a drink with friends, or cooking a pizza in the oven rather than over the phone. As we do these things on Good Friday, we know subconsciously that everyone else is too. That reinforces something that gave us humans the advantage over other species in the first place – that we are all members of a group.

We may not need to share the same religion, or know all our neighbours, or watch the same movies. But public holidays, the Masterchef Finale, and voting day, are what we have left.