Tempered Fragility

Disclaimer: I am not a parent. I just read a lot of blogs written by mothers.

The next time I read a blog post in which a parent worries endlessly about the new phase their child is going through, I’m going to post ‘YOUR LITTLE DARLING WILL SURVIVE. AND WILL PROBABLY GROW UP TO BE JUST AS ANXIOUS AS YOU.’ just like that, with capitals and everything.

Because frankly, I’ve had enough.

Children go through phases. Their tastes change as quickly as their moods. They are growing, and developing, and becoming real little people from the minute they’re born. Your boy-child may well like My Little Pony and playing tea-party with his stuffed animals when he is three. He might be climbing trees and catching all sorts of disgusting things for you by the time he’s four.

That’s called growth. Development. That thing that kids do.

If your daughter likes Disney princesses instead of Dora, then let her enjoy them. You have years to teach her about morals, and peer pressure, and inner beauty. There will be plenty of opportunities to show her that beautiful can mean many things, that she shouldn’t depend on men all the time, that she should make her own decisions. She’ll probably be more receptive when she’s out of nappies, anyway.

Likewise, if your son wants to do nothing more than dig in the dirt and play with toy cars, let him. Stop worrying about him thinking pink is for girls, or not wanting to play with dolls. He won’t always think like that; I’m sure you’ve matured somewhat since you were three. If you show him that men can be gentle too, that they can wear pink and cry and even feel, I think he’ll be just fine.

In short: if you’re laying awake at night wondering why your three-year-old isn’t challenging gender stereotypes at every opportunity, then you’re doing it wrong. Gender stereotypes are generalisations and they don’t apply to everyone. Stereotypical behaviour doesn’t guarantee that your child will be a helpless slave to their gender and everything it entails, either.

You, as a parent, have the most influence over the adult your child becomes.

Disclaimer #2: There are posts all over the internet where mothers (such as Her Bad Mother and Uppercase Woman) talk about this ‘issue’, but the real inspiration for this post were the hundreds (seriously) of comments left on various blogs where mothers everywhere worried, obsessed and stressed about how their little boys and girls weren’t quite the well-rounded individuals that mummy and daddy felt they should be.

Shit. This post sounds angry. I’m not angry. I’m just sick of parents worrying over every tiny thing, about stuff that shouldn’t even be an issue. When I was five, I loved wearing flouncy dresses and pretty shoes. When my grandmother let me wear lipstick, it made my day. I smiled and twirled and tra-la-laed, even. I adored Disney movies. I played with Barbie dolls and baby dolls. I wanted a prince to save me.

I’m not like that any more. I grew up; I became a different person. I like to think that I’m strong, that I can think for myself. I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy, or believe that I’m worth something. I understand that women and men are equal, and I hate stereotypes, as you may have guessed. I believe that I can look beautiful without makeup and a princess dress, too.

Growth. It’s a wonderful thing.

Also? TV will not kill your child. They won’t get turned away from college because you let them watch an extra hour of whatever brain-numbing show they happen to love. Everyone watches TV. EVEN YOU. So stop worrying that you’re going to rob your kid of the chance to be the next Einstein.

There’s something wrong with Rissa.

I changed her litter last night, and this morning it was flooded with pee again. I originally thought that Rylee had used it, but she wasn’t in last night, so. There’s definitely something wrong with her. According to the internet, it could be feline diabetes.

She could also be in season, I suppose, but she isn’t displaying any of the other symptoms. I knew as soon as Jazz was in season; she yowled, she rubbed up against us all the time, she tried desperately to get outside. Rissa is acting completely normal, aside from the excessive peeing.

I’m trying not to think about what that might mean.

Her appointment is at 4pm. I’m hoping to find out more then, but the vet will probably want to do (very expensive) tests before he can tell me anything. Which means I’m free to stress about this for a few days at least. I hate waiting. Seriously.

UPDATE:

The vet told me that Rissa is probably upset because there were six extra people in her ‘pack’ for three months. And now they’re gone, so she’s stressing about that. The peeing on my bed is her trying to re-affirm that the bedroom is our territory. She thinks she’s helping, heh.

I have no idea how to fix this problem, but I’m going to start by keeping her relatively contained and changing her litter regularly. I’ll watch her, and try to spend a little more time with her. Plus, I’ll keep Shadow away from her, so she doesn’t have the chance to attack her.

I arranged to spend some time with a friend yesterday.

The plan was simple; he’d come over, we’d watch some DVD’s and then I’d drive him home after dinner. Problem is, he never arrived. I called him at about 7pm, to ask what was going on, and he sheepishly informed me that he’d only just woken up. He was at his parent’s house, he said.

I waited, but there was only silence.

No apology for sleeping all day, despite the fact that we had plans. Not even a token ’sorry’. No answer when I asked whether he had been planning to call. Nothing. The silence annoyed me the most. It’s always annoyed me, his inability to communicate, his unwillingness to discuss things.

I have no right to his time or attention, and I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s not the first time he’s failed to show up. As far as I’m concerned, though, I have the right to be annoyed. When he called me after dinner, to ask how I was, I told him. He asked whether I was still pissed off, and then laughed.

Yes, I am still annoyed. Anything else you want to talk about?

But of course, there wasn’t. There never is. I do the talking; I start the conversations and push them along and I find things to fill the gaps. It frustrates me. It always has. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t talk because he doesn’t care, or isn’t interested. He assures me that isn’t the case, but still. I wonder.

I know that I’ll get over this. We’re friends; shit happens. I’ll forgive him and move on, until the next time it happens. I’ll be frustrated, and disappointed, and a little pissed off, but I’ll get over it. He’ll probably read this and be insulted, indignant even. He’ll get over it, too.

And so it goes.

The small group of people that I became friends with during VCAL are trying to organise a reunion, of sorts. It’s been three years since we were all together, a fact that I find both completely astonishing and a little sad. Once upon a time, we spent four days a week in class together. We had lunch at McDonald’s every day, and we caught the train together most afternoons. It was pretty freakin’ sweet, to be honest.

I miss the ease with which we ended our conversations each afternoon, and then picked them up the next morning. We were relaxed around one another, and very close, even though we all knew that we wouldn’t be best friends forever once VCAL ended. It didn’t matter. We were there for each other when it mattered; we sat outside for the smokers and made countless trips to wait outside bathrooms.

It was like high school, but better, because we were all over eighteen.

We’ve kept in contact sporadically; some more than others. Other people disappeared completely. We seem to run into one another often, since most of us still live around the same area. Plans to catch up are talked about often, but never acted upon. That’s why I’m so excited about this. It’s happening this time, and I’m actually looking forward to meeting up with everyone.

Yesterday, I went upstairs to help the girls turn on the television (because at age nine they still can’t remember to push the AV button after turning it on) and encountered the foulest stench to exist on this planet. I don’t know if it’s what I’m feeding her, or whether it’s her age, but Rissa is stinks at the moment. It’s horrendous, really. I go downstairs sometimes, because I just can’t stand it.

Anyway.

I walk into the study to get the remote control, and notice that instead of getting stronger (since the litter tray is in the bathroom next to the study), the smell is less overwhelming. It’s a little strange, but what do I know about how smells spread? I walk back into the bedroom and the smell gets worse. Strange, I think, again. I turn the TV on and look around for the Foxtel remote.

Rissa had taken a giant dump on my bedspread.

I mean a mammoth crap, seriously. Ten centimetres wide by 15 centimetres long. It was disgusting. The girls freak out. I freak out. Rissa freaks out. I clean it up as quickly as I can - it’s still warm, ew ew ew - but it’s right over the pleats and I can’t get it all out, so I pull the bedspread off and begin sponging it clean. I was trying to salvage the doona, because it’s goosedown and feather and expensive.

I don’t succeed in salvaging the doona; it’s left a nasty mark.

I toss the bedspread aside, put some Napisan in cold water and start cleaning the doona. It seems to  be working, so I calm down a little and actually start breathing again. Maybe she’s sick, I think. Maybe she has a stomach bug, or she ate something that she shouldn’t have. She’s never gone anywhere other than her tray before; there must be something terribly wrong.

Right on cue, Rissa jumps up onto my (now uncovered) doona and pisses all over it.

I freak out all over again. I yell at Rissa to stop and shoo her off the bed. I tell the girls to go and get Mum, because seriously, I have to lock that crazy freakin’ BITCH of a cat up before she does any more damage. Quickly! I grab the cloth and started sponging again, frantically, but the puddle is deeper than it looks and my whole hand ends up submerged. My hand is in cat piss, I think to myself. Perfect.

Mum arrives, and amidst my screaming and yelling Rissa hides beneath the bed.

When I finally manage to get her out, she hisses and tries to scratch me. I’m so surprised that I drop her and she runs away from me. I call her a bitch and leave her huddled in the corner. Downstairs, I cry about my doona talk to Mum about her behaviour. We decide that she was probably upset because Shadow (Mum’s cat) attacked her on Friday night. Then I cry about my doona.

Mum suggests moving her bowl and litter tray, since Shadow probably attacked her while she was eating or using the tray. I move them into the other bathroom and try to coax Rissa out from the corner. She growls at me, so I drag her out, snarling and squirming, and carry her there. I shut the door and listen from the other side. Silence, at first. Then a quite crunch, crunch, crunch. She’s eating.

Five minutes later I open the door, and she’s back to normal.

I hope it was just some form of short-term feline post traumatic stress disorder, because if it wasn’t then I have to face the fact that my cat is just a bitch, basically, and I don’t want that to be true because she’s been a really good cat. Except for not liking people and playing with really noisy toys all night, but I think she deserves a break because she has to put up with Shadow, the uber-bitch.

I think I have another reason to hate Shadow.

P.S - Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. I don’t know how you managed to keep a straight face throughout the whole ordeal, but thank you. I’ll be your partner in poop any time.

P.P.S - Happy Mother’s Day, Nana and Aunty Vikki. I love you both.

Last weekend, Tiffany saw a skywriter for the first time. She asked me all about them.

I told her about the first time I remembered seeing a skywriter. I don’t know how old I was, but my cousin Mark and I were standing in his backyard, and we watched it draw straight, tall letters for what seemed like hours, struggling to guess each letter before it was complete. I remember that it took us a long, long time to actually figure out what it said, what it meant.

I couldn’t remember what the skywriter had actually been advertising for the life of me, though.

Then, last night while I was taking two and a half hours to get home, I read a short story in The Sleepers Almanac (No. 4) titled ‘Small World 2001′ by Andrew Preston. And right there, in a short story written by someone I’ve never met, in a book that I only know about because of my course, was this:

“After having a coffee, they walk along St Kilda pier. They hear a buzzing above them. Looking up, they see a light plane doing some skywriting. What will the writing say? Will it be a message of love, or something like, ‘Jesus Saves’? No, nothing of the sort. It says ‘Agfa Film’.”

Of course. How could I not remember? Agfa Film. I remembered, when I read that sentence, the way the words were framed by clouds. I remembered wondering how the pilot had managed to find that clear, unbroken patch of sky in which to write his message. I remembered thinking why film, of all things?

It was bizarre, finding that tiny piece of information so unexpectedly.

Last night, it took me two and a half hours to get home.

After spending the evening wheezing and drowsy, my nose running and my eyes puffing up, all I wanted to do was get home and collapse into bed. Instead, I got to the train station just in time to hear the first announcement of DOOM:

“Excuse me passengers, the Epping train has been delayed by thirteen minutes.”

I sighed, I rolled my eyes, and I got over it. Delays are common, and I didn’t expect it to turn into anything more. So, I pulled out my book, turned up the music on my iPhone and waited. Just before the train arrived, the speakers crackled with another announcement:

“All Epping trains will be terminating at Clifton Hill. Connex apologises for any inconvenience.”

And that’s when I knew I’d be getting home later than usual.

They put us on the train, took us off the train. Put us on a bus, took us off the bus. Then they put us back on the train. No one had any idea what was going on, or why the train wasn’t running. There was some talk of construction gone wrong, or a suicide attempt, or even a car accident. I’m usually supportive of Connex and their efforts to keep people informed, but last night was a complete shambles.

The replacement buses were only running from one side of the train station, yet there were no signs or employees to point people in the right direction. The employees waiting on the other side were rude, and completely unhelpful when asked about what was going on. We were pushed onto buses until we were practically in each other’s laps, and even then they yelled at us to move further back.

I was disappointed, since the last time there were issues when I was travelling, the updates and service provided were absolutely brilliant. Connex really dropped the ball on this one. I mean, I get it. They were cold, and tired, and probably pissed off about working so late. So were we, though, and we weren’t being paid to stand there and shiver.

Thanks for the night out, Connex. Let’s not do it again.

(I’m pretty sure that my stuffed up nose, puffy eyes and drowsiness are related to whatever perfumes my classmates were wearing. But if I disappear after this and you can’t get in touch with me then I probably have swine flu. And since I don’t know anyone who has swine flu, you might want to stay away from my website, because seriously? No one has any idea how that shit could be transmitted.)