Image via: mytinyphone
So I got into a Twitter discussion with @MrOzAtheist and his followers yesterday. As I write this it's still going.
Let me begin by saying, I have followed him for a while and have mostly had admiration and respect for him and his work, until now. I agreed with him about atheism and the harm that religion does, particularly the institutionalised Abrahamic religions and their impact on women's lives. The thing is I am very often disappointed by people I admire, in particular, men I admire, who despite all their intelligence and kindness, still harbour very deeply ingrained male privilege, sexism and misogyny. When they are questioned, this brings about a whole shit storm of abuse, denial and deflection, from themselves and others, including women who have internalised the effects of patriarchy. At the very least, these high profile men aren't speaking to me as a person. They are speaking to other men and women they approve of. Women like me are their secondary concern. Male is standard. Female other, regardless of the gendered body spectrum. And women are so used to internalising it, they accept it, even perpetuate it.
That is why, when I came across a Tweet by MrOz in response to a Tweet by the ABA (The Australian Breastfeeding Association), I was taken aback. Given his understanding of the harm religion does to women, I assumed he was a feminist. My literal response was WTF.
I was not offended, but thought it was sexist and an abuse of male privilege to feel entitled to make a sexualised comment, (asking consent before breastfeeding, conjuring the image of an adult male sucking on a woman's breast) in that context. IN THAT CONTEXT. I was particularly annoyed that the ABA was attempting to make a supportive Tweet, aimed mainly at mothers, perhaps first time mums, who are embarking on breastfeeding, with all it's obstacles and stigmas, for the first time, and that's where he chose to try out his 'lame' joke. Some people even called it a "dad joke". Because saying "just kidding" means you're absolved of any wrong doing. Daggy jokes are a great way to get away with saying whatever you want and then blaming the person who thinks it's off. I swear, I was waiting for someone to say it was like locker room banter, but no one dared. Close enough though. I get that consensual adult breastfeeding is a real thing. I do. It doesn't bother me. I just don't believe that is who the ABA aimed their breastfeeding Tweet at.
It is no secret, despite the foot stamping denial of some, that breasts are sexualised, women's bodies are sexualised, as objects for the gratification of men. This is an acceptable way to view a woman's body and particularly her breasts. When breasts are exposed in order to suckle an infant, controversy ensues. That is why the ABA felt the need to remind women that their right to breastfeed anywhere and anytime is protected by Australian Law. If it wasn't an issue, the ABA wouldn't have needed to Tweet that.
Breastfeeding rights and stigma aren't an issue just in Australia. Recently, an American mum posted a picture of herself breastfeeding in a Victoria's Secret store, after being asked by staff to move along and breastfeed her baby in the toilet. The hypocrisy was evident.
Image via: Daily Mail (I know, shit source, but relevant content.)
MrOZ thought it was funny to play on the ambiguity of the words and to place himself in the position of the user of the breastfeeding woman's breasts. He was applauded might I add. People, women too, breastfeeding mothers, even the ABA, saw no issue with this. He was just making a silly joke and he was addressing consent, so let's give him a parade and a medal for being a champion of women's self-determination, while creating the imagery of a grown man sucking on a woman's breast. On the ABA account. In response to a supportive Tweet aimed at possibly inexperienced breastfeeding mothers.
I didn't find it funny in that context, but I will reiterate. I wasn't offended or triggered. I just called it what it was. A man feeling entitled to pipe up on a women's safe space aimed at empowering and supporting them, to be funny, hardy har. What a hero!
Mayhem ensued. I was accused of all the textbook dysfunctions that addle a woman's brain when she insists on not being treated like a doormat. I was humourless, couldn't take a joke, didn't get it, too sensitive, a social justice warrior (that's not an insult btw!), crazy, angry, bitter, needed a root, needed a wank, triggered, abused, man hating, racist (for mentioning white male privilege) and sexist just to mention a few. One woman thought that someone should hit me to shut me up. MrOz, in fact none of his followers, found that inappropriate. At one stage, I retaliated at a fellow who called me a "femitroll". I said "go fuck yourself sideways, you disrespectful cunt". It didn't do me any favours. Although, I deleted it, thinking my brutal retort would only be funny to me, MrOz, being the pro Twitterer that he is, had already screen grabbed it and re tweeted it. Several times. It was the only one of my responses he focused on. He kept asking me to explain the sexism, but didn't want to address it when I did. Just kept denying any wrong doing, intentional or not, and kept calling me crazy. It's my ovaries you know, I'm hysterical! Oldest come back in the book.
No one, not women, not mothers, not the ABA, not people who I thought were feminists saw that it was sexist to feel entitled to invade that space with a sexualised joke. Only one person finally agreed that it amounted to harrassment, but then people argued that that was impossible because it was on Twitter, not real life. I know I know, offense is taken not given. I chose to be offended (I wasn't), it's subjective. Ok. Well in that context, it was sexist.
They insisted it wasn't sexist. If anything, he was championing consent. And if any woman was triggered by that, she was the problem. If a new mother reading that, feeling the weight of new responsibility, the scrutiny associated with motherhood, the stigma of breastfeeding, the myriad of emotions and hormones that the ABA aims to soften the blow of; if any woman may have found that an invasion of her safe space, she was the problem. That is victim blaming and rape culture in action. But I was told they were "buzz words" that didn't mean anything and to go get a sense of humour and a root.
At one stage the discussion turned into women playing the victim, the family courts being against men and fathers, women perpetrating violence against men at the same rate as men against women, men dying more often than women at war. I kid you not. Those things were thrown back at me for merely questioning the context of a shitty sexist joke, the content of which I didn't even give two shits about.
I simply thought a man creating the image of himself sucking on a woman's boob to breastfeed (with consent of course, *round of applause*) on a Twitter account reassuring women of their right to breastfeed their infants without harrassment, was harrassment in itself and that privilege was sexist. The End.
Image via: Twitter.com
You never notice when your kids start using language properly to reason. My twins are one and a half and they have started talking. They have babbling conversations with each other and with themselves. I recognise some sounds that could be words. They also say very specific words accompanied by actions; like 'hat', 'wrap', 'get down', 'ducky', 'jacket', 'Bubu' (an app about a cat).
Somehow they go from these stumbling attempts at communication, to having full conversations with you, sometimes using bigger words and phrases than you anticipate. My almost three year old is saying things to me like 'that could be dangerous', 'how exciting' and 'don't worry, it'll turn up'. She also said 'Jesus Christ' and 'the bloody wasp will get us'. I'm working on being a bit more aware of my language around her till she's old enough to understand context. Her language skills have developed immensely since starting daycare six months ago and she comes home and tells me stories about her day. I don't even listen to the details much, I'm so enthralled that suddenly she knows how to speak.
She has this way of joining a whole bunch of random sentences together with 'but' and 'and so'. I can listen to her logic and story telling for hours and look for queues about how she is starting to describe and relate to the world around her.
This morning we had a moment. It's not the first time we've conversed, obviously. We talk a lot. I reckon I talk too much sometimes. I describe and explain everything to the girls and I'm well aware that most of the time their faces are looking back at me blankly and they're drifting off into their own thoughts or trying to change the subject (my eldest is great at this, especially if I am giving her a lecture about something she did that wasn't right, like pushing her sister or snatching toys). I'm sure they're taking it all in on some level. My husband is the silent type. He doesn't go into detailed analysis of every little thing like I do and his relationship with the girls is less verbose. They are very lucky to have a good balance.
So this morning I was dressing my eldest. We were talking about one of her favourite toys at the moment, her stuffed Hootabelle. The Giggle and Hoot Show is the official show on the ABC that hosts the ABC Kids channel. We are a TV family. It is on every day, all day. So sue me. We don't vegetate in front of the TV mindlessly. That's not how it works. It's on in the background. Sometimes the kids join in with the songs, sometimes we ignore it and go to another room. The kids learn a lot and it creates an ambience of joy and music and learning and colour. We live in a unit. We don't have a yard. I take them out regularly, but when we're home, the TV is our mate. After they go to bed, it stays on. Regardless of what we're doing, the TV stays on til we go to bed too.
We were naming all the characters on the show. They are mostly owls. We went through all of them, but she seemed to think we were missing someone. I argued that no, that was it and we went through them again.
'The one with the mustache', she said. I thought for a second and went through them again. No that was it; Hoot, Hootabelle, Hootley, Giggle Fangs, Mini Hoot, Giggleosaurus, Giggle Paws. There were a few other randoms like when they do the Xmas special, but I knew she wouldn't remember those ones.
I tried to convince her that it was all the characters we knew and it was time to move on, but she wasn't satisfied. I could see her face contorting in an effort to try and remember. It was like I was witnessing that first sense of frustration you get as you search your memory banks for something you want to bring to mind, but just can't. As we chatted away, it suddenly occurred to me what she meant by the mustache; she meant the beard.
'The Pirate one, Hootbeard!', I exclaimed. Her face lit up!
'Yes, Hootbeard!'. She was thrilled. We had a moment. We looked at each other relieved that we remembered. I've had moments like this with so many people. You're deep in conversation and you want to say something important and relevant, but it's just impossible to recall. How many times have we instantly pulled out our phones to Google it? That actor's name, that ingredient that can substitute sugar, that bit of legislation, the name of that restaurant we went to.
This morning I shared that with my baby and I don't know why, but it made me teary. It was special and I hope the first of many candid conversations we will have that leaves us feeling like we're on the same page.
Then I spent the next 15 minutes sifting through her sister's shit with rubber gloves on, trying to find the little white plastic thingy off the end of the coat hanger, that she swallowed yesterday. It's a life of extremes.
Image credit via Pinterest.com
Nothing makes me happier than a clean bathroom. Shiny tiles, the smell of pine, soft folded towels. Nothing disgusts and terrifies me more than a dirty one. I hate public toilets. I hate them to the point of phobia. Ordinarily, I avoid them, but sometimes it's something I just have to close my eyes, hold my breath and survive. To me, all public toilets look like the one in the movie Trainspotting. I hate this image in my mind so much that I couldn't even bring myself to find a still from the movie to put in this post to show you, because I know what other images I may have to look at and I'm nauseous just thinking about it.
When I am having an anxious time in my life; whenever I have things going on that are worrying me or if I am under the weather; I dream about dirty bathrooms. I dream that I am desperate to go and that I have to navigate all sorts of horror to relieve myself. The images stay with me all day. It's worse than any nightmare. I'm sure I should probably speak to a therapist about it. I'm sure they'd be rubbing their hands together with dollar signs in their eyes at the thought of unraveling that knot.
Which is why right now, any kind of public outing is filled with dread and apprehension. You see I have just toilet trained my almost three year old and public toilets are now not only a necessity, but one that I must make a pleasant experience for her. I don't want to instill the same level of fear and reluctance in her that I feel. At the same time I don't want her to get too comfortable in there.
Taking my little one to the toilet in public has become a careful journey through a labyrinth of germs and wet funk the reality of which doesn't even compare to the degradation and mayhem that exists in my imagination. In my defense, I don't think my worst imaginings are far off the mark. Public toilets are a fucking nightmare.
I use the parent rooms in most places where I can. They have a miniature hell hole designed for tiny little bottoms. You'd think they'd be relatively clean; I mean how much mess can a toddler make if they are carefully placed on there and taken off. You'd be surprised. Piss on the seat, not flushed, over used and under cleaned. What do you expect from a public toilet, I hear you ask. Not much more, I know that. I just hate it. I can't be alone and I think things should change. It's not impossible.
That part I manage. Wipe down the seat, repeat "hands on heads" over and over again like a jolly drill sergeant, make it quick, hope for the best and get the hell out.
Parent rooms are mostly pretty awful. Yes they have some lovely pictures on the walls, all the amenities like a microwave, comfy chairs, change tables; some even have a tv and play equipment in a fenced off area for the older ones. Unfortunately they see a lot of traffic and I imagine it is difficult to maintain them. The level of maintenance never matches the level of use and in some cases abuse, because people treat those places carelessly. They make a mess and leave it there for someone else to correct. I wonder if it's because they're rushed to leave the putrid place just like I am or they just live like that and have zero respect for other human beings whether they will be using the place after them or have to do the butt clenching, soul destroying task of cleaning them.
I spent a lot of time in those rooms. With my first I took my time. I'd sit and feed her, burp her and change her. With the twins it was a little harder to negotiate tandem feeding while watching a toddler, so unless I had help, I timed my outings around feeds. There is nothing worse than trying to feed your baby surrounded by nappy bins filled to the brim. Who else is expected to eat in a fucking toilet, but babies! And I have witnessed people using those rooms like a cafe. No word of a lie. Shopping center employees will heat up their food in the microwave and sit and eat their lunch in there, mothers with older children will bring their kids to have lunch.....IN THERE! There are food courts, parks with trees outside, your car. Anywhere, but a toilet room!
I sometimes felt brave enough to feed my baby in the food court, not giving a fuck who saw my boob. But even I have to admit, especially when the kids were small, I needed a quiet and intimate space without distraction. I think that's an entitlement.
I remember the first time I traveled to Europe as an adult, using the public restrooms with attendants. You had to give a donation to buy toilet paper. My initial reaction was surprise and confusion at having to pay for toilet paper. I mean how stingy! But the more I needed them while I traveled the more pleasant the experience became. Without exception, the toilets looked after by an attendant were spotless. I still haven't reconciled the classist and sexist conundrum that this kind of employment brings about, but the concept is valid. When there is someone there to oversee the behaviour of people and to take care of the space, it creates a culture of common care.
If you need to relieve yourself in public, do it in a civilised manner. Piss, shit, vomit, wank, change your tampon, whatever. Do it in the privacy of a cubicle and clean up after yourself. How hard is that.
My vision of parent rooms are utopian. I imagine an abundance of curtained off cubicles with a comfy chair, a small table, enough room for a pram, another seat for a 'guest', a small wall puzzle apparatus for older kids, a change table and a bin that is frequently emptied. A permanent attendant - male or female - with dignified working conditions to ensure the area is respected and maintained. I truly believe that when those conditions already exist and are encouraged, people adapt. Isn't it what everyone wants? If you go to a fancy hotel or restaurant, it never ends up looking like a McDonald's at 3am does it.
One final thing. I don't give a fuck if you have a penis or a vagina or both or neither or any other combination. If you need to relieve yourself or tend to a child or baby, everyone should be able to do that with privacy, good hygiene and free from harrassment. I don't get the segregation. I never have. At music festivals, I used the men's room on more than one occasion, when the queue for the women's was out the door and into the carpark.
I want to revolutionise public rest rooms. Because of the nature of the acts that go on in there, that is more of a reason for us as a domesticated and civilised species to work harder to make the whole experience more accommodating. Yes flowers and soft music. Yes aromatherapy, yes waste management and comfort. It's time to pimp up the custodial industry. It's important. Pay cleaners what they are worth. They make magic every day. And show some respect, help out by not being a disgrace. Leave a place as you found it. Leave no trace. It's a metaphor for how we should live generally.
