Hoochiemumma

Personal Blog

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Forever 67.

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Sorry to anyone over the age of 45, but I’ll be writing about snapchat for a moment…

You know the filter thingo where you can slide to the left and relive the glorious youthful face you used to own in your 20’s, and then slide to the right and see what life has to offer your face in the future? Well, not so long ago, I did that, and what I saw as I slid to the right took my breath away.  Staring right back at me was the image of my mother.

Sometimes when people die, well meaning people say that “they live on in you”. Well, it seems that my mum, who died almost 12 years ago, continues to live on… on my face.

This picture means nothing to those who didn’t know mum, but for those who did… here is “Mel-Rae“. Thanks for freaking me out Snapchat. I’d like to think that I’d sort that hair situation out a little better… but wow.

As a child I used to roll my eyes and die a little on my insides when people told me I looked like my mum. When you’re 12 years old and you get told that you look like your 45 year old mother, it’s a hard pill to swallow. Probably slightly better than being told you look like your father though…

Funnily enough, not that long ago Scarlett was told the same fateful line…”Oh, you look like your mum”. As Scarlett glanced over to me with a look I can only describe as horror, I felt her pain all the way to my inner core. I empathised and apologised for the torment I saw so clearly in her eyes. I knew exactly what she was thinking. “Why do I have to look like you?”

Fair enough, I’m no oil painting, but besides that, even if your mum is the most beautiful woman on the planet, no one wants to look like their mum when they are hitting puberty. Tween-dom is an age when you’re breaking away a little bit from your mum and trying to figure out who you are aside from her. You don’t want to be running around with your mothers face on your head when all you’re trying to do is pretend you don’t even have a mother. Or at least that’s how I felt for a few years, and I’m certain Scarlett feels this way too. Some days I embarrass her by just breathing it seems.

It’s a gift. Tweens are fun.

Now that I’m older and wiser and far from my younger years when I yearned to be an independent “woman of the world”, I’d give anything to be standing next to my mum while some well meaning person told me how much I looked like her.

Especially today… her birthday.

I also hope I inherited more of her traits than just her face. Unfortunately I missed out on her patience and ladylike language.

Good mums are so very special. No matter if you look like them or not…whether they gave birth you…or even if the “mum” in your life isn’t even a mum. Hug them tight.

Thankful for beautiful memories.

Forever 67.

M

 

 

Hooch’s on Holidays

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Like a lot of people in January, we ventured off on a family holiday. We loaded up Roxy Roadstar and off we set to be beside the seaside.
It’s only been our third venture in the Roxy beast and I’ve learnt a few things about caravanning.. and also have some questions.
Firstly… I’ve learnt that if all five of us are inside the caravan, only two people can be in motion at any one given moment. The other three people must be seated, laying on a bed or inside the cupboard like appendages of the toot or shower. And god help the idiot standing in the doorway. GET OUT OF THE DAMN DOORWAY.
Secondly… according to Mr Hooch I apparently have a “voice that carries”. Funnily enough it rarely “carries” itself to his eardrums but it can induce a half naked grumpy old prick to raise from his slumber to greet us with his man boobs flailing to tell us to STFU “because the park rules say quiet at 10pm”. It was 10:15pm. What a haemorrhoid on the butt of life that guy is.
And put a shirt on next time Mister.

Thirdly… washing. Why does it halve when we are away? Why is my family happy to wear the same outfit more than twice, but at home they adorn themselves in multiple changes for morning, noon and night. Things gonna change in the laundry dept at Hooch-Manor.

Fourthly…. why is it acceptable to serve sausages in bread multiple times as a meal and feel no guilt?
Fifthly… dishes. Why do they halve when we’re away? Maybe it has something to do with Fourthly… and UberEats. God bless you UberEats. You bring an immense amount of joy to the designated cookers of the world.
Sixthly… If you want a frothy at 2pm on a Wednesday and you are in a caravan park, then go forth and prosper. You do that shit on Wednesday in your own house, week 4 of term 2 then we’ll be booking your arse in to some AA meetings and praying for your soul.
Seventhly…. why does “Mummy” have to explain to “Daddy” that “Mummy and Daddy time” in a caravan with kids a cats whisker away will result with two of them possibly vomiting and the third demanding to know what the hell is going on. If the van is a rockin’, then mental health issues for our children will come a knockin’.
Eighthly…. it takes Mr Hooch two days before it’s due for us to leave before he chills out and stops bitching and whingeing that we aren’t all up and dressed and ready to do something before 9am. Sleeping is doing something. How bout you try that?
Ninethly…. 7 year olds are THE BEST at making friends. All it takes is some random playground chats, (some including President Trump weirdly enough!?) a couple of back flips on the jumping pillow, a climb up a tree and WHAMO.. got ma-self a new friend. Repeat this daily and a whole new posse of glorious boyhood fun ensues.
Tenthly…there is nothing more soothing and enjoyable than time spent with family and friends mixed with the sea air. Nothing.
Eleventhly… holidays away in Roxy Roadstar are never long enough and holiday blues are a genuine thing.
Twelfthly… with all of the devastation we have ingested over the past few weeks and months I hope you have also had some special time with those you love.

 

M

Jingle my bells.

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gold bell on top of brown table
Photo by Jenna Hamra on Pexels.com

I’m usually full of the Christmas joy, but I’m not feeling it this year… like, at all. Someone needs to jingle my bells, cause I am a bit grinchy.  I have even cranked up some Christmas tunes as I type this, to incite some kind of Yule Tide flow. It hasn’t helped because I am now just getting sad that poor old George Michael, rest his soul, gave his heart to that arse-hole who regifted it on boxing day…and I call bullshit that Mariah doesn’t want much for Christmas. Yeah, OK Mariah… I’m sure you’d be happy with me wrapped up under your tree?

Maybe it’s the heat, or our stupid prick of a Prime Minister going on a holiday with his church buddies, while the country he is meant to be leading is literally on fire. Talk about not reading the room Scotty. Maybe it’s a hang-over from Term 4 or the fact that the dog keeps digging up the garden and the cat shit behind my desk again. Apparently, the shower isn’t doing it for her anymore.

One thing that boosted me out of some ‘meh-ness’ was the excitement on Elliot’s face this morning as he was glued to the TV, watching secret camera setups to catch Father Christmas deliver presents. Geez people have a lot of time on their hands, I thought, but bless their Christmas stockings because my baby boy is remaining a solid believer in the Big Fella now that some magical facts have been pumped through his eyes via some random weirdo’s YouTube channel. It may come across as selfish that I want my youngest to keep believing that a white-bearded man in a red suit delivers presents to every house in a single night while flying through the night skies led by reindeers…but I don’t care. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want big kids yet who don’t believe in Father Christmas. Just let me have one believer…please? It really just makes everything more Christmassy and fun and magical, seeing the joy on little people’s faces, and I for one, need some fun and magic right about now.

There will, of course, come a time very soon that the final believer in our house will discover the truth. The truth that Father Christmas, as he knows him, doesn’t exist; that there are no elves at the North Pole; that Rudolph doesn’t pull the sleigh; that Elf on the shelf doesn’t magically move to obscure places by himself; and that Mr Hooch drinks the beer and I eat the biscuit that is lovingly left out on Christmas Eve.

As I write this, I am reminded of a beautiful letter written by Martha Brockencrough to her daughter Lucy in 2009. It’s been around for a while now, so you may have read it, but if you’re like me and clutching onto the last few years of your youngest child’s innocence and wonder, this may trigger an ugly cry…. grab a tissue.

 

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”

I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though.

Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to believe in something they can’t see or touch.

It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents, and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.

Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: He has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.

So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will.

Mama

 

Well, wouldn’t you know it… I think Martha helped me find some Christmas joy.

Merry Christmas, especially to those loyal few who take the time to read my dribbly little blog which brings me quite a bit of enjoyment as I tap away, sending my thoughts out to nowhere.

May you all find a tonne of love, magic, hope and happiness.

M

 

Hey, Term 4… You suck.

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Last week, I thought I was having an existential crisis.

Or perhaps it was just not enough sleep?

Maybe I needed more sun?

Early on set-dementia? Chronic fatigue? Perimenopause?

Is Mercury in retrograde?

B12… it was probably a lack of B12, I thought.

But no. I didn’t have any of those things. I simply had what is known as “TERM 4”.

FU you Term 4. You should be the best of terms. To start with, you’re the shortest term. You have Christmas themed everything. You have parties, events, summer days and celebrations. You have frivolity and rewards and gifts and candy canes. You have concerts and dinners and raffles and drinks. You are the epitome of happy.

So why do I hate you so much?

How do you make rational parents, far and wide across the land, become slightly unhinged, and fantasise about your fast and furious death… Why Term 4. WHY?

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You need to chill out a bit. Not be so needy with all of your parties and concerts and catch-ups. I don’t like to say it, but Term 4… I think you’re a little bit narcissistic. You’re just too high maintenance. You’re a bit of a wanker….A bit up ya-self. You remind me of my ex-husband.

Can I suggest you take a tip from Term 2. Term 2 is the Bob Marley of terms. Full of enlightenment with calm focus, slathered with purposeful love-filled productivity. There’s no need for costumes, parades, and endless parties for Term 2. No-siree Bob (Marley). Look, Term 2 may be stoned, but whatevs. We love Term 2. You….eh… not so much.

It’s not all your fault though, Term 4. The Western World is all a little bonkers at the end of the year. I can’t speak for everyone, but I now have an intimate understanding as to why some animals sacrifice their young and the realisation that black widow Spiders may be onto something.

So, it’s a hearty goodbye from me Term 4. I shall not be sad to see your arse end as I look forward to basking in a sea of relaxed glory. No more early morning shuffles, lunchboxes, uniform washing, homework, readers, notes, excursions, more notes, events, sport, sport, and sport. A gleeful 6-week hiatus, as we contemplate the arrival of your cheerfully hyperactive and hopeful friend known as Term 1.

Hold tight my fellow Term 4 warriors. We are almost done. I wish you well as we limp across the finish line, ceremoniously wrapped in tinsel and gaudy paper while drunk on exhaustion and dubious gift-buying decisions.

One more week…. let’s do this!

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M

Operation Secret iPod Confiscation – The jig is up.

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For the punters playing along at home….

The cat  is out of the bag.

The can of worms has popped.

The beans have been spilled.

The game has been given away.

Mr. Hooch couldn’t help himself. Damn him.

Let’s just say there’ll be some more literary pursuits occurring in the top bedroom.

Operation Secret iPod Confiscation has officially concluded.

The results are hazy.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about.. head on back to the last post “Liar Liar Pant on Fire”).

I’m sure when she is 25 years old and I give her the iPod back, she will appreciate the life lessons I am trying to instill. Yeah, that’s right, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD…. I actually said that. It’s OK though because, by the time I got to that part of my monologue, I’m pretty sure her eyes were rolled so far back into her head it had turned off her ability to hear.

While I was imparting my wisdom upon the pony-tail wearer, there was a little 7 year old loving the absolute shit out of seeing his sister getting ripped a new butt-hole. It wasn’t ripping actually….more like a carefully planned surgical incision. He had a surgical butt-hole procedure only last week, so he was simultaneously tender and gleeful as he watched on with eyes as big as saucers.

As our daughter made her way back to her room, with her new butt-hole, to spend some time “reflecting”, or possibly making a voodoo doll with red curly hair, I wondered if my stealth operation had any more value than pure entertainment for myself. This parenting gig is hard, and I’m lucky because my kids are pretty awesome kids. I have probably made Miss iPod sound like a right little turd, but she’s not. She is the bees knees and despite my rant, I, of course, adore her. She is kind, smart, clever and reliable. She is thoughtful and caring. But she’s also a kid, learning her way through childhood at the same time we are learning our way through parenthood. How’s that for twisted irony? I am the first one to stick my hand up and recognise that I stuff this job up all the time. If I had a boss, I’d be on a permanent Performance Management Plan, mainly for inappropriate language I suspect.

I hope something gets through to them when I launch my monologues of wisdom. I hope some kind of lesson was learned, or re-learned. I hope for so many things for our children.

Mainly, I hope they don’t turn out to be raging morons.

I hope they turn out to be good eggs – honest, kind and thoughtful.

I hope they know their worth.

I hope they live a life of purpose and meaning.

I hope they have back-bones and speak their truth.

I hope they find happiness.

The list is endless.

But mostly, I hope they know they are loved, because, without that, nothing else matters.

M

 

 

 

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

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Here’s the dish…

We have a ‘no-screens-in-bedrooms-overnight’ rule.

Except for me, ’cause I’m allowed to do whatever I want, ’cause I’m the mum, so shut up.

I poked my head into the pony-tail wearer’s bedroom to do the “check-she’s-still-alive-before-I-go-to-bed” thing. I’ve done this forever…I can’t sleep if I haven’t done my nightly offspring checks. Anyway, there she was, my darling girl who should be sleeping, but instead, was sneakily (but obvious to the trained mother eye) watching something on her iPod.

“Hope you’re not on a screen? Where’s your iPod?” I ask.

“Oh, I dunno… “ she replied, “down there somewhere”, indicating that it was in the living area.

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Look, all kids fib. They lie by omission, they sugar coat, deny, delete and sneak. The stupid ones even lie to your face. I get it. It’s a road I’ve travelled with this one a few times.

I stood in the doorway and mulled over my options. I had a couple of choices. I could have, once again, the same discussion about telling fibs. I could, once again, explain that if I’m asking a question, most of the time I already know the answer, so it’s a good idea to answer honestly. I could then confiscate the iPod, like I have done many times in the past, give an epic lengthy lecture about fibbing, breaking trust, blah blah blah OR I could up my parenting game.

Screw it, I thought. Clearly talking doesn’t work with this one. This one needs a practical demonstration. Plus, I don’t like being played by an 11-year-old.

GAME ON.

So when Miss “I can pull one over my mum” fell asleep, I went back into her room, slipped my hand under her pillow and voila!…. What do you know? There was her iPod.

“Operation Secret iPod Confiscation” had now been activated.

The next morning, I noticed that Miss IPod (yes she has many names in this story) had made her bed and her room was unusually tidy. Mmm. Looking for something maybe?

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I’m probably breaking some cardinal parenting rule and Mr. Hooch thinks I am slightly twisted and sadistic. But bugger it, I’m equally amused and intrigued as to how this will pan out.

So far, we are heading into day THREE of the iPod hostage situation, and she still hasn’t mentioned a SINGLE WORD.

I’m not sure what my next move will be. I didn’t think that far ahead when I launched “Operation Secret iPod Confiscation”. I’m dedicated to the cause though, so I’m not about to let the team down. “The Team” is me and Mr. Hooch of course.

Team Hooch vs Liar Liar pants on fire.

We will be victorious, goddammit. A lesson will be learned. The lesson may end up with Miss iPod improving her sneaky Netflix watching skills…but whatever…I’m gonna take that as a win.

M

Trophy Wife Life

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When I had fantasies about stapling my boss’s hair to her desk, I figured I needed to re-evaluate my professional life.

So I quit.

It doesn’t escape me that I was lucky to be in a position where I could just make that decision. The impact wasn’t huge to our lifestyle. My income contribution was icing on the cake. I only worked part-time and I’ve always worked in human services. The most underpaid work in the whole world. A female-dominated, disastrously undervalued and underpaid industry #genderpaygap. Let’s just say you don’t stick around in human services for the pay packet.

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With my new-found freedom, I derived the most fabulous plans about the mammoth achievements I would accomplish as I turned my focus to our family, the farm, study and general awesomeness. No daytime telly, three-hour phone calls, or mindless scrolling of the interwebs for me. No siree Bob. I was going to tick off my long list of those goals and not waste a second. I’d be self-motivated and action-packed. I’d have a plan. I’d stick to it. I would be some kind of super version of myself.

 

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Photo by Juhasz Imre on Pexels.com

Oh puh-lease. Who was I kidding?

All I’ve really done is clean out a cupboard, filed paperwork and started a blog. Well, I’ve done a bit more than that, but not to the epic proportions I had conjured up in my head.

I think I was trying to compensate for the fact that it was the first time in my whole life that when people asked me “what I did”, also known as “how do you earn money?” that I didn’t have an easy answer. I found myself spewing out a convoluted story to justify my existence in the world. I’d find myself explaining how I do the book work for the farm now and how that has been a learning curve for me and that I volunteer more and I have good intentions of finishing a course and blah blah blah fucking blah.

So one day, I decided that if I was ever confronted with that question again I’d simply say “I’m a trophy wife”. I thought it was hilarious. Mr. Hooch looked at me like he often does… with utter bewilderment, and we both agreed that yes, I probably came in at the “participation ribbon” level of the trophy wife stakes, (thanks darling 🖕🏻), but none the less that was my go-to slogan. Trophy wife…Hilarious…Completely opposing my feminist views…Perfect! I even bought a new dress for the occasion.

 

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I forgot, however, that not everyone understands my sense of humour. I need to gauge that a little better because not that long ago I was asked if I was “on a day off” or if I had to “get back to work”. I proudly blurted out that “I quit work about 18months ago. I’m a trophy wife now!”

A weird kind of silence sat in the room. Kinda like a fart no one claims.

Oh shit…. ‘should’ve worn my dress’, I thought.

So, I launched the old routine.

It was reciprocated with a “oh… good on you”.

I think it was genuine, but I also felt a slight vibe of “what are you doing? Who the hell doesn’t work these days?”

Or maybe it was me, reading too much into it. Maybe it’s me that doesn’t value my role enough in the world. Why is that? Why do women feel pressure to be everything? “I am woman… hear me roar and then hear me have a mental breakdown as I try and do it all, juggling my life to be the woman we read about”.

According to the world, we should be fit, slim, gluten-free, vegan yogi’s with a Master’s degree, climbing the professional ladder while simultaneously raising well balanced, high achieving children. We must do this whilst displaying the patience and understanding of the Dali Lama, as we gleefully serve up nutritious meals equalling the culinary skills of Nigella. And don’t forget to make time for your partner…have date nights; make time for friends; nurture family connections; donate; volunteer, and for god’s-sake walk the dog.

Nope. Fuck that. Not happening.

It’s a trophy wife’s life for me. At least for a little while longer, or until I want to staple my children’s hair to their desks. So far so good!

M

A homage to friends.

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I love this picture. Not the caption so much, but the sentiment. And let’s be honest, if there’s a bubble or two involved, I’m your girl.

I’m lucky to have collected some special people along the way as I’ve meandered through life, but there are two women, in particular, that I think of when I see a trio of women together.
I belong to an unlikely trio. We don’t live in the same area, we don’t belong to the same place. We aren’t members of the same club or share mutual friends. We don’t talk on the phone or catch up for coffee. We don’t work together, or see each other for months on end. We can go for weeks or even months without a single text message. But the connection I have with these women is irreplaceable.
There’s not many people you can send a random message to at any time of the day or night ranting about the perils of your reality. There’s not many people who reply with “rant away… that’s what we’re here for”. With no explanation or apology, we each spew our fears and frustrations to each other and it’s heard with understanding, love, and empathy. It’s only these women that I can really let loose with the whole spectrum of feelings that come with the commonality of having a child living with the same chronic illness.
I don’t even remember when we met. Well, that’s not quite true. I remember sharing the waiting room, exchanging a look and smile of recognisance as we attempted to shield our children’s faces away from the coughing onslaught. I also remember the first aid course for parents doing home IV’s, sharing belly laughs with my hilariously funny CPR partner.
As much as my close friends and family are fabulously supportive and understanding, it’s these two women who really “get it”. I don’t have to explain the backstory of CF, the science or the words I use. I never feel like I should shut up, or that I’m boring them. I don’t feel melodramatic or stupid or a burden. The whole reason we connected was because we could hear each other. We all have a similar attitude towards CF and the way we help our children, families and ourselves navigate a way through this predictably unpredictable disease.
I cannot express how beneficial peer support can be. When you find your people, those who resonate, it’s magical. There are plenty of families who have children with CF. Some I’ve met, most I haven’t. I am just so grateful that I found these two beautiful women. I cannot imagine walking along this path without them. A path filled with empathy, understanding, humour and the odd glass or two of bubbles downed with the perfect amount of friendship.
Cheers fuckers.
Disclaimer… Fuckers is our warped term of endearment. Whoever happens to read this…You’re not a fucker. Well, I hope you’re not, in the traditional sense. Our definition is much much better. 🤗
M

A letter to my baby.

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Dear Elliot,

I snuck into your bedroom and carefully carried the glass of water with your ninth baby tooth sitting at the bottom. I would have never known that it was the ninth tooth you had lost, but you knew.

You love numbers and weirdly count everything. It’s your funny quirk, this whole number thing. We are all in awe of how you can never find your shoes and forget to shut the car door EVERY SINGLE TIME you get out, but somehow in that brain of yours, you can tell us everyone’s birthday and ages, including the age of your dead grandfather if he were still here.

As I tipped the glass upside down and watched your ninth tooth slide down the drain of the bathroom sink, I wondered if this would be the last time I was going to play the tooth fairy. I sensed a difference in your reaction that night as I tucked you in, excitedly telling you how the tooth fairy would be visiting. Maybe you had twigged? “Did you know the secret?”, I wondered.

I’ve been the tooth fairy over 40 times. I can’t remember tipping out 40 teeth, or hunting for coins to fill the glass where those precious teeth sat… but I must have. You will eventually find out that I’m the one who filled the glass with coins, and just like your older sister and brother, you will stop putting your lost teeth in a glass of water and just hit me up for some cold harsh cash instead.

I was told by one of my dearest friends that motherhood was a process of letting go. It starts with your children leaving your body and from then on it is incremental steps of release.
I now understand why I have heard fellow mums trying to convince their children that Santa was real and “if you don’t believe you won’t receive”. I never understood that until now. I never knew the bittersweetness. I never knew it until it was my last. Until it was you. My last one. My baby boy. My funny little man who we took a huge gamble to have. No wonder the baby of the family gets spoilt. It has nothing to do with you but has everything to do with me, as I stand at the bathroom sink, playing the tooth fairy for possibly the last time, letting go of yet another piece of you and your childhood magic. Letting go of a piece of me and motherhood. No books or advice can prepare you for the ride of sweet agony you feel when your children grow out of childish things.

I groan when people say that “time goes by so quickly” and you need to “enjoy every moment”. Like most mums, there have been times where motherhood hasn’t been enjoyable. A lot of it can be a hard slog. So much if it is exhausting and relentless. Hanging in the back of my mind though is that one day, I will tip that last tooth down the drain. I will pick you up and tuck you into bed for the very last time. You will no longer slide next to me, in the middle of the night needing comfort from a bad dream. Before I know it, you will be standing taller than me while I ask you how to use my smartphone.

I wish I could freeze time for a while… not forever, but just long enough so that I can catch my breath and soak you in just a little bit longer….my baby boy, with nine teeth down the drain.

Mum

Pale skin and hairy legs…

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Oh god it’s started.

Body image and a daughter.

I have struggled with body image my entire life. It’s awful. Negative self-talk can become so consuming that sometimes the battle to fight it off is too hard.  Most of the time I’m a warrior, but there are times I’m a prisoner. Due to this, I have been super vigilant, in those moments of “meh”, not to speak negatively about my appearance in front of the kids. Especially my daughter. My Warrior language is the only thing they will ever hear.

Miss Tween mentioned how she hates her pale skin and her hairy legs. I gently empathised how, I too, had always wished that I was tanned. “We can’t change it, so we just have to work with it” was my message.  I also shared that I was once told I had skin like peaches and cream and that peaches and cream are delicious.  I had never thought to celebrate the fact that being pale can be a beautiful thing until it was pointed out. My answer was to run out and get a fake tan and cover up my paleness. So, with that in mind, my wide eyed girl and I listed all of the glorious pale skinned people we knew, which reinforced that we weren’t alone. As for hairy legs, we talked about how girls are actually allowed to have hairy legs, because we are humans and humans have hair. We can also have hairy armpits too if we choose.. cause once again, we’re humans. However, I’m also a realist and society tells us that women are hairless creatures, so I understand that an 11 year old girl who wants to fit in isn’t likely to buck the system. We aren’t all Greta Thunberg or Malala Yousafzai. I’m not sure where Greta or Malala stand on hair removal, but safe to say they are probably focusing on bigger issues.

 

 

Perhaps this is the answer. Perhaps if we focus on more important things than the insignificant things like pale skin, hairy legs, or even thighs, they simply fade into the background. Or do they? This would be an ideal world for me, but we don’t live in one. We live in this world.  A world where women are still strapped by the social expectations that we have created and insist upon. The world is changing in this arena for the better though. There are more body positive movements, we see more diversity on our TV screens and social media, and if you carefully navigate your way through, you can feed your brain with mostly healthy positive messages creating a healthy and happy body image. We can block out the thousands of Instagram “influencers” selling their appearance for profit and gain. We can choose to unfollow, delete and unfriend. We can control the shows we watch, the magazines we buy and the friends we have. We can refuse to lap up negative messages like hungry little puppies at dinnertime. We can, in a sense, have our own revolt against the rulers of the beauty matriarchy.

Even if we manage to become warriors of body image wellness, the negativity still seeps in. It comes in whispers. Hundreds and thousands of tiny messages whispered into our ears and our psyche. That’s why we need to shout above the whispers so that our children hear the message that appearance is a bullshit myth of importance. It’s ‘nice to look nice’ and be complimented on that, but when the majority of the compliments you hear are the ones about how you look, it makes appearance equal self worth.

 

Photo Source: Meg Gaiger/HarpyimagesPhoto Source: Meg Gaiger/Harpyimages

 

As a child and teen, I soaked in these whispers like a sponge, and it’s these whispers that I sometimes fight against in my mind as a 44 year old, reasonably well adjusted woman.

We certainly do a lot of things better now, but back when I was growing up things weren’t so fab, so over that time I’ve heard, and also been told, some pretty horrendous stuff…mainly about weight. I have also said a few of these things too, because that’s what I thought was important. So in the vein of Jane Gilmore’s FixedIt , an incredibly powerful message that reminds us about the power of words in a headline, I’ve corrected some of the tripe I’ve heard over the years when it comes to appearance.

 

If you feel yourself about to say this…..

Say this instead…..

“If she just lost a bit of weight, she would look so much better and maybe get a boyfriend”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You may be larger, but you always look nice because you ‘know what to wear’”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re lucky your hair isn’t ‘red-red'”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’d think she’d put a bit of make-up on”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re not a ‘typically pretty’ girl”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She should NOT be wearing that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She should NOT be eating that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She must be a lesbian with armpits like that”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“How did she let herself get that big”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“She needs a spray tan for those legs”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You move well for a big girl”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“I’m just concerned about her health”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“I’m so fat” says size 10 girl to size 20 girl

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“You’re looking good.. have you lost weight?”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It’s just calories in vs calories out…it’s not that hard to figure out”

“Isn’t it a lovely day?”

Mmmm. Yep. I think I fixed it.

 

M.