My battle with Barbie

Before I had my first child there were many rules and ways of doing things that I believed I would adhere to – no TV being the biggest one.  Pretty much all of them have fallen by the wayside (I know most episodes of Peppa Pig word for word) in the reality of parenting and the hectic pace of life with three small children.  The one that I have held on to with dog like vengeance is ‘Barbie is not welcome here’…  When my nieces recently requested Barbie’s for their birthday I hoped against all hopes that they wouldn’t get them, hence spurring a green eyed ‘I want a Barbie’ from my now 4 year old, Princess obsessed daughter.

I should clarify that I loved Barbie as a little girl.  I clearly recall the debates and deals with my little brother trying to get him to play Barbie with me.  ‘I’ll play Lego with you 4 times if you play Barbie with me now’.   He was never very keen but in hindsight I guess Ken was a bit hard for a young boy to really relate to.

I can’t even remember now the point when Barbie got kicked under the bed and eventually into boxes in the back of the cupboard – late Primary school/early High School maybe.  But I do remember discovering feminism in High School, reading The Beauty Myth (Naomi Wolf) in great disgust at the cosmetic industry and outrage at society reinforcing this image of beauty.  Of course, I also got on the wagon of ‘Barbie is evil’.  And I’ve never gotten off.

As I have aged I can see all that is wrong with Barbie.  I once read that if her measurements were to scale on a real woman she would likely be anorexic, unable to walk due to consistent high heel wear, have chronic back ache due to her sizeable boobs and surely snap in half with her tiny waist (OK, so I completely made the last bit up).  I don’t want my girls aspiring to this image and I don’t want them judging themselves against Barbie as if a reality.

But there is more to the hatred and after reading an article by Karen Maezen Miller (thanks to recommendation by a friend) talking about this very topic, I was forced to question where my hatred of Barbie really comes from and whether she is in fact the vilan.

I have struggled with my own body image for most of my adult life and some of my late teenage years.  I have a love hate relationship with my body that up until the birth of my three children was more hate than love.  I was (and still am) always telling myself that if I lost X kg I would be happier, funnier, more successful, have more friends etc.  None of this is new.  We sadly read about it all the time – usually in insightful articles wedged between fashion spreads featuring air brushed size 0 models, but that’s not really my beef (for today).

My greatest hope for my two girls is that they grow up with a healthy respect for their own bodies, a love of what they have and an ability to use that to their full advantage.  I never want them to spend one day of their precious lives dreaming of being something different to their frankly perfect selves.  I never want them to compare themselves to anyone whether an image in a magazine or their best friend –and come up wanting.  I want them to appreciate differences and love what they have, unconditionally. 

I know a great deal of that comes from me.  I never discuss my weight around them.  I never talk about my own feelings about my body and I never ever talk about fat or dieting.  When my husband and I talk to our girls about food it’s about what makes you strong and healthy.  The ‘f’ word is banned in our house.  When my daughter tells me I have a big tummy (with that gorgeous wide eyed innocence of a 4 year old stating the facts – I do have a big tummy…) I say ‘yes I do and that’s OK.’ 

So where does Barbie fit into this?  I’m starting to ask myself the same thing.  On reflection of this recent article that I read I found myself wondering how much influence Barbie really had on my own body image.  If I’m to be honest it’s very little.  I clearly remember being very confident and happy in myself up until I was about 14 (way after Barbie got kicked to the curb).  I honestly remember looking in magazines and thinking I didn’t look that different to the models.  I smiled a lot, I had pretty eyes and nice hair.  I never really compared their bodies to mine because I honestly didn’t see my size 14 body as that much different to their size 8. 

No, the damage to my own self-image wasn’t caused by Barbie – it took place much closer to home.  It was planted and reinforced by friends and family – those closest around me wanting to protect me by ‘encouraging’ me to lose weight.  Boys at school starting to pick out the thinner girls as the more desirable, people asking ‘helpfully’ if I really needed to eat that.  The list goes on.  Sure, it’s been reinforced by the likes of Barbie and the images in magazines but in all honesty that’s not what put the ideas there in the first place.

So I am starting to wonder what will happen if Barbie is allowed in the house.  Will we all go nuts and start living on birdseed and cabbage and spend our savings on cosmetic surgery?  Will she really cause my daughters to become filled with self-doubt and loathing?  I’m starting to think the answer is no.

As long as I can provide them with a strong image of a woman who loves her body for its ability to provide her with three beautiful children, its strength to ensure she can care for them and as a desirable creature (thanks to a loving and openly affectionate husband) maybe that’s enough.

Maybe Barbie isn’t really the devil.  Maybe the devil lives closer to home and is more within our own control than we think.

Finding Kate

I have recently started a yoga course one night a week.  It runs for six weeks and frankly it’s like a little slice of (somewhat pain filled) heaven.  Motherhood is a funny thing.  It fills me with so much joy I sometimes feel as if I might burst and then simultaneously makes me wonder where ‘I’ went…  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – Kate has left the building’.

I recall watching ‘The Biggest Loser’ once (I know, this is a whole other post) when a mum of three was participating and she sat there in floods of tears talking about how she had moved so far from who she was, she had forgotten.  She had forgotten what she’d liked, what had made her happy, what her dreams and goals were – for herself.  Not for her family (who she adored), but for herself.

I think one of the things that does mothers a great disservice is our ability (whether it is our own fault or that of the cultural expectations that have driven motherhood to where it is) to let go of ourselves in order to love our little ones.  At first it is a beautiful, almost divine quest.  This little person (and subsequent persons) is our light – our purpose.  After growing them and nurturing them for so long, it’s hard to shift our focus anywhere else.

But what about our own needs?  What about maintaining and sustaining our own identity?  Or does our identity need to be redefined once we’re mothers?

I do remember when I watched this episode (yes, back to the Biggest Loser again) I had one daughter who was perhaps 16 months old and I sat there and thought ‘well, that’s just stupid – you have to find time for yourself in order to be an effective mother’.

And yet here I am, a mother of three under 4 years, not entirely sure of who I am or what I want.  I should add here that typing that sentence makes me a bit uncomfortable – selfish and uncaring towards my children.  But in the cold light of day, looking at the ‘black and white’ of things I know that in order to be a good mum, I have to have dreams and goals for myself that extend beyond my children.

I wonder if I would feel the same if I had returned to work between numbers 2 and 3….  And most of all I wonder if all women go through this…

We had some family photos taken a few weeks back – to capture that moment when our family was made ‘complete’ with the arrival of my beautiful son.  The photographer spent the session chatting to us, putting us at ease to create beautiful natural photos (which by the way are just gorgeous).  She asked me what my husband’s passions are and I immediately answered ‘music and football’ (with the complete knowledge that his children were a given in that).  When she asked my husband the same question there was a blanket (and awkward silence).  I honestly had no passion or hobby or interest outside of my children.

And that can’t be healthy.  So, I’m taking up yoga…  And I might just look at getting a bit better at photography…

A New Year!

Happy New Year!

I have just realised it’s been more than 6 months since my last ‘blog’ entry and thought New Years Day was probably a good time to get things rolling again. 

2012 has been a big year.  My gorgeous daughter arrived a year ago tomorrow, my family moved from Singapore to Australia and in July I found out I am expecting my third baby in March. 

There is no coincidence that the blog entries stopped around the time of this discovery.  My ‘conflicting Kates’ kicked into overdrive and I felt (and still feel a bit) like I couldn’t talk so much about the balance of working and home life when I will now be at home for more than 2 years with my little ones. 

It’s been a bit over a year since I stopped working at the Bank.  That ‘rush’ and ‘whir’ in my head is fading fast and I can feel things slow in that area of my brain.  And I hate it.  I worry that with 2 years off I will lose my ‘place marker’ in the workforce and forget how to think in that corporate sense.  I also worry about how this will balance and what I will do when the time comes.  I now juggle playdates and swimming lessons with keeping the craft cupboard well stocked and ensuring the washing is done and the house is clean.  In my head I know how important my role is now.  I know my girls benefit from me being at home with them.  My eldest daughter certainly benefits from having a better balance of nursery and home.  My youngest has only ever known being at home with me.  And I know what a gift it is.  And yet, my self worth is harder to ‘judge’ – although perhaps that’s not the right word.  

When talking to a friend a few months ago she mentioned how hard it is to have the discussion about ‘what you do’ now that she’s at home with her little ones.  It hadn’t occurred to me, but being able to say ‘I work for an international bank’ was a big part of my own assessment of me.  It was as if by putting that out there I all at once established my smarts, my determination and my ‘worth’ in a sense.  Now I tell people I am at home with my girls and I watch them switch off.  And I find myself spinning through it and brushing it aside ‘oh me?  I don’t work, I’m just at home with my girls’…. And onto the next subject as quickly as possible.  And yet I know how important what I do is, and I also understand that this is for the most part my choice.

I read something a few months ago (and wish my slightly addled mind could remember where it was) where a woman was talking about women staying at home and describing them as putting feminism behind by making that choice.  That by being a woman and choosing to be at home I was somehow stomping on the advances of feminism.  The support systems are there (child care etc) and I should be taking advantage of such things and showing my kids that as a woman I have options and can do what I like.  It made me furious.

That said, I do see a lot of gender stereotyping creeping into my eldest daughters consciousness.  She thinks pink is for girls and blue is for boys (when everything in the shops seems to be branded this way – even lego now comes in either a pink box, complete with ponies etc – or a blue box, with tractors) and looks around her and sees that a lot of daddy’s work (her own dad and my brother – whereas myself and my sister in law are at home with the kids).  And I don’t really know how to balance this…  But tell myself that in time I will return to work and for most of her life what she will know is two working parents, but hopefully she will remember this time fondly.

In short, I love being a mum, so much so that I’m going back for more.  And 90% of the time (taking out the 10% where my daughters tantrums and tears and demands get a bit repetitive and wear thin) I love being at home.  What I miss is that opportunity for healthy debate and discussion.  I don’t want to spend my days discussing sleep patterns and discipline.   So here I am back on the blog – ready to talk about what I’m thinking and reading in 2013 so that at least I can keep myself thinking and maybe when someone asks me what I do I can say 'I’m mum and a blogger/thinker/dreamer!'?

Happy New Year! 

Living the Dream?

My eldest daughter enjoying her 'backyard'

Yesterday I hung out my washing on a clothesline - in my own backyard.  It was such a triumph I did a little happy dance with my eldest daughter as she handed me pegs.  Later in the day we sat down for dinner (as a family, around the table) with my husband home from work.  To me, this deems our move a success – by the measures I had in my head.  It strikes me now (and only now strangely enough) that these were seemingly ‘old fashioned’ goals – certainly by the way I have lived my life – and yet, that’s what they are.

I don’t for a minute expect that with these ‘boxes’ ticked my life will now be smooth sailing.  Nor has it been a smooth journey from Singapore to get here.

Our first 2 weeks in Australia were in fact awful.  After years of planning and dreaming of the day I would arrive ‘home’ with my husband and girls (something I felt and indeed feel so proud of doing) we disembarked the final flight of 3, after 36 hours travelling with a 3 year old fighting a gastric bug and I honestly thought we would never recover.  More than a week of jet lag then followed and, most disheartening of all, a day of house hunting realizing that the Australian dollar no longer goes as far as it did when I left 11 years ago – and that the state of the local rental market meant that properties were unloved, unkept and unattractive and yet ‘flying off the shelves’ as it were due to demand!  I sat in a state of shock and wondered if the decision to leave Singapore had been one of the worst I had made in my life…  whether it was anything but disruptive to my whole family.

‘Coming home’ is a funny thing.  I’m not sure what I really expected, but after years and years of thinking of this return – 4 of those involving serious planning on the part of myself and my husband – it wasn’t what I expected.  Not even close. 

I am very aware that I have changed in my time away, but I failed to really understand that everyone else had too – the city and the people.  Life had gone on living – without me – and I’m not sure I was too happy about it!  It seems strange, but I think I expected some fanfare – as much excitement from my friends to see me back home as I felt to be here… 

Possibly the biggest surprise is just how much of a challenge moving and now caring for 2 little girls full time has been – and is.  So many women (and men) do it and seem to make it so easy.  To say I struggled (and still do) is an understatement.  Two weeks ago my own mum suggested that perhaps I should go back to work.  I instantly took this to heart and felt as if I couldn’t cope in my role as a mum.  Surely this should be something I relish…?  And I do, but it’s so hard.  My eldest daughter has been used to full time nursery in Singapore and so has spent the last 8 weeks winding me to my frazzled end and apparently morphing into one of those unruly children whose parents I used to scorn in supermarkets.  What I have really struggled with is that it seems to unheard of to put up your hand and say ‘I’m finding this really hard’.

And then something shifted.  We moved into our house (we found a beautiful family home with a backyard amazingly in our price range) and our ‘stuff’ arrived from Singapore which included my eldest daughter’s treasured possessions including her ‘piglet’ toy who had been requested continually over the last 8 weeks.  And, possibly most importantly my daughter also started nursery again on Monday – two days a week where we both get our own space.  She gets to go off and flex her independence and I get to enjoy a bit of peace and some 1-1 time with my youngest. 

The time has made me aware of my reluctance (and maybe many other mums) to admit when things are tough – particularly when it involves our kids.  Did I miss the gene that allows me to automatically blossom into supermum when I had my first child?  Giving me a bottomless pool of patience?  Or, am I just a fairly regular mum, bumping into every day problems and challenges that other mums are reluctant to talk about (whilst loving my daughters with all my heart)?

Tonight I drove home after picking my daughter up from nursery – the sky a mixture of dark burnt pink and dusty blue – in my station wagon with my girls in the back – and pulled into the driveway of my suburban home to get dinner on for the family and I must confess (against all my feminist instincts) to feeling like I was living the dream, but my ‘to do list’ includes tidying up my CV…