Raising Feminist Boys

                                 Three Riley Brothers - Rocco, 4. Tim, 20. Max, 10.


I'm attempting to raise my boys as feminists and I'm not even sure what that means. Something to do with teaching them how to clean a toilet, having gender-neutral toys, not objectifying women. Respect, tolerance, fairness.

Rocco is all "big boys don't cry" at the moment. Every time he says it, I say "Yes they do." He asked if daddies cry, and I said yes, all people cry sometimes. And it's ok. It's gradually seeping in. "When mum? When did dad cry? What did he sound like? Did he have tears?"

His favourite colour used to be pink, which was completely adorable. Unfortunately, the amount of macho testosterone in all the other guys around here soon squashed that. One day I told him to use the pink pencil while colouring-in and he said, "Nah mum. Pink is a girls colour. My favourite colour is brown now."

BROWN. Furious, I asked the others. "Who told Rocco that pink is a girls colour? Who?" Sheepish looks, but nobody owned up. When Tim was 14, he started to buy those ridiculous soft-porn mags. (FHM, Ralph.) Always women with massive boobs wearing black lingerie on the cover. I LOATHE. He used to leave them around the house, so I'd toss them straight to the recycle bin.

I want my boys to know and appreciate the true value of a woman .. but also themselves. To realise they are deeper, with more feeling and intuition than the world gives them credit for. To respect themselves first. I encourage them to be nurturing and sensitive .. always ask them how they feeeeel about things. I talk to all of them honestly about sexuality. If they can learn early how to express their emotions instead of keeping them bottled up ... they're already ahead.

I feel sick about the younger two one day discovering porn. The other day I clicked on a link from a spam bot on twitter, on a whim. It was some of the most hardcore stuff I've ever seen and I was truly shocked. It takes a lot to shock me. There's a really dark side of this digital world.

Talking with my stepson last week, he opened up about how he's starting to "crack through the bullshit" of how guys talk to each other. How good it feels to have a proper conversation with one of his mates about normal things, instead of it all just about chicks and drinking and sport.

One day, I hope to crack through the bullshit of my four-year olds "only boys can be superheroes" mentality.

Rocco: "Ok mum. You be a girl, and I'll be Superman."
Me: "No, I'll be Supergirl."
Rocco: "NO. I'll be Hulk ... and you be ... a girl."
Me: "I'll be Hulkie Girl."
Rocco: "THERE IS NO HULKIE GIRL MUM STOP. I'm going to be .... Rockman. You can be a girl."
Me: "Can I be Super Rock Girl?"
Rocco: Huge, big, defeated sigh. "Can't you just be Rockman's mummy?"

Progress, people.


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Florence, God, and the Machine.

Woke up this morning and hated the physical world so I shot myself in the face. If you need me I'll be in the underworld all day.

I bought tickets off eBay to see Florence tonight at the Sydney Opera House. I've never bought concert tickets before, I've never paid so much for concert tickets before. They still haven't arrived and I'm starting to think I've been ripped off.

I just want to go on a night out with my husband, see one of the worlds most talented artists backed by a symphony orchestra and a choir. Dave doesn't even know any Florence songs but could see how obsessed I was about it. It's a one-off concert. A DVD will be filmed.

The seller of these alleged tickets is Ana from Newtown. I'm playing it cool. I want to trust Ana from Newtown, believe her pleas and promises to refund my money. I don't want a refund. I want to see Florence and the Fucking Machine.

If Ana from Newtown rips me off I will hunt her down. She will be my enemy and I will be justifiably outraged. We all want a baddie to hate. Ana can be my baddie, my nemesis. She will rue the day she ever thought to cross me.

I'm planning my outfit anyway. Organising my boys on a sleepover, acting as if. Ana could totally turn out to be a hero and get replacement tickets and meet us at the Opera House. That's if she's not busy deleting her eBay account and switching off her mobile phone.

It's so easy to be jaded in life .. mistrust people and question their motives. To never admit how much you want something. To play it safe.

I want this so bad. I want to sit next to my husband and weep at the songs that spirited me to Africa with such spirit. I want our souls to be blasted away and I want us to remember who we are.



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UPDATE: Ana was real. The tickets arrived. THE TICKETS WERE REAL. Florence was great. Best part of my night was my husband. Goddamn hunk'o'spunk.

We remembered.


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DOIN' IT LIVE

"You're gonna do it live aren't you now, Eden? I will from this day forth picture you sitting down to do all your posts by getting yourself psyched up like Bill O'Reilly."

That was a message on my Facebook page from my friend and fellow-left-field thinker, Kirrily. She was talking about this video:



I laughed so hard. WE'RE DOIN' IT LIVE is now firmly implanted in my brain, to be used in any context. Kirrily says it's her catch-cry. "When I have to do the dishes, when I put off washing clothes til I have no more undies left, etc etc... makes everything feel more important and vibrant."

Who IS this Bill O'Reilly guy? No offence America, but would it be remiss of me to say that he's kind of a toolbag? This guy thinks so.




Let's all start doin' it live.

WE'LL DO IT LIVE. I'LL WRITE IT AND WE'LL DO IT LIVE.

Fucken thing SUCKS.

(Kirrily, I'm going to leave a little something on your Facebook page today. You're welcome.)


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Midnight Meeting.

I went to pick Rocco up from preschool yesterday and he wasn't there. A known Harry Houdini, I started panicking straight away. You know when your kid is missing and time moves like slow concrete and you think, "This is it. I will never see him again and I will be That Woman on the 6'o'clock news tonight."

Ten minutes I walked around, calling his name. I asked the teachers, other parents. Started to cry, rushed out onto the street shouting his name. Like, SHOUTING his name. Fifteen minutes. All the possibilities exploding in my brain.

Until suddenly I run up the ramp and there he was, inside. Sitting on the toilet taking a dump.

"Why are you crying, mum? I've been waiting for you to wipe my bum."

I still feel sick about it. Good thing is, it's re-booted my entire being. Am renewed. My son is alive! I get to keep him for another day! We got home, had showers, laughed about it over spaghetti, and I put him to bed.

I look up at midnight from my position in front of the fire and he's standing there. "Watchu doing, mum?"

I was putting the finishing touches to this piece over at MamaPop, about the Wiggles. My kids hate the Wiggles, but Rocco decided that in the middle of the night he LOVES the Wiggles, so he settled in my lap. To watch the Wiggles.

                                                                 Fake sleeping.

We argued, I won, and put him back to bed.

He kept getting up, demanding to watch the Wiggles. I told him he does not like the Wiggles. Repeat 3x.

Finally at 2.37am I crept into bed, trying my hardest not to wake Dave.

Rocco joined us at 2.38am, whispering in my ear. "Can I watch the Wiggles mum? I LOVE the Wiggles. They're so cute."


I laughed until the bed shook.

Do you have a lost child story? I heard some pearlers on the tweets last night.


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Award-Winning Hero Chameleon Leopard.

Yesterday I sat out on the front deck for a while and looked at my boots.

I walked around Africa in these boots. You never know where life will take you next ... the trick is to let go and trust where life will take you next.

Yesterday was a horrible day to be inside my skin. I got through. Today is marginally better. It's hard to explain.

My local paper wrote about my trip World Vision trip to Africa. Then the Mayor honoured my Sydney Writers Centre win with a mention in Council Chambers.

Over a decade ago I sat in those exact same Council Chambers and listened as the local community rallied against a proposed move of a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre from Katoomba to Leura. I don't blame them ... I wouldn't want a group of vermin addicts moving next door to my house.

Thing is, I sat there years ago as a patient of that drug and alcohol rehab. I listened as one of the Councillors turned to me and my friends and with such a dark look, said:

"A leopard never changes its spots."

Like I said, vermin.

The rehab move was eventually approved. Nothing bad happened.

::

I chose my mustard cowboy boots today, to get some tough back. Don't feel so crash-hot .... swap you some accolades and superiority for some peace of mind? Like many people on the planet, I wrestle with dark shit inside of me. It's cool. Act cool.

My year five teacher was called Mr Gardiner. He was a huge arsehole. One day after lunch, he stood at the front of the class and said: "Right. Whoever is in The Barrie Gang ... stand up."

I sat there, shocked. Barrie was my last name .. he was talking about me? He snarled at me to stand up so I did, hot tears from being so confused. He barked at the class for the others in "my gang" to stand up.

Nobody stood up, because there was no gang.

At lunchtime a girl had gone to him and told him I wouldn't let her play "in my gang." Years later, I asked her why she lied ... she told me that Adrian Boulder had a crush on me and she wanted to get me back. She saw me as a happy girl who lived in a huge mansion. She didn't know I was completely miserable, with the force of a thousand sads.

I was systematically bullied as a child. Damage was done that I can never un-do. I also went to ten schools - maybe nine. I always forget. I have seen a lot and been a lot, in my time. A chameleon leopard, creeping around the world like a stealth warrior.

I never went to university because my dad had just killed himself and I was too busy drinking to care about anything normal. I taught myself how to live, and I've taught myself how to write -  here, in this blog, in this internet, in this Universe.

But man, I am no bully. I am not in a clique or a gang and never will be.

Last week, Janine from Shambolic Living interviewed me HERE. I loved talking to her .. I asked all the questions at first, because I'm constantly worried about what it's like for new bloggers, whether they feel excluded. (Janine it was such a bloody pleasure to talk to you, thank you.)

In conclusion, I used to be a fuck-up but now I'm the hero. Wait - that's wrong. I'm still a fuck-up. Was I always the hero? Are you a hero? Can we all be one? Am I supposed to be professional now? Why do my words keep getting twisted? Who moved my cheese? I'll have what SHE'S having. Are we there yet?


PS Thank you, Mr Mayor. Very much. I accept this honour on behalf of all the Nathan's out there.

PS Some days it's just as hard walking in my boots in my local supermarket as it is walking in my boots in Africa. Wherever I go, there I am. .

Lame Like a Grasshopper, Sting Like a Bee.

We are exhausted after the world's most crap indoor play centre birthday party. Three hundred bucks for some sausage rolls in a grubby room. This guy was cool with it though.

All he cared about the whole day was mo presents mo presents. Before he'd even fully open one, he'd turn to me .. "Do I have another present mum?"

More?

There was a Hulkie cake, made by my sister Linda.

HOW COOL?

Linda wasn't happy with her Hulk efforts .. "Too Frankenstein." Here's the Mario cake she made for my nephew Joe's party a few weeks ago ...

I KNOW! Linda is a personal trainer who lives in Sydney. She's taking on new clients at the moment. I hereby declare that she is now in the cake-making business too. A cake-making personal trainer ... she'll fatten you up then slim you down. GENIUS!

On the way home we stopped off at Bar Italia like we always do, for pasta, coffee, cannoli and gelato. By the time we got home, Rocco was fast asleep so I put him to bed with a sticky face and dirty feet. He played with his favourite present the next day ... the $9 bug catcher. He wasn't interested in catching a grasshopper, or a ladybug, or a worm.

That shit is too boring ... this guy wanted his very own bee.

I've never heard a bee so pissed off. FURIOUS. Rocco was high with power. He knew the bee was angry. He knew the bee could sting him. He carried it around for an hour, then I talked him into letting it go.

We took the lid off and ran inside .. fast. Shutting the door and laughing the whole way.

Rocco told me that I made him happy and that he likes my cuddles.

Everything was worth everything just to get to that moment.


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This Guy. On This Day.

"Hello, Wocco Shadow! I'm stomping on you!"

See that guy? Can you sense his determination, just from that photo?

It's his birthday tomorrow. He'll be four years old. I just put him to bed and he told me that in the morning, he'd like all of his birthday presents on the kitchen table, please. We must all then sit around and watch as he opens them.

I haven't wrapped his presents, yet - only just bought them. Tight ship, man. I'll be up late.

He is SO FUSSY about what he wears. Chooses his own clothes every single day. It's getting really cold now, so I argue with him every single morning about putting on long pants. He cries, then compromises by wearing pants over his shorts.

Today he pulled worms from the garden. He loves scaring me with bugs, especially spiders. He's not afraid. (To take a stand.)

I've felt overwhelmed all week. Not sure if it's from all of the blogging stuff, the huge changes happening around here, or the fact that Rocco's birthday is also the anniversary of my husbands cancer. (A few days ago I wished my husband a HAPPY TUMOURVERSARY, HON! Because I am romantic like that and remember important dates.)

Four years ago tonight, I crept up into my husbands cancer ward bed with him and spooned him .. as much as a nine-month pregnant woman can spoon somebody. We lay together for hours, the nurses giving us drinks of water and sad looks.

Everything was kind of off-centre and wrong, and left a mark in me that I'll never truly shake.

Rocco is a firecracker. A whirlwind of a tornado of a tsunami. I was completely, spectacularly unprepared to parent somebody with such a temperament, at such a hard time in my life. I've been willing him to get older since he was a baby .. not very fair, really. He never liked being a baby much anyway, always so pissed off that he was too little to do things.

He's big, now. And he knows it. Four? Four is big. It's running with purpose, gaining confidence, articulating needs.

I'm so relieved, and so proud. I'm throwing him his very first proper birthday party tomorrow. Outsourced it to a huge play centre down in Sydney with my sisters and his cousins. Rocco is MOST excited about the cake Aunty Linda is making ... he requested the Incredible Hulk. "Will it be green, mum? It HAS to be green."

I kissed his blonde three-year old head tonight. Then he wiped it off like he always does. He watched me look sad, so patted his head. "I put your kiss back on, mum."


I worry so much, that the circumstances and stress surrounding his birth has somehow affected him.

Then I look at all the circumstances and stress facing all of us. We get through, in the end. Us humans are pretty resilient.

I love him as fiercely and as passionately as he loves me. Mistakes and all.


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