If you’re on twitter, yesterday you might have noticed my ecstatic tweet about Evelyn pulling herself to standing. I am SO proud. Tonight, I got it on camera.
She thinks she’s very clever.
I agree.
Author: Veronica
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#Iamnotaproperfeminist BECAUSE VAGINAS*: Why we started the hashtag
Yesterday morning I was on the phone to Frogpondsrock. We were bemoaning the fact that the #convoyofcleavage had sparked such disparaging language, that some feminist circles were angry about the terminology used, and the “slacktivism” of the whole thing.
I can’t remember who said it first, but one of us stated that we obviously weren’t proper feminists because we don’t know the secret feminist language/we like our husbands/don’t think feminism should be an exclusive club.
Then we got the giggles, because we think we’re hilarious. Suddenly, we had a twitter hashtag on our hands.
Thus is began with both of us tweeting on the #Iamnotaproperfeminist hashtag and amusing ourselves.
We wanted to poke gentle fun at the idea of there being a “right” way to be a feminist. Sometimes, people in the know get so hung up on the terminology used that they forget women all over the world are coming at feminism from a perspective unique to themselves. We’re not all the same person, with the same circumstances. To state unequivocally that feminism is THIS THING and not THAT THING is to discount the experience of women different to you.
By yesterday evening, our hashtag had taken off, grown wings and flown far away from where it started.
All across twitter, women and men were joining in to promote feminism without borders. And not just cis women, but trans women too. I count this as an extra success, because if their tweets are anything to go by, trans women are told they’re not able to feminist properly more often than I am.
Feminism has become something quite narrowly defined in recent years. Women who study feminism at Uni bristle at those of us who didn’t complete a degree calling ourselves feminists.
It’s all a bit ridiculous.
How do you define feminism anyway?
With all the drama and terminology complaints, it’s no wonder that young girls have been stepping back from calling themselves feminist. Who can be bothered when you have to always make sure you’re using the perfect word for the job, and inevitably, we all end up “doing it wrong” anyway.
Young women want to be feminists. We want equality. We just don’t want to have to constantly talk about what feminism is and isn’t – and I’m pretty sure that we don’t want women who are further along the paths of education (self, or otherwise) to be pointing out how we’re not being the perfect feminist.
I am not a proper feminist hit back at the stereotypes, at the exclusionary language, and it showcased the discomfort a lot of us were feeling at being told there was only one true way to do this feminism thing.
I am not a proper feminist, because there is no such thing.
And that’s why it’s awesome.
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Evelyn resorts to cannibalism.
At 2am, Evelyn had a big seizure. I poked her cheek, changed her position, shook her hands and finally settled in waiting for it to pass, listening to her breathing change. Normally, middle of the night seizures end with Evelyn needing resettling and then falling back asleep. Not last night though, as she came out of it, realised I was watching her and decided that it was time to play.
First, she needed to examine my ears. I’m not sure what she thought the things stuck to the side of my head were previously, but last night they were the most interesting things ever. Then she bit each of my fingers in turn, presumably to make sure they were all made of flesh. She flipped and spun, bit my nipple – a new trick, turned herself into a baby hat draped around my head, and finally, FINALLY, fell back asleep after blowing raspberries all over my hair.
I am not at my finest at 2am, let alone 2am on a day that has included having the flu, but I had to laugh at the glee on Evelyn’s face when she clambered all over me.
Babies are nice, and Evelyn is the nicest baby of all. She mostly smells good, she’s very snuggly and we’re working on blunting her teeth with rusks so that cannibalism doesn’t become a life choice.
Evelyn has learned to commando crawl and she is very fast. She chases Amy down to her bedroom, giggling, before Amy carries her back out to me, flopped in her arms. Amy puts her on the floor and races off to resume her game and Evelyn chases her as fast as she can, before Amy drags her back to the living room. Repeat, ad infinitum.
She tried to fly the other day. I can’t say she’s very good at it, although I suspect she bounced when she flung herself off the edge of my bed after a nap. I hadn’t tidied my bedroom yet and she landed on an abandoned pile of pillows and a spare doona. Messiness has its upsides. The next day after her nap she shouted at me and I found her peering over the edge of the bed looking at the floor fearfully. I think I need to build a better pillow fort to stop her getting out of her cot.
Evelyn bites now. Often. Cheekily, she looks at me while she’s breastfeeding and CHOMP she goes, before she smiles at me prettily. I’ve tried explaining that milk tastes terrible when laced with blood, but so far, no luck. I’ve also tried shouting, cringing and grumpily putting her on the floor with no more breasts, but nothing works. The worst part is not actually being bitten, it’s waiting for the bite. It’s quite hard to relax when you’re waiting for a cannibalistic baby-toddler to nip you. She also tried biting my neck, so maybe she’s part vampire. I hear that’s a “thing” now, if Amy is to be believed.
She is amazing, and bright and bubbly and she makes me laugh every day – usually by trying to eat my face. She snuggles, and adores her siblings and causes untold chaos.
We wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Evelyn thinks our games are hilarious.
Evelyn likes to throw her toys and have me pick them up.
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The baby chatters angrily and my anxiety worsens
A moment ago Evelyn was chattering at me angrily like an upset chipmunk, while she practised her yoga moves. I’m not saying she was wrong to be grumpy with me – after all, I did take her to the doctor and let him stick needles in her thighs, but it was for her own good, so you know.
I spend all my time trying to write things and rescuing Evelyn from whatever nook she has gotten herself caught in. One moment she’s exploring behind the couch and can’t find her way out, the next moment she’s stuck under her sister’s bed. When I put her back down, she absconds as fast as she can, making a break for freedom. Amy and Isaac have taken to filling the hallway with obstacles in the hope that she won’t make it down to their bedrooms and destroy their peace. I can’t say I’m particularly helpful, because jeez, just play with her, she loves you.
The walkway to my kitchen is filled with nappy boxes that I have to step over every time I leave the living room – a state of affairs that will continue until we replace our baby gate with one that actually works.
It’s utter chaos and I am loving it.
I watch the determination on Evelyn’s face as Amy sits down on the floor to watch TV and Evelyn commando crawls over to her, before flumping into her sister’s lap. It’s brilliant and exhausting and completely hectic.
I wouldn’t change a moment.
My anxiety is getting worse and I am starting to suspect that my nausea every time I have to get into the car is actually anxiety driven, rather than motion sickness. I’m not sure that I can do anything about this, short of adding more drugs. I’m already on Cymbalta, which seems to manage the PND quite nicely, but I’m also getting less and less likely to leave my house unless I have no choice. It’s awkward and unpleasant, but frankly, I just want to hang around at home, pottering in the kitchen and garden, writing things and playing with the children. That’s not wrong.
Maybe I’m lazy, rather than anxious.
Every day I walk to the end of our road without even a modicum of anxiety, to get Amy off the school bus. I look forward to the walk and wonder if I should do it more often, getting me out of the house without exactly pushing me out of my comfort zone. Then I wonder if being pushed out of my comfort zone is what I need.
I don’t know, Internet.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Evelyn is trapped between the couch and the wall and I need to go rescue her.