I’ve marched before but this time was different

This time it was personal.

It became even more personal when on my way to the march a man approached me as I was making my way through the Underground carrying my placard. Genial enough at first he asked me what protest I was making my way to. It became apparent that he already knew.

A few steps after I answered he launched into homophobic, misogynist rant that, while it did not quite intimidate me, left me wondering why he felt it was necessary.

Why did he approach me when he clearly already knew why I was there? And why me when there were plenty of other people walking through the underground carrying placards (although unlike me, they were in groups, not alone – explanation provided, perhaps)?

His rant was intense and bizarre in equal measure, starting with the assertion that we had to make a choice between “John Wayne type leaders…real men”, or having “some nancy-boy who’s probably going to bring AIDS into the house”.

As he followed me up through the tunnels and up the escalator he continued that male serial killers in America were murdering women because they had “bossy mothers” or were “sick of women nagging and telling them what to do”. Apparently mass murder is the fault of womankind too.

Just like watching Trump’s inauguration, it felt like a spoof of right-vs-left-wing politics, when the right-wing are stupid/ mad and bad, and yet somehow manage to outsmart the left-wing good-but-ineffectual guys.

I was shocked, tongue-tied, and frustratingly impotent in my efforts to force out a “fuck off” – for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to this walking, talking definition of bigot.

It felt tempting to dismiss him as “crazy” – he didn’t look mad, but then, what does mental illness look like? – but then I remembered that millions of people have just legitimised similar (perhaps marginally less extreme) views to these, by electing men equally bold about sharing them, to the most powerful seat in the entire world.

And it intensified my certainty that I was in exactly the right place.

I was marching for equal pay; because I feel insulted by the idea of a man who has bragged about sexual assault becoming the most powerful man in the world; because, like many women, I know what it feels like to be heckled, grabbed and groped, followed by aggression when the violation is not welcomed.

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I was marching because I feel frustrated and personally limited by the relative status and expectations afforded men and women in our society.

I was marching because I wanted to say enough – as much to myself, as to anyone else – to give myself permission to be pissed off.

And I was marching because as parents we are programmed to want better for our children. I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to live her life the same way I have, with insidious limitations papered over with a veneer of “Having it all”, only for them to leap up and takes chunks out of our certainty when we start to make demands.

But in answer to anyone thinking, but he’s not your President, not your country, isn’t this a little pointless, I also marched in solidarity.

Because I am unlikely to ever fail to access an abortion, or birth control, does this mean I should not care about the women who can’t?

Because I was born in a body that matches the gender I identify with, does this mean I should not care about the people for whom this is not reality?

Because I love a man, not a woman, does this mean I should ignore the struggles of those who love differently to me?

And because I have white skin,  does this mean I shouldn’t acknowledge the unearned privilege that this carries with it? Shouldn’t I recognise the even greater struggles that people, particularly women, of colour have to face? Battles that carry even greater resonance because they will be my son’s and my daughter’s.

I’ve marched before on behalf of a passionate, desolate profession, beaten down and desperate about their working conditions and the prospects for the children they taught. But I’ve never marched before from a place of such deep-seated fear for the futures of people I don’t know, don’t love, but who I care about, because they are people.

As the crowds swelled, so did the lump in my throat.

The coming together of people with a common cause has always had the power to move me, but the energy felt sharper, brighter, and more certain of its justness than I have ever felt before.

One hundred thousand men and women marched in London alone, and behind them lie many more wishing them well and that they could have joined. And we wake up this Sunday full of optimism and empowerment that joy, beauty and togetherness were found yesterday in a world that feels so full of hate and division.

That greatest of human comforters was out in full-force yesterday – we are not alone.

Even so, the truth is that we also wake up to the reality that the occasion is over and nothing has changed – nothing has really been achieved.

To see the long road ahead, the reams of progress that must be made, it is tempting to wonder if it is worth it? Is it really necessary? Can I really care so much, for so long? But whenever I feel like this, I look at my children.

My beautiful brown boy and girl exist because of the tireless actions of people that have come before us, and those who continue that fight right up to today.

Things change. When it is right, they have to.

And as if I needed that reminder yesterday, my favourite memory was the young girls and boys, some barely teenagers, waving their signs, chanting and singing.

Their presence provoked the loudest cheers and chanting I heard at any point in the march as their youth bouyed us up with their promise of a different future.

I’m only 36 but already I can see we are too late for now, for us.

But we keep on keeping on because they are the future and we must not let them down.

Five things to do for a friend whose child is in hospital

The smallsmall was admitted to hospital this year on Christmas Day. Sound dramatic, right? Well, it was a bit – breathing is kind of important and he wasn’t being terribly good at it, so in we went and ended up staying for four days.

Shittest Christmas ever, you might be thinking. But actually it wasn’t so bad. The nurses and doctors were immense (and of course were WORKING on Christmas Day – where were you, Mr Cu- I mean, Hunt?…) and even when I fell asleep leaning on the side of the bed the boy was on, they just brought me chocolates and left me face down in a puddle of saliva as they went about their very important business.

Like most British people I moan about the weather and my inabiliity to get a GP appointment but on the whole we know that when the chips are down, the NHS always stumps up.

My mum’s cancer (x2), the instrumental birth of my first child, the midwifery care for my second, the weeks my preemie nephew recently spent in NICU, and now this little episode of festive drama – every time the NHS has proven themselves to be a little bit of ace in a world full of too much shit and Donald Trump.

Having said that, when your kid gets admitted to hospital, the resources are quite rightly pointed in their direction. There is little sleep and no food for the anxious parents (unless you count guiltily hoovering up the cold remains of your kid’s shepherd’s pie while hiding behind a blue curtain).

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It would have been a waste, right..? The cake and custard was good too…

So, while I was sitting around in hospital I gave some thought to what would make the stay easier for me and anyone else who finds themselves in this position:

Food. Most children’s wards have kitchens which parents are able to use. One of the most helpful things friends/ family can do is bring/ send in food that can be easily warmed in a microwave.

Just a note of caution – I do mean actual food, not the snacky kind of junk food that we all imagine someone stuck in a hospital will be craving. The chances are that after the first 24 hours, the parent in question will have already consumed Christmas-like quantities of crisps and chocolate and will be feeling a little sick.

Proper food is the one here, folks. And if you have no time to cook (fair enough) then grab a decent ready meal, some soup perhaps, or a sandwich of superior quality to the average hospital canteen’s, and rest assured the gesture will be greatly appreciated.

Slippers, socks, (new) pyjamas. An unexpected hospital stay means no time to pack, no time to think what you need, and there is definitely no time to consider the fact that it might not feel ok to be forced out of your comfort-home while wearing your comfort clothes.

You can’t even fall back on being ill and therefore not caring, because you’re not.

I’m putting on my PJs at home generally means I’ll be donning the tshirts too tatty to wear in public, coupled with a pair of pants. If I’m feeling frisky (said with sarcasm and meaning exciting-but-not-really, not that kind of frisky) I might stretch to a pair of the Mr’s boxers.

Clearly this was not going to cut it on a hospital ward.

When it comes to socks, there was also something embarrassing about taking off my shoes to uncover an unwelcome toe or heel waggling at everyone. People generally were kind enough to pretend not to see it, but we all knew.

I’d change my clothes quicker than a self-conscious teenager in PE, in case the next footsteps swept the blue curtain aside. I worried that the sight to greet three doctors and two nurses “on their rounds” would be me, precariously balanced on one foot, arse in air, midway through changing my pants.

I’d guiltily wolfed down the small’s leftover banana behind a blue curtain as I waited for the Mr to appear with breakfast (see the first item in this list). It was 10am already, and I had considered eating my own arm.

And I’d been holding in my farts way longer than can possibly be healthy.

Having holes in my socks was just an indignity too far.

I really would have welcomed some new ones, a fancy pair of PJs so I could pretend I was in control (I’m totally taking this all in my stride – look my pyjama bottoms match my top) along with a pair of slippers because the Mr kept forgetting mine – no judgement, just a worried dad trying to hold together the other pieces of our life.

Take note.

An opportunity to nap. It’s likely that the parent has had little sleep. The combination of observations, medications, the noises of other children, and snoring of their parents, make sleep on a paediatric hospital ward impossible.

Ear plugs are frowned upon. Should your kid’s various machines starting bleeping and dinging in an alarming way (which apparently is different to the routine bleeps and dings that wake you up all night, or the ones that happen when your kid pulls off the oxometer. Again), I’m imagining the doctors and nurses rushing to your child’s aid would prefer not to have to rouse you from you slumber.

Should you be paying a parent a visit therefore, bring a cup of tea, then sit in a chair while they collapse face down on the bed and doze for an hour or two.

This will be the kind of sleep they will wake from not knowing their name or where they are, but the knowledge that their child is supervised and cannot launch him/herself from the bed will be enough to allow them to give in.

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Don’t go to sleep, mummy! I don’t care if I only have half a functioning lung – I’ll land on my head if you go to sleep! I will, I will, I will!

Hand cream. Wash your hands on your way into the ward, on your way out, after nappy changes, after going to the loo, before eating, after eating, and after every time your kid spits their meds all over you (how they ever get better, I don’t know). The hand washing is BRUTAL.

Soon the skin on your hands starts to resemble the heels of your feet (which are hopefully now swathed in brand new socks).

Hand cream will be very welcome.

Bring your best chat. Once you’ve dispensed with the questions about how the small person is, ask how they are. They’ll no doubt tell you they are fine but let them know it’s ok not to be. Be ready in case they cry. And just let them for a few minutes.

Then pull out your phone and do some full-scale bashing of whatever you know floats your mate’s boat. Whether it be football results, the news, politics, celebrity gossip or you’ll never guess what so-and-so-in-the-village has done now, just bring it.

Your mate will relish the opportunity to think and talk about something other than medication, test results, or whether that bleeping is one of the important ones or not. They’ll feel rejuvenated by talking about something normal for once so research it beforehand if necessary, just do your best not to turn up with your head in shed – that’s going to help no-one.

There are about a hundred other ways that you can be useful to parents whose children are in hospital – this is just a start. If you’re really not sure, then why not ask?

And finally, to any parent reading this whose child is in hospital regularly, or who’s stay lasts longer than four days: you are a fecking hero.

 

NB. I’ve purposely said parents in this piece because most people care about their kids. But I also think most of these concerns might be peculiar to women (or maybe that’s my unconcious gender bias rearing its head – I just can’t imagine the Mr being quite so bothered about the sock thing. The food, yeah, but socks…?) What do you think?

The financial fallout of fertility

I’m a child of the 80s, teenager of the 90s, young woman of the noughties, and for My Entire Life the emphasis has been on becoming an independent, empowered woman. A concept inextricably entwined in my mind with earning my own money.

But now, as a woman in my thirties, a mother of two, set adrift from traditional employment by family circumstances that made my career impossible, I find myself battling insidious implications.

Where I was once independent, I am now reliant on someone else to provide me with security. The roof over my head, the food on the table, warmth and light in my home all depend on someone else.

Once empowered, I am now reduced to the financial status of a child.

And I ask myself if, where I was once strong, am I now weak?

How has this happened? This is not where I was supposed to be, I think, and a few weeks ago I reached the sad conclusion that I am not proud of who I am.

Like parents everywhere, I hope I am raising children who will not build walls, nor grab pussies, who will choose acceptance and welcome over fear and division, and I know there is pride to be found here.

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Please don’t grab pussies. I’d be really sad.

But I also want something else. Something selfish (and I’m totally comfortable with calling it that). Something that pays me my own money.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m letting the sisterhood down. Like I’m laughing in the face of the hard-won increments made by the women who came before me, so that we have rights that today we take for granted.

I feel like I’m letting down my twenty-something self who sneered in her certainty that she was not one of those Goldigger’s Kanye rapped about. Instead she certain she was one of Destiny’s Child’s Independent Women who would pay her own Bills Bills Bills and Who Run the World (Girls).

I feel like my feminist ideals have been defeated by the cold-hard inflexible economics of life in the modern world. Like I gave up too soon, I should have fought harder for my job, for my ambition, for my equality.

And I feel embarrassed that I now take money from my partner’s pocket and put it in my own.

Questions that were irrelevant in the first 13 years of my relationship, the first 35 years of my life, have heralded an awkward new dynamic in my used-to-be-a-partnership.

How do I ask for money? Does this make me a kept woman? How much control should I expect to have over the household finances? Can I really decide how money that I haven’t earned gets spent?

Of course I KNOW I shouldn’t feel this way. If any friend of mine came out with such drivel I’d heavily exhale and call bull.shit.

I would tell her that to employ a cook, cleaner, round-the-clock nanny and life-admin-PA would cost upwards of £100,000 a year.

I’d tell her that without women (because it is over-whelmingly women) making the same decision I have, to put themselves in the back-seat of the family wagon, squashed into the tiny space between the fortified buttresses of her children’s padded thrones in a perfectly mundane metaphor for her whole existence, then we’d all be fucked.

I’d be the first to object that the value in an action is not always financial.

But I’d say it all then most likely fall back on an exhausted cliche. Something like, raising the next generation is the most important job of all, would be what I’d say next, but I’d know that in the face of this feeling there are no words that are not patronising and inadequate. That she hadn’t already thought of for herself, and still found wanting.

Like so many women of our generation, the truth is I don’t value the work done in the home.

The mind-numbing mundanity, the repetition and relentlessness, the picking up and putting down, the boundaries placed on the mind by the same four walls, and the constant requirement to put yourself last are not new – I imagine there was plenty of gin-numbed angst in Don Draper’s time.

What is new however is the expectation of more – the chance to have it all we were told we would have, but which turns out to be an illusion.

We have been conditioned to look down on being house-proud in favour of being loud-and-proud about our achievements in work – achievements accompanied by a pay-packet and while (in the words of another excruciating cliche) money isn’t everything, what it represents, is.

On the cusp of being a Millenial I took a crumb of comfort that the pay gap between men and women born between 1981 and 2000 has shrunk to five percent. My initial lukewarm reaction – it’s progress but wtf, there’s still a gap – dropped to freezing the second I read the next sentence, because when those same women turn 30, (and one assumes start having children) the pay gap starts to widen.

Projections in the study by The Resolution Foundation estimate that by the time Millenials hit 40, the pay gap between men and women will be closer to 25%. That’s TWENTY-FIVE percent, a number for which only shouty capital letters will suffice.

As a woman who had a child, took a demotion because my previous role was “too challenging” for someone with a young family, had another child, had a “difficult” return to work, and for who’s career the nursing home levels of flex in her partner’s job rang the death knell, I am a seething speck in this incredible statistic.

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The flexibility of the Mr’s workplace.

And I’m willing to bet my substantially deflated financial worth on the fact that I’m not the only pot quietly simmering away on the stove I’ve unwillingly been tied to.

In the midst of the financial fallout of fertility, I torment myself with the thought that the money I am spending is not “mine”. I contrarily reflect on a simpler time when roles were clearly defined and we had not fallen for the falsehood that men and women are now equal.

Family, lifetime partnerships and those pesky, inconvenient, brilliant, small people are of course more valuable than how much cash you carry in your pocket, but we focus on the money because it’s easy to measure.

This, however is about more than just our bank balance because the money stands for so much more.

It stands for choice, independence, opportunity and freedom and I find myself asking why should we live without those?