Extremely Nappies

My middle child is a fussy eater.  Don’t ask me why, but he doesn’t like vegetables.  But as a health obsessed vegan mum, I was determined to get him not only to eat vegies, but to love them.

Baby-Led-Weaning vs spoon-fed.

You’ve heard of baby-led-weaning (BLW), right?  When the baby is ready for solids, you give them a selection of finger foods to feed themselves, instead of choosing for them, pureeing and spoon feeding.  (You don’t have to stop breastfeeding).  Well my first child was fed the traditional way (spoons and mush),  but I did baby-led-weaning with my second.  They both ate really well as babies, refusing nothing.  Number 1 continued to eat everything in the vegetable kingdom.   So imagine my surprise when number 2, my Sumo-baby, put down his broccoli tree, and never picked it up again.  I’d given him free choice of whatever he could shove in his mouth, and he’d rejected vegetables. 

It’s been a battle of wills ever since.  I’d put vegies on his plate, he’d eat around them.  I’d put salad in a bowl on the table, he’d pop a few pieces on his plate, but they were strictly garnish.  I’d encourage him to taste some each time, but my reward was his mask of disgust and it’s accompanying shudder.  “Good boy for trying” I’d say, relentlessly positive. 

In the meantime, I’d make dishes with as much “built-in vegies” as I could get away with.  Wholemeal pasta with vegan-bolognaise made a regular appearance.  Carrot cake too.  On a bad week I’d pull out the baked beans, because they count as vegetables, I’d tell myself.  But disguising veg and counting legumes wasn’t a solution.  I needed strategies to change his attitude.

The mighty power of bribery.

I know what you’re thinking.  Eat your vegies or you don’t get dessert, right?  Well that never worked.  He steadfastly refused the vegies anyway. So here’s what I did, and it worked.  At morning tea time: “Who wants crackers and dip?” ME! “Here’s your dip, and a bunch of carrot sticks – when you’ve eaten the carrots you get the crackers”.  Starting with just a few, the carrots got eaten.  After a while there was no complaint about the carrots.  Sometimes there didn’t need to be crackers to follow.  Now he’ll happily eat carrots by themselves.  Without dip.  I may have lost the battle 2000 times, but eventually, I won the war.

The challenge of competition.

We also engage in vegetable challenges: like bean-eating races.  First person to devour their bean is the winner.   Another favourite: who can do the best impression of a monster eating a tree? Who can make their muscles bulge by eating vegetables, like Popeye (“who’s Popeye?”).

Strategic advances.

And what of my strategy of perseverance?  Serving vegies in a variety of ways, although they are always met with disdain?  I choose to believe that it’s working.  He’s only 4, and he now likes carrots.  I take great enthusiasm from the Great Carrot Coup of 2012.  If I can get him eating other plants, albeit under sufferance, sooner or later he’s going to realise that they’re pretty good.  I’ve got many more years to enamour him with the rest of the vegetable universe. 

I also figure, that maybe some vegetables get in through osmosis, just by being on the same plate.  We’re also working on another picture book, where eating vegies gives you super powers.  These psychological strategies will pay off one day: I’ve heard him say that Honk (Incredible Hulk) is strong because he eats all his vegetables. 

So now I’ve got baby number 3, and she’s well and truly eating solids.  I’m not game to do BLW exclusively, just in case it had a role in the vegetable war.  She gets a happy mix of finger foods and spoonfuls of mush.  So far, she likes all types of food.  But even if she does declare war on veggies, like her brother did, she doesn’t stand a chance against my relentless optimism. 

Sorry I haven’t been blogging… life’s too busy. I don’t have enough hands.

I reckon you should get an extra hand each time you have a baby. Don’t you think that’s fair? So I’d have 5 hands by now and would be able to multitask really well. I could type my blog, while breast feeding the baby, while playing cards with the boys, whilst sewing nappies.  My head is sometimes trying to do all these things at once, so it’d be nice if my body kept up.

This year I was one of 3 kindy mums who was pregnant with our 3rd.  We each had 2 boys already.  i also had 2 friends pregnant with their first.  We all kept it a surprise, and so far we have all had baby girls.  There’s one mum left to give birth, (who already has 2 boys) and she’s been watching with increasing panic this wave of baby girls being born, because it seems like we’re using up all the girls.  Illogical; but understandable.  Is there a quota?  Do our 50-50 odds stay the same despite the birth patterns around us?

When i lived in Indonesia i used to tell my street punk friends about life in Australia.  They particularly liked the concept of hard rubbish (kerbside collection); they’d be blown away that people actually throw out perfectly good bikes, white goods, TVs, and furniture.  And indeed, when we arrived in Oz 4 years ago, most of our belongings came from hard rubbish.  Until recently, everything in our house was acquired second hand.  Something has changed.  As things break or become inadequate for our growing family, we’ve been replacing them with actual new things. Covered by warranty. 

For instance, I bought a new washing machine.  I know, I’m becoming a consumerist, sucked in by the capitalist machine and manipulated into buying stuff in the "big sales" – but truth is, I’ve never bought anything new and never needed to, but suddenly we can afford it and we need to upsize everything. Also, there’s been nothing else to do but shop when it’s raining every day over the holidays.  I suspect a lot of the present economic recovery is thanks to appalling weather.  And although it’s hard to get stuff dry, my nappies have never been cleaner.  I didn’t know washed nappies could smell so fresh! 

Happy 2011 everyone!  I’m really looking forward to this year… my oldest boy starts school, which is going to be awesome (for us both!).  I’m predicting glorious morning walks to school, peaceful days(without the boys fighting), Zumba classes (for me), karate classes and swimming (for him).  I’ll be allowed to start running again too, for which I‘m doing my Kegels diligently.  I feel so good when I’m super fit, and so crap when I miss a day of exercise.

My baby girl gets bigger and more beautiful each day, and already some of her handmade dresses are designated dolls clothes.  I can’t wait till she’s big enough to play with dolls (and I can’t believe I just said that.)  Little guy is now 3 which has gotta be better than 2.  He’s super cute and ultra naughty.  I look forward to seeing how all my kids change and grow in this year.

What are you hoping for this bright and shiney new year? 

“Mummy, how does the baby get out of your tummy?  Is there a door?”  My 4 year old raised a good point. There should be a door.  I answered with a vague story about a temporary tunnel opening up for the occasion, omitting all the scary details.  But the question got me wondering:  why do we have to endure such extraordinary pain to bring our young into the world?   I don’t see other animals (except possibly elephants) suffering like we do in the course of childbirth.  It seems that we, humans, are not a very good design.

Nine days ago, I gave birth to my third baby.  It wasn’t too bad, as far as childbirth goes.  It didn’t go exactly as I’d imagined in my fantasy, but it was pretty close.  In fact, I’d say it was better.  Here’s the story.

I was scheduled for induction at 5 am.  I was pretty keen to spontaneously erupt, so the night before D-day I walked up a small mountain, pressed the relevant acupressure points, jumped on the trampoline etc.  Mild contractions started at 3 am.  Yes!  I was going to beat the induction.

Mum was home, ready for the kids to wake up, so hubby and I headed to the hospital in the wee hours, as arranged.  We parked a few streets away and walked 10 minutes up the hill to the labour ward.  After admission, I laboured on with not too much pain while the staff changed shift from night to day staff.  I didn’t feel like dancing; hubby was doing his best with the acupressure points, but I was pretty tired and just wanted to lie on the bed.   Someone suggested I try the shower before the day staff came in and got things moving.  So I stood in the shower with hot water on my back and my tummy simultaneously – it felt awesome: I could have stayed there all day, but then the staff were back and it was time.  

At 9 am they broke my waters and hooked me up to a monitor to see my contractions.  Because there was meconium in the waters they wanted the baby out soon.  They went about preparing the drip to speed things along.  My contractions were strong enough, but not quite regular enough.  I was having 2 in 10 minutes, but I needed to be having 4 in that time.  Just tell me what to do, I said.  By the time the drip was ready, I’d been having 4 strong contractions every 10 minutes.  Keep this up and you won’t need the drip at all, they said.  Yes!  I beat the drip.

The contractions gained intensity and I found myself asking for the gas. My moans were getting louder and longer: I was so uncomfortable on the bed but unable to move.  The gas spun me right out,  the radio was playing trippy music and only the pain of contractions kept bringing me back to earth.  I think I even slept between contractions at one point.  This went on for an hour before I started to feel pressure down below; I was gesturing to my bits during contractions: words had gone out the window.  The pressure kept getting stronger, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before baby was out. 

“I think I want to push soon.  Tell me what to do!” I said to my midwife.  She said she’d get the baby doctor here soon so I could start pushing with the next contraction.  At this point, contractions were so painful that I was howling through them.  I tried to breath, I tried to relax, but all I could do was scream and howl, and suck on the gas.  The pressure was getting unbearable; I was gesturing wildly.  I had a strong feeling that the baby would be here very soon.

“OK Lara, with the next contraction, I want you to push.  No more gas, no more screaming.  Hold your breath and push”.  The next contraction came and I started screaming but my midwife told me firmly, once more, how to shut up and push, which is what I needed to hear.  I located the switch in my brain that flicked from dealing with the pain to using the pain: I began to push.  I felt the baby descend in the birth canal, that same feeling of control that I felt when my second son was being born.  It was an “aha” moment… I actually said “oh, right, that!”.  Keep telling me what to do, I told her.

Each contraction my midwife told me again to push, (and how to push), and I flicked that switch and pushed.  Hubby was holding my hand and saying encouraging things- he was down the business end and could see what was going on.  I was flying blind.  I must have been doing something right because there was almost no break between the contractions and the pressure had become searing burning pain.  I was screaming and pushing; I almost couldn’t stop. 

“You have to wait for the baby doctor” said my midwife. “Breath, breath, breath” she said.  I breathed instead of pushing for as long as I could but then I couldn’t stop myself… “Pushing! Pushing” I said. The paediatrician must have arrived because I was suddenly allowed to push as much as I wanted.  But I didn’t want to anymore- the pain was too insane.  I looked into my husband’s eyes and said to him “no more babies”.  He agreed with great emotion.  Then, I was pushing; everyone was cheering me on; hubby said “one more push!” and I pushed through the pain and out came the baby. 

I was stunned. I’d done it. There was a slimy, bluey-grey baby. One second ago it was inside my body, and now it was here.  Hubby said, “ITS A GIRL!”  In disbelief, I said “No way! I don’t believe you.  SHOW ME!” They lifted up my baby for me to see, and placed her on my chest.  A girl! We have a daughter. Hubby smiled at me with tears in his eyes and said “No more babies”. I was too stunned to say anything.

That feeling of disbelief has stayed with me until now.  I look at her beautiful little face, her perfect skin and dark wavy hair, and just can’t believe she’s here.  I can’t believe we have a girl.  After having two sons, I guess I just expected another boy.  All my friends from growing up have had sons.  In fact, all the girls I know from high school have had sons. Not one of us has had a single daughter.  Until now.

So how did the actual birth compare to my imagined story?  Labour was spontaneous, although racing the induction clock probably helped.  The pain was only really bad from when my waters broke, so for about 2 hours, and I only pushed for about 10 minutes!  Hubby said it was only 5 pushes!  The little lady arrived with no major damage to either of us.  She weighed 3.48 kg and breast fed straight away. There was no need for stitches, and they let us go home the next day. 

These last 9 days have been amazing (as well as challenging, of course).  It’s great to be home.  The little lady is quite settled here: she’s used to the chaos of our house.  Her brothers think she’s wonderful, and our families are thrilled.  I was walking the streets today, showing her the world from her pram, and I couldn’t get the smile of my face.  The process of giving birth still seems ridiculously brutal, but it’s so totally worth it.

I’m about to have my 3rd baby, any day now.  While I’m waiting I want to revisit my experiences of labour and childbirth.  They’re pretty easy to categorise- the first birth was a nightmare, the second was a dream, and the third is only a fantasy, until it happens.  So if you’re in the mood for a bit of blood and guts horror, a feel-good musical, and smaltzy preview…. read on:

First Baby: Nightmare birth.

It was February 2006.  Hubby and I lived in Indonesia but had come to Melbourne for the birth.  It was a glorious summer- we’d been riding bikes along the beach to St Kilda, swimming in the ocean, strolling around the street markets.  I was one day past my due date: it was midnight and Fight Club was on TV, when contractions started.  They must’ve gone all night but I got some sleep in between, and then they continued next day.  I went to the hospital when things were getting too much.  I remember the 25 minute car trip was hell, as I didn’t want to be sitting down and couldn’t bear the seatbelt.

First babies are notoriously slow and difficult, and this was no exception.  After 12 hours I was only dilated 2 cm, which seriously depressed me. I’d been coping with the pain until then, but it was sort of like when you’ve sat through 4.5 hours of tattooing and you know you just about reached your limit, and they tell you there’s 10 hours to go.  I thought I’d need some pain relief as I was exhausted, and still had such a long way to go.  So I got an epidural.  Big mistake.  I must be super sensitive to drugs because it made me pass out, and when i came to, I couldn’t speak, or could only mutter incoherent nonsense.  It was self administered, so I’d have to push the button to get the pain relief.  When my brain swam back into a semi- functioning state, I stopped pushing the button.  I couldn’t feel my body and had no control over it, but the pain continued. All was fuzzy and confusing. Hours passed and I still couldn’t communicate. 

Then they were telling me to push.  I couldn’t feel if was pushing or not, but whatever was going on, it wasn’t working.  I was howling in pain, but if I pushed the button I’d pass out.  I was trapped in this torturous state of pain – my mind numbed, my body unresponsive.  I was shaking violently and freezing cold, but they wouldn’t let me have a blanket because I was burning up (40 degree temperature). For an hour or so I was pushing and screaming and crying, but nothing was happening.  The drugs had rendered me physically incompetent, and unable to communicate.

Then baby was in distress: people came running with lights and machinery, suddenly there was people everywhere and a cacophony of intervention ensued.  My birth plan said to try vaccuum first, which was hurled across the room when it failed.  Baby was stuck in the birth canal, and they needed to get him out fast. They figured I’d been pushing my button for pain relief so I was given an episiotomy without anaesthetic and then a forceps delivery which was more brutal and horrific than I could ever imagine, and yes, I felt it all.  I was still screaming minutes later, consumed by my own pain and misery.  I had no concept of there being a baby in the room, until they placed him on my chest.  I saw it was a boy, and my first thought was “thank god he’s a boy- he’ll never have to go through that again”.   It was a 23 hour labour and I was traumatised.

I felt suicidal for the first few days- my body was mutilated and I couldn’t imagine ever recovering.  The baby picked up a bug on the long journey out, when I was burning up, so he spent the first week of his life in neonatal intensive care.  That whole first week was horrific, but the baby was perfect: 3.5 kg.  My body healed eventually (much to my amazement).  I swore I’d never do it again.

Second Baby: Dream birth.

It was New Years Day, in Brisbane, 2008. My due date was tomorrow, and I woke up grumpy that this birth had not begun. By 9 am I knew it was finally happening, and my mood brightened immeasurably.  I felt calmly excited as contractions established themselves.  Hubby and I got on with our day: we walked around the streets with our 2 year old son; I collected fallen flowers, moaning but not stopping through contractions.  I bounced on my fit ball, downloaded some acupressure points and drew them on my body so hubby would know exactly where to press.  I started timing contractions from 1pm: they were  3-7 minutes apart and ranged from 40-90 seconds long. They were definitely gaining in strength but still very bearable so I felt like it was just pre-labour.  I’d had weeks of contractions the first time, so I thought things were still a long way off.

I rang the hospital at 4 pm when my mum insisted, and no one answered. It’s New Years Day, so probably the hospital is shut, I joked.  Eventually I got through to a midwife who said I should come in or I might end up having the baby in the car. Surprised, I got the last of my stuff together and said goodbye to my 2 year old, who’d be staying home with my mum. The slightly frenzied state of activity brought contractions closer together, maybe every 2 mins.

We arrived at the hospital at 6 pm and I was in a great mood. I was joking with the midwives and could still laugh during contractions. They gave us a great room with big windows overlooking the city. I was able to watch night fall, leaning on the window during contractions while hubby “pushed the button” to activate the acupressure points drawn on my shoulders and bum in marker pen. The pressure points really helped, relaxing the pain away while strengthening the contraction to do its job. The pain was halved. I spent a while dancing around the room to a mixed tape I’d made.  The pain got more intense.  I tried out the shower, fit ball, beanbag and floor mat and avoided the bed.

At 7 pm I asked for an examination to see how far I was dilated: 6-7 cm. Awesome!  After that things started getting full on. Clearly this was NOT pre-labour; I could no longer stand up for contractions. I was getting tired so I stopped dancing, and tried to rest in a position where I could quickly be ready for the next one because they were coming fast and hard. I had a hard time getting the midwife’s attention to ask for gas, as the moans turned into howls. I was kneeling on the floor with the beanbag and hubby. He asked her when could I start to push, she replied “anytime she wants, she’s  fully dilated”.  By the sounds I was making, she could tell I was in transition.  It sounded primal.

She asked if I felt like pushing but I couldn’t really tell if I was already pushing or not, the pressure was so great. I felt wet suddenly as my waters began to trickle. I sucked on the gas and exhaled in long screams as things shifted into extreme. Some women were there suddenly and they said his head’s down really low, but it’s still in its membrane and that seems to be pulling him back. I could feel his head move down and back, so I let them rupture the membrane and water went everywhere.
They encouraged me to push instead of screaming, to use the pain to get him out. They were right, I realized, because screaming was like trying to block out the pain and resist the urge. The screaming was involuntary, but if I really tried I could convert the energy into effort to move the baby out. When that became clear I suddenly connected with my baby, and began talking to him by name.  I conceptualized working together to achieve an outcome, rather than being stuck in a zone of “me against the pain”.

I could feel his head getting further down the birth canal, and I felt in control, sort of. I was still fighting the pain but began to have thoughts like “I really want to meet you, I want you out”. It helped that I was so thoroughly OVER being pregnant and waiting for labour. It actually felt like something that I was doing rather than something that was happening to me.

The midwife told hubby to hit the call button and women filled the room. They were really encouraging. I managed to say”keep talking to me” as I’d felt really alone until then. They were great, talking me through what I was doing and directing me. I was so immersed in pain and determination, screaming and trying to push. I still had the gas but was crushing the mouth piece with my teeth. The Dr said, don’t worry about the gas, hold your breath and push. It hurt like crazy and I wanted to scream but I pushed (and screamed and grunted). I could feel the baby actually turn in the birth canal. “He wants out” they said.

I knew suddenly it was time, I was going to have to take control and get him out or this was never going to end. I’d been pushing a really long time and heard myself say “I’m sorry baby, I cant get you out”. Someone said “you’re doing great, you’re pushing him out: next contraction, big breath, big push.” So I did. Oh. My. God. I felt my body open up: the pain was insane and I wanted to stop but it still hurt as much if I pushed or tried to stop it, so I screamed and pushed.  I felt like I WAS DOING THIS. Between contractions I was allowed little pushes as he was crowning.  “Push through the pain”, they said, but it hurt too much, but I pushed and screamed and it burnt and stung but they talked me on.  I could feel his head coming out (every millimetre!) “He’s nearly there” they cheered and I pushed through the pain and his head was out!!! At this point I was still gasping and crying and doing whatever they said. There were little pushes and big pushes, I couldn’t really tell coz my body was pushing on it’s own but I hear “next contraction you’ve got to push out his shoulders”.  The pain was so constant I couldn’t tell if there was a contraction or not, and I didn’t care I just wanted this over. So I pushed with all my might and I did it! I pushed out his shoulders and his little body slithered out. There was my baby! I said hello. I could talk.

To my great surprise I was fine. They asked if I could move, I was like, sure, where do you want me? They helped me to the bed and they gave him suction.  Hubby cut the cord and he began screaming like a devil child until they put him on my chest, where he instantly calmed and looked me right in the eyes as if to say, “hi there, so that’s what you look like”. It was amazing. He was amazing.  I was amazing. It was a dream birth.

It would have been awesome had it ended there, but I began haemorrhaging, which caused a cascade of interventions that took three hours to fix.  The pain of the local anaesthetic was equal to the pain of childbirth, believe it or not, so it felt to me like torture. In the end I had 12-15 stitches for 2nd degree tears, I lost 600 mls of blood but managed to avoid a transfusion. 3 hours after he was born I was stable and they finally weighed and checked him: he was fine: 3.3 kg. Labour was recorded as 9 hours in all, including 1.5hours of pushing.  But only 3 hours were really bad.

Third Baby: Fantasy.

Seeing as this hasn’t happened yet, I’ll tell it like I hope it will happen.   I’d like to go into spontaneous labour at home.  I’ll kiss the kids goodbye (they’re just under 5 and 3 now, so they know what’s going on).  Mum will hold the fort while hubby and I duck out to have the baby.  We’ll go straight into hospital as contractions will be strong already.  I’ll have a little gas, the acupressure points will work really well, and I’ll be dancing.  After no more than an hour, I’ll reach transition. Then I’ll push for only half an hour, and will have a perfectly healthy baby, weighing 3.2 kg.  There’ll be no need for stitches and I’ll be able to go home the next day.  All up, it’ll be a 3 hour labour.  A likely scenario?  I’ll let you know how it goes.

My neighbour was trying on some pants in his driveway (as you do).  Over his clothes of course. I should explain that the neighbours are moving so all their belongings are migrating, via said driveway.  They’re great neighbours, we’ll really miss them, but that’s a whole other post. Anyway, his pants looked  many sizes too big, so I asked if he’d lost some weight.  Yeah, about 30kgs, he said.  I was floored.  We’ve lived next door for years and I’d never noticed.  It turns out the transformation happened mostly before we moved in, yet he’d maintained it.  So I asked the obvious question: How did you do it?

How did he lose 30 kgs?

Smaller portion size, was his answer, and exercise. He used to eat too much.  He retrained himself eat smaller meals, and allowed himself to feel hungry instead of satiating every tinge of hunger.  Then he added exercise to the mix, starting with walking, eventually adding weights and running.  He was determined not to have the health issues of his father’s generation, where the men died young and suffered to the end.  Since losing the weight he feels great, he says. His blood pressure and cholesterol levels are good, he has more energy and is 2cm taller!  Wow.  See the conversations I’m going to miss out on when they move?

Our fat culture

I’ve just been reading Peter Singer’s book The Ethics of What We Eat so it was no suprise that he attributed his former weight issues to a culture of overeating.  Americans (and Australians) eat 50% more meat, poultry and dairy than they did in the 1950s. We don’t need this much extra food, it’s far beyond our nutritional requirements. It’s actually a huge waste of resources so it’s an ethical issue.  Eating like this requires intensive factory farming of animals, a modern strategy that pollutes the planet and causes lifetimes of suffering for animals.  The health implications are obvious: 30% of our population is now obese, with all the associated health problems.  Australia has just overtaken North America in obesity… we should be so proud.  The huge strain on our health system is going to dominate our future – and premature death is unavoidable.  Well actually it is avoidable, which makes the whole situation so crazy.  We are killing ourselves : the obesity epidemic is the first epidemic not caused by nature (disease); it’s caused by culture. 

Would you like heart disease with that?

I’m no nutritionist, but I can spot unhealthy food a mile away.  I see fat-laden, highly processed “food” being peddled in large sizes at low prices. The multinational fast food chains assault me through TV advertising, especially at dinner time, even though I never go near their stores.  With their brightly coloured, dominantly-placed playgrounds, “kids meals” and children’s character promotions, they wield pester power like a semi-automatic. I don’t have a simple answer for my kids when they ask “why can’t we go play there, mummy?”  I wish there were laws to stop them targeting children with their advertising billions.  I don’t think it’s fair that they make huge profits by selling nutritionally-poor, high fat and sugar-dense products, yet bear none of the health costs associated with obesity.  Why isn’t there a tax on processed food, fat and sugar, like there is on tobacco?  I could go on and on about the evils of fast-food culture, the real cost of producing cheap food, but it’s 3 in the morning so I won’t.

Back to my neighbour: he’s moving to start a new job as a catering manager, but he’s been working in an office for the last few years.  I asked how the office/kitchen culture affects his health/weight.  He told me in the office, people are snacking all day long, eating sweet biscuits 4 at a time and drinking instant coffee with milk and 2 sugars – filling up their bodies with food they don’t need that’s making them fat.  I cringe at the thought: it’s not just the empty calories- those biscuits are full of palm oil- a crop that’s decimating orangutan populations to near extinction, and the multinational behind that coffee brand is the subject of a decades-long boycott for their irresponsible marketing of infant formula and labour exploitation.

I think people are mostly oblivious to the ethical issues about food.  We know about the health issues, but they are drowned out by advertising.  We are so bombarded with messages to promote a convenience-based, unhealthy food culture, that it’s a struggle to see the ethical and health concerns.   There’s no counter advertising to the billions being spent by the food industries, no government regulation on what can be sold as food.   So it’s up to us.  We have to inform ourselves from independent sources.  We have to make wiser decisions about what we feed ourselves and our children, where it comes from, and what it does to us. 

Resources (just off the top of my head, do your own research for more):

www.ethical.org.au

the ethics of what we eat : Peter Singer & Jim Mason (Melbourne, 2006)

www.babymilkaction.org

www.ethicalconsumer.org

www.orangutan.org.au

www.veganhealth.org

www.goveg.com

5 years ago today, my husband and I got married in a shotgun wedding in the ghetto of Jakarta, where I pretended to speak Arabic, looking like a Betawi princess marrying a corpse, in a punk party beside the open sewers.  Here is the story:

To get married, I had to become a Muslim first (in Indonesia the couple must share the same religion).  To convert to Islam, I had to say 2 sentences in Arabic.  I don’t speak Arabic, but I could repeat the phrases the Imam told me. We did it word by word, sound by sound. 

The day of the wedding arrived. The whole ghetto was decorated with silky curtains and fake flowers.  The neighbourhood was crackling with energy: everyone had a role to play.  Many of the women had been up all night cooking for the feast to come, and the men were busy smoking.  Everyone was decked out in their best batik.  

The bridal preparations began at 7am.  They dragged me out of bed and told me not to shower (because it would bring rain and ruin the wedding).  Gentle hands guided me to a house where a makeup artist slopped creams and cosmetics all over my face. I had no say in the proceedings, except to refuse the fake eyelids, made from sticky tape and orange gunk. The fake eyelashes were fine.

I was given lots of makeup and massive hair, including a red hair bun, despite the fact that I’m blonde.  On my head there were strings of flowers and gold decorative birds sticking out dangerously.  The groom nearly lost an eye every time he got too close, but maybe that was the point.  An outfit I’d never seen before (much less tried on) was presented for me to wear.  It was a red/gold skirt and intricate lace traditional top (kebaya), only slightly too big.  I was dressed in the traditional costume of a Betawi bride, with very ‘70s hair and makeup.  I felt weird.

The groom looked hilarious: he was bejeweled and sarong-ed wearing a Muslim hat (peci) and white shirt.  I’d never seen him wear anything but black t-shirts and jeans,  so I couldn’t keep a straight face.  For reasons best known to themselves, the makeup crew covered his face with white powder, giving him the exact pallor of a corpse.  We posed for stilted photographs with every uncle aunt, cousin, relative, friend, neighbour, and random person that wandered unwittingly into the kampung.

Then the ceremony began. We kneeled on the floor surrounded by important family members, the Imam, the witness,and the Dept of Religion officials who were telling us what to say. There was only a handful of people present, and no audience, as no-one else could fit in the room.  A piece of white lace was draped over our heads to symbolise something. The microphones were turned on, and they started speaking.  Most of it was in Indonesian, except for the bits in Arabic, which included the wedding vows, as far as I could tell.  There’d been no rehearsals or explanations before the ceremony, so I was pretty lost.  Just like when I converted to Islam the week before, I made my vows in a language I didn’t understand.  I’ve got no idea what i agreed to, but I’ve been married ever since.

We signed some papers, swapped wedding rings, and kissed.  The official part was over, so we pressed cheeks with the others in the ceremony.  It was a moment of calm happiness, so imagine my suprise when my husband burst into tears. I’d never seen him cry before, so I panicked.  I imagined he’d  realised it was a big mistake to marry me.  Suddenly everyone was crying; i didn’t know what was going on! Next thing I knew I was crying too, half in confusion and half caught up in the atmosphere. But everything was fine; it was just another part of the wedding.                                                 

We emerged from the house to the elaborately decorated laneway to greet the guests.  They were an interesting mix of local families, dressed up to nines, and heaps of our crazy punk friends, still dressed in their punk rock t-shirts and grimy jeans with mad hair. They’d come from all over Indonesia to be there, even though our invites were only by text message.  The punk guests arrived in waves, each new wave falling over laughing at us: the bride and groom looking all traditional and proper.

I was summoned to change clothes, this time into a gorgeous green sarong and lace kabaya (which I’d actually tried on the day before).  The sarong was secured with traditional waist binding that was tight on my belly.  As I was 3 months pregnant it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it looked great.  I got re-haired and re-made up and this time they put a totally outrageous amount of gold decorations on my head.  There was kilos of it, including a  little curtain of gold dangling over my face (chada).

We were taken to the throne room for photos with guests.  We posed until our smiles were grimaces, then escaped outside to the laneway.  There was a buffet of food and everyone was encouraged to eat and eat again.  Someone had prepared a special vegan meal for me of tempeh and tofu.  There was also a band who’d set up a stage, completely blocking the laneway.  They played really loud dangdut music, which is a genre popular among the masses.  I was summoned to sing on the stage, so I did my one dangdut hit, and everyone was dancing.  

We danced, we ate, we posed for more photos: it was awesome fun, but it was tiring in the tropical heat.  The tight stomach binding was getting unbearable, and my head was sore from the weight of the gold decorations.  I  desperately wanted to have a shower and peel off the fake eyelashes, but there was a few more hours of festivity first. I couldn’t stand the pressure of the chada against my forehead any longer, so I begged help to remove the head gear, cut the binding from my belly and slipped into pants instead of the sarong.  Eventually I was allowed to shower; although it was just a bucket of cold water on a concrete floor, it was the best shower ever. 

So that was the story of my big fat Muslim wedding, five years ago today.  Since then we have moved countries and had two children. Life isn’t always easy, but I couldn’t be happier. 

Winter has ascended from the hell where it surely resides.  Semi-tropical Brisbane has been snap-frozen in moment of Melbourne-style coldness, brutal and unrelenting.  “Is this a house or a fridge?” asks Hubby… except it sounds more like “ini  rumah apa kulkas?”  Given that the house was built 40 years ago to cope with temperatures in the mid-30s, it’s not much competition against the cold.  The kids and I shuffle around in the mornings like an assortment of frozen goods: I’m the icecube tray, little dude is frozen vegeburger, and big dude is  frozen peas.

Little dude (2yo) has taken to wearing socks, lots of them.  It’s not uncommon to find him with 3-4 socks on each foot (some of them footless) and several socks on his hands like multi-layered mittens.  He’s slightly obsessed. He searches the house for more and more socks.  He looks in the dirty washing basket, big brother’s sock drawer, he even takes mine off my feet to add to the stash on his own feet.  Once, he got up at 2 a.m. to put on a bunch more socks that were laying discarded on the kitchen floor.  Then he went back to bed. He even managed to eat dinner with footwear on his hands last night.  The odd thing is, he actually made less mess than usual. 

As for me, I’m cranking the heater in the mornings and desperately ushering everyone outside on “important” outings if there’s even the slightest hint of sunshine. It’s almost always warmer outside. I’m also sneezing like crazy… “Ahchooo! Alhamdulillah” (repeat 100 times a day).  I had hoped that incubating a mini-me over winter would protect me from the cold- but I’m still shivering and cursing the weather this year.  Every winter I say “that’s it, we’re moving to Darwin”, yet somehow, I always survive to see spring. And this is Brisbane. I don’t know how families in the southern states survive at all.