9.4.13

Should you bubble-wrap your kids?

  Ok, so you’ve heard about the parents who attempt to bubble-wrap their children to protect them from every sniffle, skinned knee and bump on the head. I will never be one of them. Instead, I often look at teens and wonder  and secretly hope they’ll have at least a few impressive scars, scrapes and illnesses they can exaggerate into near-death experiences to relate at ”Who can top that?” dinner parties.
  I mention this because the Australian Medical Association, hardly known for its risk-taking behaviour, says the federal government has gone too far with an announcement that, in essence, seeks to ban snot and dribble from the nation’s childcare centres.
  For fear that kids spread their germs about like an infectious willy-willy, it has been judged there will be no blowing out of candles on shared birthday cakes; hand sanitiser will be used before and after the sandpit and there will be daily washing of cushions, toys, door knobs and floors. Ummmm…WTF? As if childcare workers don’t already do enough work?! And I am a childcare worker and have been for 18 years now, so I’ve seen it all and been through it all, and that is absolutely not the way to go.
  The AMA has ridiculed at the new regulations. ”It’s normal and healthy to be exposed to a certain amount of environmental antigens that build up our immune systems,” said its president, Steve Hambleton. Too late. Our governments have already caught the incurable ”zero-risk” disease spread by insurers and bio-corporations. All those writhing, nasty germs. KILL THEM!
  For years the pushers of disinfectants, deodorisers and antiseptic wipes have portrayed 99.9 per cent of household germs as an animated swarm of unsavoury critters you can actually see partying on your kitchen bench. Apparently you can whack them with a spatula if you’re quick enough.
  When it comes to playground safety, there are also hundreds of strict regulations for childcare centres: bouncy materials underneath climbing frames for a ”soft fall” and safety gear for tricycles – kiddie helmets that must be immediately doused with chemicals and incinerated (sorry, sanitised) after each use.
  At one parenting website I've seen, it’s recommended that there should be NO unsupervised play date with any animal, even a cat or bird, to avoid a dreadful scratch or peck. Heaven forbid if your kids come home after a malicious gnawing from next-door’s feral guinea pig. It’s fascinating to look back at the sweep of human history and seeing how our expectations have evolved…or devolved.
  Drop any bubble-headed modern parent into a traditional hunter-gather society and they’d be decking out their little ones with an asbestos jumpsuit and accessorised fire extinguisher. Bear Grylls would be a childcare worker.
  Recently, in an article in Newsweek, the US scientist and Pulitzer-prize winning author Jared Diamond wrote of the ancient societies he has observed for the past half a century in Papua New Guinea. ”Young children were considered to have responsibility for their own actions, and were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased,” writes Diamond. ”For example, if a baby was playing next to a fire, adults did not intervene. As a result, many adults in that society had burn scars, which were a legacy of their behaviour as infants.”
  In many such communities young children were regarded as ”autonomous individuals whose desires should not be thwarted”. They were allowed to play with sharp knives, hot pots, and fires, reports Diamond.
  Eeek! Surely no adult would let a child blunder into a burning fire. (I admit, you can’t always trust the observations of US anthropologists. In fact, just this week the indigenous leaders in West Papua have demanded an apology from Diamond for what they say is his portrayal of them as ”Stone Age” people in his latest book.)
  But, Diamond finds much to admire in the way hunter-gather communities raise their kids and suggests we can learn from their 100,000-year history. ”Other Westerners and I are struck by the emotional security, self-confidence, curiosity, and autonomy of members of small-scale societies, not only as adults but already as children,” he says.
  Children do gain their independence early but as babies are constantly stimulated, held, and in not one of 90 such societies he surveyed were mothers and babies sleeping in separate rooms.
  The Efe pygmies in the Congo leave their babies to cry for no more than 10 seconds before being attended to. Skin-to-skin contact with mothers is extraordinary by our standards – the Navajo carried their infants 70 per cent of the time to the age of six months. And then there are the number of ”allo-parents”, (non biological care-givers) who pass even newborns from hand-to-hand to be kissed and bounced – it can be up to 14 adults who share the baby-love over short periods of time. These parents talk to their children much more than we do. My favourite observation is that the Indian children of Peru take almost half their meals with other families. To have a wide network of supportive adults keeps us sane, Diamond concludes.
  No modern parent would dream of taking the risks with their children these ancient societies did. However, in seeking to eliminate all risks, we risk raising fearful children.
  I have a friend who has a ragged ”ouch” scar over one eye, from when she ran head-first into a barbed wire fence during a midnight game of chasey. And you should look at the scar on her big toe when she was chopping wood with an axe at age nine…and missed. It’s a story she’s fond of telling at dinner parties.

1.4.13

Dear EVERYTHING:

Dear long and complicated movie titles,

I realise you’re deliberately long, but please know we’ll never remember your name, and that your hashtag on Twitter will selfishly use up the entire tweet – both terrible marketing outcomes. Take the just released Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God, or rolls-off-the-tongue Charlie Sheen flick, A Glimpse Inside The Mind of Charles Swan III, which critics really enjoyed (if by “enjoyed” you mean “publicly thrashed”). Or even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze – though, to be fair, that couldn’t be shortened, such is the importance of ooze secrecy. It must stop. Our ADD society demands snappy titles such as Taken, Oblivion, Parker, Goddess, Taken 2…Actually Taken 2 should probably be shorter.

Sincerely,
Merc.

Dear people who tell others that green smoothies taste delicious,
LIARS!

Sincerely,
Merc.

Dear the word “Literally”,
I am so sorry darling. When you started to become popular a few years ago, we thought all your spelling bees had come at once, didn’t we? Vocab flavour of the decade, star of the modern sentence. But how wrong we were! It’s not even that you’re overused so violently – Hannah Horvath and her girl crew can’t order a soy latte without dragging you on-board, and don’t get me started on the Kardashians. It’s the fact that you’re being used so incorrectly that’s annoying. It literally makes my blood boil. Which is a pity, because I’m now in serious danger of death, and must be immediately transporterd to the nearest hospital. Gotta fly (not literally),

Merc.

19.3.13

The fat woman.

Hey, yo Fatman, you got some business in the front room, dude wants to buy a ride.
Is that right? Tell him I said I'm eating a sandwich.
Man, what's it's gonna be? Me or the ham and Swiss?
You gonna miss your sale fat man, you gonna miss your sale you fat whale.
 Those are the lyrics of one of my favourite songs of the 90s, the relentlessly offensive “FATMAN” by Philadelphia hip hop act G. Love and Special Sauce. Those words came back to me last month as I watched a hugely overweight woman buying a drink at one of my local bars. She was squeezed into a bordering-on pornographic spandex dress that did absolutely everything to reveal her enormous bottom and vast, white dimpled thighs.
G. Love sang it like this:
I bet your face it has pocks like chicken croquettes.
Your jowls are like rotten red tomatoes.
I nodded towards the woman, asking my friend who I was drinking with, "Whattaya reckon's going on there?" And so began one of the finer dressing-downs I've experienced. Said my friend, "What she's saying is 'I'm a sexual being, I'm a soul sister and if you don't get it, f--- off, you're too superficial, you miss out'." I put my drink down, blushing a little as she continued. "She is amazing. She chose that dress on purpose. I could never wear that dress because I'm not that confident. She's accepting of her entire body. That is so rare," said my friend.
I glanced around the bar, occupied with beautiful people who looked like they'd never eaten cheese and reasoned if you combined the hours we'd worried about how our bodies "looked", you could stretch them back to the Big Bang. I've often argued you can't help who you're attracted to - that women are just as big a dupes of the constant cultural acceptance that you must be slender...must be toned...must be hot...or you're somehow worth less than people who are. And if that cultural pressure is enough to drive women into starving themselves or spending their lunch break in spin classes, then surely we can recognise it's also more than enough to shape what men do and do not find attractive?
The more I thought about it, however, her choice to let it all hang out struck me as the worship of what is, not what could or should or will be when I lose ten kilos or acquire A, B, C or marry he or she. When I said this to my friend, she patted me on the hand and said "That's why I love you. You're slow, but you get there eventually." Then we ordered a cheese plate.

7.3.13

Giggling, jiggling, and enjoying life.

  Have you ever noticed that joggers never look happy? There they are every morning, pounding the pavement, with grim looks of determination on their faces. I always feel like asking them whether they’d like a nice cup of tea and a lie down, but I’m scared I’d be steamrolled.
  As comedian Rita Rudner once said: “If morning joggers knew how tempting they looked to morning motorists, they would stay at home and do sit-ups.” Sure, there are plenty of benefits: a Danish study found people who jog an hour a week live on average, six years longer. But of course, this is six long years of knee pain, arch inflammation and shin splints. But it’s all worth it right?
  Maybe it’s jealousy. Watching their toned thighs, ripped stomachs and bulging biceps reminds me of the extra serving of chocolate ganache I had the previous night. I tried to jog once, but my jiggly bits got in the way. You have no idea how much wind resistance is caused by bingo flaps.
  I guess every attempt at downsizing has its downside. At the gym, you have to put up with grunting and groaning that puts Maria Sharapova to shame. The stench of sweat after a Bikram yoga class is enough to make you throw up your last meal, getting rid of at least two nasty kilos. And it’s no wonder most of our swimmers could bore for Australia after years of “black line, black line, follow the black line”.
  The fitness trends for 2013 are equally egregious. SH’BAM apparently helps you “strut your stuff” with a “simple yet sexy dance workout” and “sassy stretches”. While I enjoy the sounds of heavy breathing, sharing the experience with other middle-aged women is not really my cup of tea. Then there are “body-weight workouts”. This is where you use your own mass as resistance to do push-ups, planks, and pull-ups. God knows I fight my body enough trying to keep my hands away from the chocolate. I don’t want this to escalate into all-out warfare.
  Another trend is heavy lifting for women. I know, we already “hold up half the sky”, according to an ancient proverb. But I’m talking about barbells here. Big ones. Frankly, I’m manly enough with those mysterious hairs poking out of my chin.
  I think the secret to happiness is jiggling. “Laughter is the inner jogging” as American author Norman Cousins once said. Mushy marathoners might need to be reminded of this as they drag their sore and sorry selves over life’s finish line.