Shit on my hands

I’ve had a magnificent Christmas indulging in not only fruit mince tarts and various pig meats, but three Australian books: ‘Autumn Laing’ by Alex Miller, ‘Melbourne’ by Sophie Cunningham and ‘House of Sticks’ by Peggy Frew. This last one had a real domestic thriller page-turner quality but the protagonist, Bonnie, a respected guitarist buried in the daily/nightly routines of raising twin four-year-olds and an infant, was so damned down on herself – her looks, figure, her ability to mother and partner effectively, or hold a conversation at a party, that the novel made for stressful and depressing reading. The only glimmers of pride she permits herself – while recording and performing with a high profile singer – she rapidly represses, and the grovelling entreaties she makes throughout to her clueless and insensitive partner are plain infuriating. ‘Come ON, Bonnie!’ you want to scream, ‘stop apologising!’

My response is no fault of Frew’s (who is clearly a talented writer), rather a defensive reaction: the characterisation of Bonnie cut just a fraction too close to the bone. While I’m much more likely to boss my poor husband around the house like a 10-year-old boy casually kicks a football, and rather than constantly begging for forgiveness, fail to see any wrong-doing on my behalf at all, I can certainly identify with Bonnie’s endless self-deprecation. And I know that I’m not the only chick on this futile trip. Indeed, put a bunch of woman in a room together and they’ll often sit happily for hours cataloguing their own faults before going home and wondering why they feel so shit about themselves. I actually found it jarring on Christmas Day to hear one teenaged relative talking openly about having ‘smashed’ her year 12 English exam and another woman sharing the joys of having been recently head-hunted for a lucrative job. ‘Stop big-noting yourselves’ I thought meanly as I stabbed at the pile of turkey on my paper plate. 

You may be aware that BB and I have recently published a book. We have had a really great media response to our little literary offering and the responses so far from readers have been overwhelmingly positive. But what do BB and I focus our relentlessly self-critical gazes on? Who looks the most like a braying donkey or cheap whore in the book launch photos.

Bonnie’s inability to converse at public events was also cringe-worthingly familiar. Wary of the tendency to alcoholism in my family, I have never taken the approach of getting tanked in order to enjoy a party. And thus I rarely enjoy them wholeheartedly. Not getting smashed means remembering in alarming detail the various awkwardnesses and faux pas you have committed, which in turn makes one leery of heading out the door the next time.

Ha! It’s funny I mentioned Sophie Cunningham before. One of the few ventures I undertook during my recent pregnancy was to Readings Carlton to hear a panel discussion about the lack of critical attention paid to women writers. Sophie was one of the panellists. Afterwards, I dragged my shy pregnant arse to the post-event drinks at Jimmy Watsons. Determined to be brave, I slipped into a spare seat at Sophie’s table. She and a couple of other women were discussing writing about football. I offered a meek recommendation that they check out the work by historian Joy Damousi on the matter of emotions and Aussie Rules. At which point Sophie looked around at the inhabitants at the other tables, stood up and left. Oh, the mortification! Had I rudely insinuated myself? Had I made the dullest utterance since Bert Newton interviewed Muhammad Ali at the 1979 Logies? The interested responses from the others suggested not. But is it the ensuing engaging conversation I remember? Nope. It’s Sophie clocking me before moving away.

What a waste of mind power! If there is one thing I absolutely do not want to pass on to my daughters (aside from my wonky ear canals) is this kind of self-criticism based on piffling evidence. It’s a tricky balance though. On the Preston Maternal and Child Health Centre waiting room wall is a poster listing a whole bunch of self-esteem-boosting compliments to give your child. One of them is ‘You’re perfect!’ Frankly, I don’t think this is such a great line to feed a child. Not only does their tendency to have tantrums in the middle of pedestrian crossings of major arterials suggest that they are indeed NOT perfect, but I am very nervous now about the generation of over-entitled, egotistical Kim Jong-uns likely to be stalking the streets of Preston in the near future. But I can keep strictly to myself the self-negative ticker news feed marching around my brain. And maybe one day, when my bladder control has finally and fully surrendered (probably at about age 45, then), I’ll actually stop reading the darn thing.