When I grow up or invent time travel which ever comes first I’d like to be a kid. A blissifully happy, pink wearing, cupcake eating, fairy wing donning kind of girl.
It’s a classic case of we always want what we don’t have, until we have it and then… well you know how it goes. We spend so much time as a kid wanting to be grown up, wearing mum’s high heels and make-up, playing mum to dolls, that when we hit adulthood, sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Suddenly school Monday – Friday 9am – 3.15pm, with a gazillion weeks holiday a year doesn’t seem so bad, or a couple of days at preschool were funfilled playdates. While pocket money wasn’t much it didn’t have to go towards a mortgage or a phone bill. Stuffing yourself full of cake and lollies was not met with ‘watch your weight’ and being a little tubby was endearing ‘baby fat’.
Putting stuff on your face consisted of pink glitter and having butterfly wings painted on your cheeks, not the pressure of making sure your foundation matched your skin tone, and the pressure of applying eyeliner with the upmost precision.
Dirty clothes meant you’d had a fantastic time playing in the park, and not that you were a grub. Chucking a sickie had less consequences, and daytime naps were encouraged, not discouraged. Oh the day time nap.
While chucking a tantrum is still met with disapproving looks, there’s nothing like the feeling of relief after having a bloody good cry. Kid, or otherwise.
An outing to the shopping centre in a princess tiara and fairy wings was met with ‘oh isn’t she just adorable’, not um, excuse me it’s not fancy dress day at Coles today, nor would it mean you’d had a massive night out at a fancy dress party and were on your way home at 10am the morning after the night before.
And so I have to leave you now and return to my adult life. But maybe I’ll sneak in a cupcake and a daytime nanna nap. However, I think I’ll save the fairy wings for, you know, things like doing the dishes. At the end of the day, it’s always good to be a big kid at heart.
Weeeh-hell you can imagine my disgust at the thought of someone ripping off the colour pink. You have taken notice of this website now haven’t you!
You may or may not be shocked to know that as little girl I would not go to preschool unless I was wearing the colour pink. Yes, please cue the violins for my long suffering mum!
I was a girly girl, no question about that, but did wearing pink harm my future. I really doubt it.
So, this UK politician has said that dressing little girls in pink is doing them harm. It teaches them to be pretty and passive and she wants a boycott. Pfft.
Check out the discussion for yourself. Clearly I agree with everything commentator Suzanne Mostyn had to say.
So, were you dressed in pink as little girl, or boy for that matter?! Can wearing a certain colour as a child really do us harm for the rest of our lives?
I recently read a very moving story written by blogger Amity Dry called: The unexpected journey to have another baby. You can read the whole article HERE.
Part of what Amity had to say got me thinking about the 12 week, or first trimester ‘rule’ when it comes to pregnancy. Most women keep quiet until the 12 week mark of their pregnancy as this is when you’re chances of miscarriage supposedly go down. That’s of course not to say it doesn’t happen after the 12 week mark.
In Amity’s article she talks of her longing for a second baby and the frustrations and emotional rollacoaster that come with infertility and miscarrage. This is the part of Amity’s article that got me thinking:
“Through all of this I was surprised by how quiet we are as a society on the subject, particularly miscarriage. It seems crazy, us women talk about pretty much anything else, but this topic remains shrouded in silence. I wonder if it’s because we keep our pregnancies secret for the first trimester, so when a miscarriage occurs within that time (which the vast majority do) we keep that a secret too. But, for me, keeping it a secret made me feel as though it was something I had to be ashamed of. A failure I had to hide. It felt as though I had to be stoic and ‘get on with things.’ So I did. I kept busy, I didn’t cry after the first day, I threw myself into my work, stayed strong and outwardly seemed like I was ok. But grief has to come out eventually, as I discovered when it came flooding out in a moment I didn’t expect.”
I can’t comment from experience as I’m yet to try for or have any children. I understand some women keeping quiet in the first 12 weeks for fear of miscarriage and not wanting to deal with the ‘we lost the baby’ conversation with family and friends, but does this contribute to Amity’s feelings above about feeling ashamed? God forbid something happened during your pregnancy would you rather people know and offer support, or would you rather ‘deal with it’ privately behind closed doors?
On a lighter note I also wonder how people actually manage to keep it quiet for 12 weeks, or 10 weeks or you know however long from when you find out your pregnant. These days there’s so many things you’re not meant to eat, drink, breathe in, look at, that it would be so difficult not to get caught out, you’d almost need a University Degree in ‘How to keep your bun in the oven quiet during the first trimester’.
So, as always what do you think? Is the ’12 week rule’ old fashioned, or sensible medically related practice? When did you or your wife/partner tell people you were pregnant? And if you have any funny stories to share on trying to keep bubs quiet for the first trimester, please share. As I said I’m always intrigued how people actually manage to pull it off!
And just for the record, no I’m not pregnant!