Busytown by Jolisa Gracewood

Happy Christmas! Hey, what are you reading this for? Go out and get some sunshine! What am I writing this for? Ah, well, on our side of the dateline it’s still Christmas Eve. The small boy is napping, and the big boy and his dad have gone off to procure some last minute trimmings for the pavlova we are taking to dinner tomorrow, in a gesture of antipodean fellow-feeling – we’re doing Christmas dinner with Australian friends. (Hopefully it won’t all end in a fist-fight about who invented the damn thing.)

There will even be a flaming pudding, mate. And, unlike the resourceful lads in The Big Six, our latest instalment of Swallows and Amazons, who light theirs with methylated spirits and eat it with extra sauce to take away the aftertaste, we’ll be using the traditional brandy.

We’ve also made dozens of miniature Christmas pies, and some cup-cake sized Christmas cakes, from a recipe in the NZ Women’s Weekly that arrived by accident this week instead of my Listener. Not that I’m complaining – it’s a very welcome surprise for the homesick expat at this time of year, overflowing with news from the old country and glimpses of home. Spice Wars Backstage Catfights! What the Royals are Doing for Christmas! And some lovely pictures of baby Borat.

I feel all caught up now.

Pretty soon we’ll be picking up the phone and calling the families back home. Of course the big boy is hip to the notion of time zones and has been making a detailed, eloquent, and persistent argument that he should already be opening the presents that came all the way from New Zealand. I’m holding the line so far, but call me around dinner time and see if it turned into a Maginot line thanks to the six year old's rhetorical blitzkrieg.

We’re basically so non-religious as to be cheerfully irreligious, so his understanding of the reason for the season is haphazard. I’ve given him the comparative belief system primer on how most cultures that live in the northern hemisphere have some sort of celebration in the dark days of winter, usually involving candles or lots of twinkling lights. Makes sense to him, although he thinks fireworks would be more effective.

He’s also picked up the odd bit of info from school – which is officially non-religious (the music teacher can give them Jingle Bells, but no mangers, no angels, and certainly no confusing lyrics about ground young virgins) but at the same time concerned to represent all the children’s experiences. So at first he came home bursting with the news that his friend Benjamin celebrates Harmonica, the birthday of God-David.

A few corrections later and he is able to inform anyone who wants to know that, and I quote, "Hanukkah celebrates the bravery of the Jewish people." Also, that it involves eight nights of presents. EIGHT NIGHTS! Whereas Christmas, that inferior version, is merely the birthday of God-Jesus and involves only one present delivery, thus celebrating the parsimoniousness of the non-Jewish people.

He is less clear on the details of Kwanzaa and Eid, and Festivus didn’t get a look-in at all. (Matariki? Well, as the lady in the lift at the library said the other day when I answered her question about where I was from: "Nope. Never heard of that one.")

He is, however, a fundamentalist Santa Clausian, a devout believer in the entity you might call God-Santa. (Funny, his only other knowledge of gods comes from Astérix: "By Toutatis!" is a new and regular exclamation around these parts, along with excellent coinages like "Holy flipping cripes!")

The real-time Google Earth Santa Tracker from Norad has only confirmed his faith. OMG, check out Santa swooping past the Sky Tower! (I know - Norad? Talk about swords into ploughshares! We really are post-Cold War: no nervous nellies hitting the nuke button at the first glimpse of Rudolph’s Chernobylised schnozz).

They didn’t have online Santa trackers when we were kids. Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe, I say. Mind you, we did have hard visual evidence in the form of an empty bottle of beer and the crumbs of a Christmas pie. Yes, I know what you're going to say, you knavish unbelievers. It was Mum and Dad who ate it. Well, it wasn't. We asked them, and they swore they hadn’t, and that’s good enough for me. Amen.

I know there’s plenty of debate about whether it’s healthy, wise, or moral to promote fictional deities, especially ones destined to cause an inevitable and possibly traumatic loss of innocence. It's funny, though. Despite being pretty smart on the whole physics of time and space, our little John the Baptist buys the Clausian creed hook, line, and sinker -- even though one of his grandfathers has spent the last few weeks playing Santa, perhaps in a mall near you.

My compromise is to reject the whole "naughty or nice" clause, because that just seems unfair, not to mention unwise given the tendency of Big Days to lead directly to Meltdowns. A gift is a gift. And besides, if giftiness is correlated to naughtiness and niceness, it means all the poor kids have been very wicked indeed and all the rich kids are paragons of youthful virtue. Which just ain’t so.

Some kids clearly get a kick out of this moral accounting, though. Czech friends of ours take part in an annual Bohemian tradition, whereby on the eve St Nicholas’s Day children are visited by a fearsome trio: St Nick himself, the Devil, and a friendly Angel. The Devil’s job is to menacingly ask the little ones if they’ve been bad, in which case he will put them in his sack and take them away. Sensible children deny everything and hide, trembling, behind a parent. Our little mate Pepichek is always the first to volunteer to ride with the devil. I guess it looks like more fun. Or maybe he can see his Dad under the totally dodgy black make-up.

Anyway, our Santa will merely fill the stockings with small treats, whereas the big gifts will come from family. Theoretically this should make the eventual transition into disbelief a little easier. I’m looking forward, a few years from now, to inculcating the bigger boy into the joyful mysteries, so he can help preserve the magic for the little guy. Just coming up two (how did that happen?), he is mostly obsessed with trees, good little pagan that he is.

Our tree this year is unconventional: some large branches from one of our lilac trees that didn’t make it through the summer, spray-painted silver and hung with decorations and lights. It makes the lyrics of "O Christmas Tree" moot, but it looks super-cool, we don’t have to water it, and it doesn’t drop needles on the floor.

Plus there was the unexpected entertainment value of watching the wildlife adapt to the gap in the garden. Christmas tree: free. Naughty squirrel, scared off the birdfeeder by brave cat Huckle, doing 360 degree flip when jumping for now nonexistent branch: priceless.

So it’s off to wait for the guy with the big beard. Part of me wishes that we’d thought to come up with our own seasonal deity, like these guys. Irving the Snowchicken? Pure genius. Plus, it’s true: pants are bigger than stockings.

Here’s one final seasonal link, by way of a reward for reading all the way to the end of this when you should be out on the beach, in the bush, or simply lying around in a python-like state of digestion.

Best dinner-party trick ever: turning citrus fruit into candles. All you need is a sharp vege knife, some relatively firm-skinned mandarins (Spanish clementines work very well), and some olive oil. It works best with as long a wick as possible, so you might have to casually peel a few offstage to really set it up. They look and smell beautiful, and cast a gorgeous glow.

Of course, you lucky buggers with your long days of summer will have to wait longer than we will for it to get dark. We'll be lighting the candles around afternoon teatime. Fair's fair, you were Santa's first stop.

Happy solstice-type-thing, whichever way you celebrate it. Let there be light! Ho ho ho!

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Stop Press! Australian friends prostrated by tummy bug! Christmas feast cancelled! Looks like we will be having that pavlova fist-fight on our own. A chance to start our own tradition after all...

So bai bai, Tze Ming, or should that be twe meh naw? You went through this place like a dose of the salts, in a good way. I will miss your brilliant prose, your assiduous non-taking of prisoners, and your (ahem) scouring wit. It already feels quiet and, dare I say it, a little boring without you.

If Public Address is a pavlova (delicious, iconic, always welcome at a party; and yet almost entirely white, a little crusty round the edges, and occasionally cloying), then Yellow Peril was - can I say this without coming over all Dame Edna, possums? - the passionfruit. The bracing sweet-tart antidote to all that gummy, mouth-muffling meringue. A necessary culinary counterpoint; a sapid sine qua non.

Or better yet, maybe Yellow Peril was that stealthy savoury sleeper from the Middle Kingdom (cunningly re-engineered by the horticultural-industrial complex and acclaimed by the masses as quintessentially New Zild): the kiwifruit. What my nana, keepin’ it real, would have correctly called a Chinese gooseberry.

Right. P’raps best I chuck this fruity metaphor in the blender and see if I can smoothie my way out of it.

(An aside: the other day my American friends were quizzing their kids about nicknames for various nationalities. And what you call someone from New Zealand? “An orange?” hazarded Ila, much to the amusement of her dads. When reminded that the correct word is “Kiwi” she shrugged and said, “Oh well, I knew it was some kind of fruit.”)

So anyway, now that Tze Ming has swapped the burlesque stilettos for the workplace-friendly Doc Martens, Fiona and I are the only wimmin on the team. There has already been some articulate gnashing of teeth about the loss of Public Address’s only explicit feminist viewpoint. (Which is interesting: I don’t doubt Tze Ming’s feminism for a moment but it is definitely only one part of what she does so well.)

I guess that makes me and Fiona implicit feminists, which has a nifty under-the-radar Valerie Plame appeal, but it does rather beg the question of what a feminist looks like. Hey, I was once even some "lady president of some lady thing", or at least Women’s Rights’ Officer of some student thing. I’ve still got the well-worn lavender T-shirt and the incredibly sexy unshaven armpits.

In any case, somehow I thought this sort of thing would leave people in no doubt about my general feministiness.

Curiously enough, those were the posts I got the most angry mail about, which made me think of quitting. They are also the ones people still mention fondly when I meet them in person. So what we might call "Tze Ming's Ratio" of vocal haters to approving lurkers is pretty much a constant, whether you're explicit or implicit about your feminism (or any other kind of radical perspective). It's just an artefact of the general social-webby-sphere, as Che points out.

Sure, I can do more explicit if the market demands (but how feminist is it to bend and sway with the marketplace?). Should I have put more NSFW unless-you-work-as-a-midwife pictures with my birth stories? Do y’all want hard-hitting analyses of gender issues and the American presidential race (honestly, you're collectively way ahead of me on the subject)? Complex musings on children’s rights? Someone come and be my au pair for a month and I'll write you something on the global politics of childcare...

I dunno, that’s not quite where my head is at these days. Or rather, it is where my head is at but I can most easily come at these subjects through the anecdotal lens of everyday matters. I would love to write more often, and more politically. Alas, only a fraction of what I think and write makes it into the blog, and only when I can snatch the time from my demanding day job of raising the next generation. Of, er, white men.

No disrespect to the white man: some of my best bloggers are white men, as are both of my kids, and come to think of it, their dad. Also, my dad. Both of my brothers. And most of the government of the place I come from and the place I live. There sure are a lot of ‘em out there, hiding in plain sight.

I’m used to being a minority in that respect. I get my womenspace in teensy homeopathic doses these days. In the bath by myself. Over coffee, after school, with other cool mums. And sometimes even in the morally ambiguous service sector where you tend to leave a tip in direct proportion to your degree of feminist guilt at having someone else paint your toenails or fix your hair. Hey, it’s the only chance I get to sit down, and I always leave massive tips.

(I find it in other, more nuanced spaces, too. The other night I took my visiting sister-in-law to see Transparent, a fascinating documentary about transgendered parents, or more specifically transmen who have given birth. Great film, and a great crowd; we were the only mothers, as far as I could tell, in a room full of cute activist queer and trannie students. No matter what point on the gender/sexuality/parenting spectrum you find yourself on, the film will, to use the classic Busytot phrase, blow your mind up.)

But to return to the point. With Tze Ming’s departure, Public Address is undeniably back to being a bit of a blancmange - don’t go anywhere, Keith! - and even the white men are finding this a dispiriting prospect. Which is good. (There's a lively discussion over at Deborah's blog).

It is true that there isn't a weekly PA bulletin from an explicitly feminist perspective. Or an explicitly queer perspective. Or an explicitly tangata whenua perspective. Or an explicitly Pasifika/ immigrant/ refugee/ senior/ child/ blue collar/ unemployed/ any number of other awesomely relevant perspectives. Just a bunch of liberal lefties waffling on - for free, yet! - about things that some of their readers find interesting.

You should know that I have been gently but pointedly bollocking Russell about the general monochromaticity and overly XY nature of this place since the heady early days of Public Address five years ago. Is it just that I live too far away to thump Russell? (That’s a rhetorical question; hands are not for hitting. Rolled-up newspapers make a more persuasive thwack). Is it that like attracts like? Or that most women and people of colour are too damn busy living life to blog it? Or what?

I’m not suggesting a mutiny here; Cap’n Bligh, er, Brown can sit tight for the moment. But I am raising the question for discussion. Russell has his own ideas about how to address the imbalance. How about you, dear readers? For me, I'd say a gender quota is a good start; a 40-60 rule perhaps? Plus, a group that purports to speak to or for the crowd should never be monochromatic, because that’s just wrong.

But strict representation for its own sake strikes me as problematic in a very small group, because it can lead directly to ghettoization, placing the entire burden of a given critique on the one person deemed suitable to provide it. Women’s Rights’ Officer, anyone?

Obviously this place will never be all things to all people - and what would that look like, anyhow? But the nice thing about Public Address has always been its smart, idiosyncratic voices and - I blush as I type this one-handed - the great writing. Not all of it explicitly political, either. I don’t know about you, but I came for the Hard News and I stayed for the literary musings, the yogic wisdom (where are you, Debra?), the Wellywood reports, the hard-hitting exposés of the private lives of Public Address writers WITH PICS, the feijoa vodka recipes, the hapless pub fights in Singapore, the bad baby stories,... the random beauty of it all.

And then I stayed some more, for the take-downs of badly-written Metro articles, the sociological musings on identity, the weekly round-ups of political issues of the day, and all the discussions that follow like sparks from a firecracker. Even if I haven’t the time to shoot the breeze on every thread, not even on the ones I started, I've read every post.

Ten out of ten nutritionists agree, it’s not the eating, it’s how we’re eating. No matter how much you like your comfort food - mmmm, donuts, not to mention bread, spuds, rice, pav, noodles -- a diet of exclusively white stuff will eventually do you in. My taste buds and my brain cells demand a more varied diet. How about yours?

To whip my culinary metaphor so hard it will probably curdle: yep, you could (and should) supplement your diet of Public Address with delicious, vitamin-rich fruit and veg found elsewhere on the web and in real life.

But adding some youth, some age, some cultural, social and political variety to these pages could only enhance the eclectic reading experience, no? I’ve long dreamed of a Home Address annex to put all the DIY domestic artsy stuff, for example. And you’ve probably got your own ideas. In the end it’s Russell’s joint, but that doesn’t mean we can’t suggest rearranging the furniture to make the party really swing. What do you reckon?

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Keep an eye out for the final Iceland report in the next day or so - I'll be going out with a splash! In the meantime, if you missed 'em, there have been whales, volcanoes, a swanky spa, and a perfect day we'll never forget.

My good name is being besmirched! Someone has been putting it about that I have been economical with the truth on the subject of parenthood. Let me unsmirch myself right here and now. All you have to do is 1) read back through the archive and 2) note my profound silences. It’s all there, folks, in black and white, and sometimes? In invisible.

I may not be blessed with the Worst Baby in Christchurch -- aim higher, li’l Bob, Worst in the South Island is yours for the taking -- but there have certainly been some not what you'd call best moments along the way. And of course I could have shared them with you, blow by messy blow. (No smacking, she adds hastily -- well, hardly any, and I usually had it coming).

But I often found myself too busy to work up those days, as in one-of-those-days, as in we-all-have-those-days-don't-we?, into handy anecdotal form. Too busy, y'know, thumping a cushion, or self-medicating with endless repeats of Ground Force, or floating just under the surface of the bathwater, yelling my submerged head off until it was safe to come out.

(You want war stories? I got 'em. I can joke about it now, feebly and wincing a little, but much of 2006 was rendered a complete blur by the twin demons of reflux and staphylococcus aureus. The former bedeviled the baby, although not as badly as Bob by the sound of it. The latter made mincemeat of my hard-working boobs and transformed our breastfeeding relationship into a vicious S/M song and dance for several excruciating months until we realised it wasn't thrush. Yes, several months -- and we're still at it. I have nipples of brass, people. Fear my bloody-mindedness! Question my sanity! And pass the antibiotics.)

And anyway these days, I'm too busy amusing the child who never sleeps and, bizarrely, is none the worse for wear for it. Actually, if he never slept that would be one thing. At least I’d know where I stood. Instead I get the mind-bending Guantanamo-style random nap treatment. Which will it be today, ladies and gents. The regulation fifty minutes? Fifteen? Or five? Or the once-a-month two-hour special? Place your bets. But first you must spend an hour putting me to bed, and then five minutes making a cup of tea. On a good day, you might get to drink it. Gosh, sorry Mummy, am I doing your head in?

If he wasn’t so smoochable and downright funny, I’d have to sell him to the circus. As what, I don’t know. The incredible human alarm clock? One of these new and improved models.

It’s a shock to the system of his night owl parents, as well as his big brother who has the amiable circadian rhythm of a grad student. Big bro also used to take naps of such awesome torpor and length that I can only fantasize about them now. I would put him down after lunch and often had to shake him awake for dinner – aaah, those were the days.

I really shouldn’t be complaining, though, as it’s his father who gets up with the little cockerel at the crack of dawn, to preside over an hour or two of books and a hundred other games. I merely spend most days with him chirping at my side -- or behind me, now that I have a bike with a baby seat. The seat is called “Co-Pilot” and says so in big bold letters on its back. I’m so tempted to hunt down some letraset and turn it into a bumper sticker. Like, “God, is this my [Co-Pilot]?” or “If you can read this my [Co-Pilot] is safely strapped in and beating on me with little fists saying ‘GO BIKE GO!’”

At one and three-quarters, little bro is steadily assembling his vocabulary, and while I sometimes feel nostalgic for his older brother’s paragraph-length soliloquies at the same age, I also feel it’s nice to be able to get a word in edgeways. He is asking for words, by pointing at things and uttering a disyllabic “mm-mm,” which I assume is toddler for “thingamajig.” Autumn is here, so he loves to ask for hot chocolate, or as he sings it, “OCK... coco. OCK... coco.” Always the same tune and inflection, like a Victorian street vendor touting his wares.

He understands everything we say, and knows exactly what he means; it's the rest of the world that's communicatively challenged as far as he's concerned. The day his incredibly slow-witted mother figured out that "g" means "s" was a red letter day for the boy who had been asking for a goggug, and a gor to drink his giger with. At first patiently, then more insistently, and then almost hysterically. "I said a motherflippin' sausage, woman, and a straw for my apple cider while you're at it!"

Some of his words are still sound-effects, like the panting noise that means dog. But I caught him the other day singing “How Much is that Doggie in the Window” to himself. A vaguely musical hum, then a pant-pant-pant, then more humming. He arched an eyebrow – he’s very arch, this boy – and grinned at me when I guessed what it was.

There is so much more I want to write about at the moment but my typing hours are few, and evenings find me pretty much burned out. But it’s all lined up and ready to go, when Sparky decides to hit the hay properly and give me an hour or two at the keyboard.

What we’re reading lately: Swallows and Amazons, anyone? I can’t say enough about these wonderful books, which is why I’ll have to say it next time, at length.

More Iceland stories up at Babble, including glacier thrills and the bowl of soup that took ten years off my life.

In the Listener, my sketchy review of Miranda July’s book of short stories. I didn’t like it as much as the Frank O'Connor prize jury did; in fact it kind of creeped me out, but the promotional website is a hoot. And coming soon, also in the Listener: a review of the selected letters of Martha Gellhorn. Helluva gal, terrible mother, great holiday reading.

And finally, anyone out there know anything about Utah? If so, have I got some SLC FAQs for you! We’re heading there next week for a few days. Where should I take the boys, apart from the fabulous new library and the supercool kids’ museum and the giant talking Jesus statue in Temple Square (but only if they’ve been very naughty)?

Now you've all finished wringing out your silver-fern-emblazoned hankies, you'll be wanting some light reading for the weekend, preferably nothing to do with balls. I spent my handful of kid-free hours this week knocking out more Iceland stories over at Babble, so do pop over and have a look. Thrilling exploits, all of 'em. Baby takes a shower. Brother puts a few more miles on the scooter. We discover the handsomest nappies you ever saw. And dairy products! Coming next week: big brother drives a car, and we get wet the Icelandic way.

Next, not so much reading as listening. If you have a soft spot for Douglas Adams in his original, audio incarnation - and who doesn't thrill to the twanging, swirling theme tune of the original Hitchhiker's Guide radio series - you might be interested in Radio 4's new adaptation of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. I'd love to hear it, but I'm buggered if I can get it to work properly on my Mac - let me know if you have better luck. (Requires Real Audio's Realplayer).

Perhaps you'd prefer a nice nap instead. Go for it. Among the many fascinating things I learned from this article: that lack of sleep makes you fat, and that every hour of sleep you don't get makes you a full school year dumber. Whoah.

And I should have linked to this next one months ago. Blogging. Everybody's doing it. Even yo' mama. Actually, even my mama, and my papa. They've been wandering the world for the last six months (check out the itinerary) and documenting their adventures - many of them involving wine - with lots of pictures and great humour. Welcome back to Aotearoa, Mum and Dad.

If things have been a little quiet around here, it’s because I’ve been working on some other projects. One of which is now up over at Babble. I’ll be dealing out stories from our Iceland trip in convenient bite-sized pieces over the next month - with pictures - like so many delicious licorice allsorts, for their Travels With Baby feature. Pop on over and have a look, and not just at my stuff - it's a cool site.

And while I’m in a linky sort of mood...

• Sing along to this excellent musical tribute to Iceland’s war effort. You didn’t know they had a war effort? Well now you do!
• Lolsecretz cunningly blends the genuine pathos of PostSecret with the comic bathos of Lolcats. (What next, LolNewYorkercartoons? Taken. OK then, somebody write some Lolberts.)
• Stephen Fry has a blog, although he prefers to call it a blessay. Good god, he’s even more prolix than I am. But he knows more about iPhones.
• Apartment Therapy is feng shui for the rest of us. Drool over the house tours.
• Electric Boogaloo is one of my favourite blogs.
• Ms Ayun Halliday is back in the kitchen, trying to put food on her family.
• What is wrong with Hillary’s laugh? No really, what? I know Halloween is just around the corner, but I don’t hear a cackle, I hear a fine old chortle.
• I guess maybe Samantha Bee is right, and America isn't quite ready for a woman president...
• From here on out I will be pluralizing children with an s. Because it’s good enough for the man president.
• An artists’ collective created a secret apartment inside a shopping mall in downtown Providence. Apart from the small matter of plumbing, it’s quite the groovy pad.

• Why settle for a rocking horse when you could have a rockin’ horse-drawn chariot?

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Now, having led you on with funny bits, can we talk about Burma? My heart breaks for the country, once again. Ko Htike, who is based in England, has been posting frequent updates from people on the ground. See also Burmese Bloggers without Borders and The Irrawaddy.

What can we do? This donation site looks kosher to me. And simply keeping Burma in the news is a good thing.

This just in... If you are in Wellington this Saturday, come along to this event (there's even a Facebook group, Support the Monks protest in Burma).

A Day of International Action for a Free Burma
Free Aung San Suu Kyi & Support the Monks in Burma

Saturday 6th October, 12noon - 2pm, Civic Square, Wellington, New Zealand

This is the Wellington arm of an international vigil that's taking place in every major city in the world at 12 noon on Saturday 6th October.

It's not a protest, a march, a rally or a demonstration. It's a peaceful gathering to show support and solidarity for the Burmese monks, to gather support for a comprehensive arms embargo against the Burmese military, and to express our shock and sadness at what's happening in Burma right now.

This will be a multi-denominational event in support of our Buddhist friends. Everyone's invited to wear red to symbolise the colour of the monks' robes. There will also be red armbands and headbands available - you can tie them onto yourself or onto the nearest tree if you like. And it's happening rain or shine, so bring a red raincoat!

Speakers will include people from the Burmese community and Amnesty International. We'll be chanting with the monks, and MPs have been invited along too.

Help Out
If anyone wants to volunteer by helping with armbands, setting up on the day, driving a van-load of monks down from Auckland, playing music in the square, or anything else that's potentially helpful please contact yadana at paradise dot net dot nz.