Learning Diaries: Obsidian

Learning Diaries: Obsidian

Alfie is, by nature, a secret learner. He likes to turn a concept over in his mind and try and idea on for size before he brings it out into the cold light of day.

For us, as parents distracted by juvenile female carnage most days, it can sometimes appear to us like Alfie just woke up one morning and vomited knowledge.

Last week, we were sitting at the dinner table having a fairly average mealtime. Olive was crying because her water was in the wrong cup, Esme was trying to gross me out my doing disgusting and unspeakable things with her food, and Keith was trying to keep some kind of order, using a tone of voice that clearly indicated he knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

Through this chaos, Alfie suddenly piped up:

"D'ya know, obsidian is lava that has mixed with water and cooled very fast."

Keith and I looked at each other with suspicion, and then at Alfie with scepticism.

"Say that again, Alfie"

Affecting a look of indifference, he pushed some vegetables around his plate and repeated himself.

"Obsidian. It's made from lava that has cooled very fast".

I'll be honest, I fished out my phone and did a search for the definition of obsidian at this point. It's not that I have an inherent mistrust of the things that my children tell me, but this was about as far outside our usual sphere of existence as I could imagine him getting. I would have reacted in a similar way if he had rocked up to me and recited the Lord's Prayer in flawless Mandarin.

It turns out, Alfie's is almost a dictionary definition, which led to my two default follow-up questions in all matters parenting

1. Where had he even heard that word?

2. What kind of monstrous mother am I, that I instantly doubt my child?

The answer to the first question was "Minecraft". Because OF COURSE Minecraft. Apparently, you make swords from obsidian in Minecraft. They're hard to make and precious, and Stampy told him all about it. Thank you Stampy for delivering yet another teachable moment to my first-born. Should Alfie ever find himself giving an acceptance speech to some great academic institution, I will make sure you are rightly credited as his first, and greatest, inspiration. 

I'm more than happy to play a supporting role to Stampy and Minecraft because my real joy comes in being a partner in Alfie's learning, rather than his leader. 

Alfie and I talked about why this weird pixelated world he inhabits might pick glass to make a sword. We both thought it an odd choice, especially considering the amount of glass our family can get through in an average week. We looked at how obsidian might be different, and if those differences might be applied to changing other materials too.  

I'm such a knowledge geek, these learning adventures often leave me with thoughts buzzing round my head for hours and days. 

One such thought jumped me later that evening (in the shower if you must know) about why the name Obsidian seemed so familiar. As any self-respecting Brit will know, is from Ripper Street which has a shadowy company by that same name. Which is how, the following evening, I came to be explaining the concept of a metaphor, and how obsidian being an opaque glass was analogous to the shady dealings of Obsidian Estates.

I'm not sure how much of this he took in because at the time we happened to be walking home on a stunningly clear night, and we both kept getting side tracked by the milky way, whether there might be life on other planets, and the concept of infinity.

Saturday, 30 July 2016 Comments: 2

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The Life of a Working Mother

The Life of a Working Mother

To my friend, on the eve of going back to work.

I don’t want to scare you, but this thing you are about to do, going back to work, this is will be your hardest parenting moment so far. 

I don’t just mean the logistics of it, even though they are hard, I mean e-veh-ree-thing about going back to work will feel impossible at one point.

It feels like both a lifetime, and an eye blink ago that I left my first born to go back to corporate life. We had taken the decision to be a one wage family. We knew it would involve some belt tightening, some rejigging of priorities, and a near daily confrontation with other people’s expectations, but it was the only choice we had.

When Alfie was 9 weeks old, I went back to work full time, and Keith became his primary carer.

I remember my alarm going off that first morning, and my eyes feeling a hundred times more scratchy than they ever had before. I didn’t have the luxury of hitting snooze after this bad night, and my duvet felt like concrete as I forced it aside. I didn’t want to be doing this, it was too soon, I wasn’t ready.

In hindsight, I would never have been ready.

I dressed carefully and left early, scared that I would be late, that I would walk in with baby puke down my back, or an unseen piece of rusk in my hair. It felt important that I showed everyone how little motherhood had changed me, that I was still the serious professional I had always been.

I don’t think I fooled anyone, although, for a time, I managed to fool myself.

It felt natural for a manager, such as me, to try and organise my way through the emotional turmoil I was feeling. I left lists, I sent texts, I arranged play dates and appointments. It was a tiny thread of connection between me and my baby that I held on to as if I were drowning, even though it frustrated the hell out of Keith. 

It was never about control or about trust, I just wasn’t ready to become an also-ran in my child’s life. 

And I did. Because the time came, when Alfie ran crying into Keith’s arms instead of mine, and I felt like my heart was going to stop. The moment arrived when I had to look to Keith to translate Alfie’s toddler babbles and I felt like an absentee parent. The hated foods, the favourite toys, the latest songs, came and went while I was always a step behind. And it hurt. 

Because I was caught between two worlds, always feeling like I was failing at least one of them.

I loved my job, and I wanted to succeed, but it felt hollow compared to being with my baby. I wanted to be in the meetings, but I would be constantly aware of the growing ache that signalled it was time to express. I wanted to write my reports, but my eye would keep tracking to my mail, waiting for the next update from home.

I was neither here, nor there.

If you feel any of these things, I want you to know that it will get easier. 

Be kind to yourself in those first weeks and months, because this thing you do is going to be hard. 

You will survive it. 

Your will go to work with odd shoes. 

You will forget your lunch. 

You will miss deadlines. 

You will accidentally copy type the lyrics to a nursery rhyme because you are so bone tired you can’t think. 

You will spill expressed milk. 

You will cry over it. 

You will go home and scoop up your child and breathe him in like you haven’t seen him for a year. 

And you will ache all over again when you have to do it again the next day.

Wednesday, 20 July 2016 Comments: 0

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A Review of The Revelations of Carey Ravine

A Review of The Revelations of Carey Ravine

Once upon a time, when you signed yourself up to either watch or read a period drama, you knew that you were in for a ride into the Land That Feminism Forgot. The genre itself made no pretence of equality; well, you couldn't really if you allow the term 'Bodice Ripper' to go unchallenged.

The recurring tropes of period dramas have centred on two clear gender definitions: Women are maidens, mothers or crones; men are either "good husband material" or bounding cads. Both genders became such cartoon cutout versions of humanity, they may as well have hailed from Mars.

Characterisation wasn't elegant, it wasn't politically correct, but it was conveniently written off as being "authentic" and "contemporary", allowing modern audiences not to have to worry too deeply about all the non-consensual sex they had found slightly arousing.

Our window into the past has changed radically in more recent times, with dramas like Outlander, Game of Thrones, and books like The Revelations of Carey Ravine. In these stories, we are presented with a much richer set of characters, an ebb and flow of power across ages and genders. As consumers, we are asked to decide whether we are viewing these characters as products of the past, or as one of us. In return, we demand of writers that they pick a perspective - a lens - and we ask that they are authentic.   

Why does it matter? Well, imagine your best friend calls you in floods of tears because it turns out her hot blind date has actually been sending her photos of Ryan Gosling. Your first question is going to be "How the hell did you not realise those photos were of Ryan Gosling?!". Your second question is going to be "How much wine do I need to bring over to help you get over this disappointment". The simple truth is any emotional investment is based on expectation and credibility.

So it was with all these things in mind that I picked up my copy of The Revelations of Carey Ravine, and began what, I was promised, would be a journey into the buccaneering society of Georgian London.

I won't tell you anything about the plot - well actually I can't without giving the game away - except that this is a story of a middle-class Georgian wife, who has a colourful past (don’t we all, love) and a fierce intellect. 

Carey believes “in a just partition of the world, even if that seems an impossible ideal” and fears “a situation where the foundation of my happiness is bound up in another”. She works at the margins of an industry that tolerates her as a curiosity, and she loves the trappings that her wages afford her. 

Despite the fact that I make her sound like a generic online dating profile, Carey is, in fact, a rich and evocative protagonist. Please note, I can neither confirm, nor deny, whether she enjoys taking long walks on the beach at sunset.

The real strength of this book, is as a character study. This is a period world, full of modern nuance, centred on a kairotic woman.

Debra Daley wrote Carey Ravine to reflect her “modern beliefs in feminism”, and it shows. Carey lives in a world that is structurally opposed to her equality, but then, so do we. 

Carey faces some very different challenges (like the fact that she is effectively subsumed into her husband by marriage), but she also faces some very familiar ones (like the fight to receive equal pay for her work). She is a feminist in both the Georgian and the modern senses.

But telling a story from the female gaze is not enough to make this a feminist novel. There’s more required, (precisely what depends on which definition you choose) but broadly speaking, the story should be one that “illuminates some aspect of the female condition and/or offers some kind of imperative for change and/or makes a bold or unapologetic political statement in the best interests of women.” 

And which is it, in the case of this book? The most obvious political statement is that Carey finds ways to subvert the patriarchal bonds of Georgian Britain by annotating (rather than just transcribing) scientific texts. She creates an independent living out of nothing but raw talent, creating a virtue from her unique voice in a male dominated industry. 

That is not an overt, chest beating, act of feminism, but it is as deserving of that title as the suffrage pamphlets written by Millicent Fawcett, or the Italian MEP who raised her daughter on the daily grind of democracy. The way that Carey lives is a statement of equality. The fact that it is done quietly, does not make it less worthy.

The real revelation of Carey Ravine is the way in which it weaves together the threads of her life and ours, binding us with shared concerns, and experiences. The nuances of this story, show us in a million subtle ways how “women always have to try harder to be heard and seen for the truth of who they are”. That is this book's deeper political statement.

If you are looking for a story that moves in ways never before seen in the history of period drama, this book will not deliver. If you are looking for a sense of connection with female characters who are every bit as vibrant, flawed, determined, weak, constrained and, well, human as their modern day counterparts, I can tell you, this book is well worth your time.

I was sent a copy of this book free to review by Hachette NZ. The opinions expressed are my own, in all their glory. I shouldn't have to tell you that, clearly nobody would actually pay me to express views like this. I would like to thank Debra Daley for so generously answering my questions about her beloved heroine. If you want to read her thoughts in full, you can find them here.

The Revelations of Carey Ravine is on sale now, priced at $34.99.

Wednesday, 13 July 2016 Comments: 0

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When to Balance your Child's Access to Technology

When to Balance your Child's Access to Technology

Technology can be an emotive subject when it comes to parenting. Things are said, punches are thrown, and we all retire with a feeling of smug satisfaction at a point well made.

I'll set my stall out at this point; I'm all for technology. I love it, I give my children open access to it, and because I treat them like the cognisant human beings that they are, I would rather have a conversation with them about how to know it's time to take a break, than to impose some bullshit, arbitrary, time limit on them.

I believe that children are intrinsically drawn to the tools of their society, and rather than technology standing between them and the world around them, technology gives people different perspectives, and tools with which to interpret what they experience.

Why do I believe these things? Well permit me to take you on a journey into my childhood.

My dad used to work in a myriad of exotic and distant lands, which exposed him to a variety of things that may not have quite made it as far as suburban Essex, where we lived at the time. One of those things, was the personal computer.

I remember my dad coming home from one assignment with a small removal truck in tow, to carry the "portable" computer he had purchased, as well as a large stack of ... minimally labelled ... 5 1/4" floppy disks.

These were the days of DOS, my friends, so at this particular point in the late 80s, I was faced with a challenge of monumental proportions. I fell instantly in love with this mysterious machine of bleeps and whirrs, but I had no idea how to speak its language. Nor did I have any way to find out, other than to blunder around hoping that I would accidentally type the right command, and when all else failed, phone my dad at work, and sob down the phone in frustration, until he told me the right word to type.

Once I had managed to load the games, I was still faced with trying to work out what the fuck I was supposed to be doing, because remember, pirated games, with no instructions. I remember opening Winter Games, and picking my country with such pride, only to end up shouting "WHY WON'T YOU SKATE?!?!!" when I couldn't figure out the right key to use, despite pressing every. last. one.

Then there was Adventures in Math, which, a little like the example in that video, used to drive me out of my MIND by bleeping at me in that really condescending way, when I couldn't distinguish between the 23 identical corridors that it was trying to take me down. I swear, I swear, that game was designed to fuck with me, because there is no possible way to get things that wrong, that often, when you only have a choice of two routes. But I'll admit, I did have a soft spot for the spider that stole your loot when you got a question wrong. Sometimes, I used to deliberately throw an equation, just so I could watch him crawl down the screen.

And if that isn't the most tragic thing I have ever typed, I don't know what is.

My favourite game of these first halcyon IT days, was Rocky's Boots. Man did I love those clackers. I had no idea what a person out in the real world did with things called logic gates, but the point was, I was doing something very grown up, with machines that I suspected, even then, were just a tiny bit smarter than I was, programmed by people who were a lot smarter than I was, using something that seemed akin to black magic.

My parents gave me plenty of latitude to indulge my geeky tendencies, knowing that I was also offered plenty of opportunities to spend time outdoors, interacting with real life people, and generally raising hell.

Luckily for all out sanity, games soon acquired more colours and better sound, and they continued to be a central part of part of my childhood. That time working our creaky ass PC, also meant I was able to dazzle my science teacher, by printing out a dot matrix graph to stick alongside my science experiment write-ups. That shit got me an A+ every time.

The point is, technology is a tool, and like my parents, we embrace it in our house.

Given a normal, balanced life, that works pretty well; Alfie spends time playing Minecraft, watching other people play Minecraft, and then recreating Minecraft scenes in Lego. Esme watches other children make up superhero stories before playing games that normally involve some kind of roleplay. In between times, they take trips out, do stuff round the house and generally raise hell.

Except for the last six weeks, during which time all bets - and physical activities - have been off, while Alfie has rested his broken leg. I'll be honest, six weeks of indoor living/ high level of tech usage, had resulted in two child shaped divots in the sofa, and the children speaking in growls.

Which led me to take uncharacteristically drastic action, in the form of a week long tech detox. 

For the kids, mind, we're not cavemen.

I won't lie to you, the point at which the children realised that their tablets were gone, wasn't the greatest moment of family togetherness the world has ever seen.

Nor was the whole of the next day. I think it would be a fair to say there was sulking. Muchos, muuuuchos sulking.

But nature abhors a vacuum, and in the case of the children, their need to connect was greater than their need to sit in a corner and weep.

Over the last week, they have come back to their pre-incarceration levels of healthy disrespect for authority. As Alfie becomes more mobile, and the balance of life is resumed, I'm thinking the time has come to hand the children back control of their tech, along with a new found perspective on what constitutes "too much" and a working knowledge of the term "intervention"

But before I do, d'you think they'd mind if I snuck on a few classic games, for old time's sake?

Wednesday, 6 July 2016 Comments: 2

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