Monday, December 9, 2013

(just slipping in quietly)

Can we just pretend it hasn't been a month and a half? If you read the Dogtown blog, you'll know that the shop has been taking all of my (limited) energy; when we get home in the evening all I can do is flop on the couch and wait to be fed, and I spend at least one full day of the weekend in bed, napping and reading. One of the aspects of parenting that pregnancy is really preparing me for is being tired all the time (and I'm aware that I don't even really know what tired means yet), and that means I have to be really selective about how I expend the resources I have. It's actually quite fucking boring; picking having a shower over going for a drive.

Anyway, it's just over two weeks until Christmas, and just under two weeks until we get to Auckland. I can't wait for either; talking and reading about Auckland makes me so eager to get there and hug the city (or its representatives; look out council workers, homeless people, and people of Asian, African, or Polynesian descent - I am coming for YOU), and Christmas means being with my family for several weeks, and eating a shitload of food and listening to carols incessantly. I'm both nervous and excited to see how much I manage to eat without putting room/time aside for alcohol. It could be amazing. It could be UGLY.

I also think it's time to get away from Dunedin for a bit, even though that means being away from our house, and Joe, and Vincent's parents. I feel like I have more love for the city than it has for me at the moment. We went to a Christmas market on Saturday and came across two stalls selling Golly dolls - one devoted to them, and it made me feel a bit sick and very ashamed. Racism exists everywhere but it doesn't make it feel any less awful when you come across it, particularly in such a setting; with school choirs performing, and Santa walking around giving out lollies. A week ago, Vincent and I passed a group of anti-abortion protesters outside the hospital; almost ten of them (most being men), holding up hateful signs accusing women who undergo terminations as murderers, and it was clear that nothing either of us said made a difference to them - in fact, they seemed to derive pleasure from it, even my obvious pain; smiling, and chanting prayers. This happens everywhere too; both Vincent and I have had run-ins with men in Auckland doing the same thing, but never had I seen so many, and never right outside the hospital doors. I've always felt strongly about anti-abortion protesting (I won't call them pro-life; they're pro- one kind of life, but completely disregard the lives and rights of women) but never more so than now, when I have a baby inside me. Pregnancy is hard - no doubt about it. I've come to realise what a personal experience it is, and that it must differ for every person who goes through it, but I can't believe that it's ever easy. For me, it's as easy as it could be; I'm thirty, in a relationship that defines the words stable and loving, I'm healthy, I have my own house, and I have family and friends to support me. And yet it's still hard. If any of those things were removed, I don't know how I would handle this; even if I had all of them but was five years younger. No-one, and especially no fucking man, has the right to tell me or any woman who finds out she's pregnant what we should do, or that her decision not to continue her pregnancy is wrong. After taking an applied ethics paper at uni, I realised I'm not clear on where I believe life begins, and I understand how some people feel about a foetus, but when it comes to the foetus in someone else's body, it is none of anyone else's business.

I sound angry, but I'm not; not at this moment, anyway. I feel displaced. I haven't found my people down here yet, and I'm starting to realise that I need friends here - having wonderful friends in Auckland isn't enough. I need to know that there are people like me and Vincent down here; our age, with similar interests and values, who want this place to be what we want it to be.

Anyway. In an hour we'll go to Vincent's Mum & Dad's and eat vegetarian lasagna and ice-cream and strawberries from the garden, and we'll talk about politics and people, and I'll feel better - as far as friends go, we couldn't find better ones down here than they are to us. In two weeks, we'll be in my city, either at our friends' house, or at my parents', or at one of our favourite bars in the city, where I won't even care that there won't be alcohol in my drink and that I'll be twice the size of every other woman there. 

And then, after a time, I think I'll miss here. And then I'll realise it's home.

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