Sexualisation of children is not feminism, homosexuality or the punk movement

It is not the next frontier for bored artistes. It is not witty or clever.

Art's latest cause appears predicated on the assumption that all taboos are there to be deconstructed. This assumption ignores history.

While progress has seen women's rights recognised and sexual freedom for consenting adults gain acceptance, it has seen an age of consent introduced, then raised, so that 12 year old girls are no longer considered partner material.

That is, protecting kids has come with progress, and the age of consent is a notion that has been developed as we have become more enlightened.

At its core is the notion that both maturity and knowledge assist with being able to give consent. These are not conservative rules designed to repress, they are rights handed to those who are still learning about the world and their place in it.

Progressive activists should be seeking to strengthen the protection of the young as an issue deserving advocacy alongside other rights agendas.

Wheeling out your 11 year old daughter to defend herself does not alter the age of consent argument one iota. As for saying:

"It's interesting that if the Prime Minister comments on, say the greenhouse effect, he gets expert advice first," Monash University Associate Professor Nelson said. "I would like to know which art expert advised him on this."

Which child protection expert advised Professor Nelson on his view? And what does art expertise have to do with arguments relating to age of consent?

I'm not saying it's not art, anyone who tries to fight that battle is getting bogged down in irrelevancy.

It is art. Almost anything is art. Move on.

I even started off leaning towards Mr Henson in this debate- his photos were not part of an attention-grab, and there is clearly some merit in being cautious before interfering with free expression. Or before agreeing with everything Huffy Hetty gets hot-headed about. I know this area is a magnet for wowsers.

But the latest effort was designed to make a statement, the editor of the Art Monthly has said as much.

This is not the next great liberalisation agenda. It is not clever. And nothing will lead to a splurge of draconian law making, one that'll have overwhelming popular backing, than a few bored artists trying to make hay with this issue.

Leave it alone, stick to putting things up in galleries where rockspiders in raincoats can't make malicious use of them, and I don't see any issue for the coexistence of children's images in genuine art on the one hand and a robust child-focused protection regime on the other.

UPDATE: See, legislation now on the table.

UPDATE II: Return hat tip to Skepticlawyer.

Pram-averse obsessive compulsives

Yes there are pram nazis who are wholly inconsiderate or try to ram everyone out of the way. But most of us are just trying to get around and do what we need to do, acutely self conscious of being in the way in a society that for all the working families hype is about as child friendly as a Burmese razor blade factory.

So I need some obsessive compulsive to pester me unnecessarily about as much as I need a full length Justin Timberlake tattoo.

I'm in the main Northcote Shopping Centre newsagency all of 15 seconds trying to decide between AFR, Monthly and Guardian (yeah I know, not much consistency there) when the shop gent asks me to move the pram. He's polite, and fair enough- although I observe there's comfortably room for 2 people to walk in side by side, and there's no-one else in the shop at all, nonetheless I've unintentionally left it at a slight angle, using a fraction more space than necessary.

S'ok, I straighten and move it slightly further to the side. Now you could drive a motorbike in beside it with no risk of annoying Bear with the exhaust.

I turn back to the Monthly.

A nanosecond ticks.

He steps back towards me: "Very sorry [no, if you were sorry you'd fuck off and leave me alone] but it's still in the way could you move it some more?"

Now some of you who've experienced pram nazi conduct may at this point think I'm playing this up. But I assure you, at this point there was well over a metre completely free, still no people looking like they'd be coming in, and only another 20cm to the wall in which I could move the pram.

I moved it the 20cm.

A nanosecond ticked.

I put back the Monthly and strolled out. No purchase today. I felt not a little annoyed at this whole Pinteresque incident. Want to know why?

Because I spend my whole time going around people, trying not to be a nuisance, reassuring Bear, loading groceries into a basket while pushing the pram, reassuring Bear some more, giving her something to eat, going around more people, finicking, faffing, and generally working hard to make the journey as smooth as possible and I don't need some obsessive tool whose - see it for yourself if you're in the area - entrance is largely blocked by buckets of crap and junk anyway, like a cross between a newsagency and a $2 shop, harassing me because he obviously has a nervous twitch about, or active dislike towards, prams and people therewith.

Funnily enough, as I strolled away I thought of a completely novel use for the bag of fish fillets I was carrying.

Nerves relax, tears well, and Bear is expecting a sibling

Says it all doesn't it?!

First trimester over and all is looking good. Some fine hand waving, a good strong pair of legs, a big head with 2 clearly visible hemispheres of brainage and a little heart beating at a million miles an hour.

Oh Bear, your life is about to change.

Oh Mao, oh Minh-Minh, here's hoping you've adapted to the first one by then.

Oh Beloved, you're a stronger person than I.

Oh my, feels like champagne-o'clock already!

Feeling a cluster of nerves

Sitting on the balcony waiting for a storm to cross the harbour. The cloud is deep azure, the wind has cooled. We try to pretend we aren't scared. But we want this rain so badly.

We will sit all night, watching.

Enunciation 101

Beloved, we need to have the 'swearing' talk. You know how we're ignoring the issue until Bear is old enough to notice and pick things up.

Well, this morning I said "Bugger!" Bear didn't miss a beat, twice for good measure. At least I have to say you'd have been proud of her flawless enunciation...

(All beloved could say on reading this was to correct my use of 'annunciation' to 'enunciation'. With a look that was well beyond smug...)

Toddler swim classes and the management of fear

A Bear is approaching 18 months and she's well into swimming lessons. They happen on daddy day, so I'm also learning; about fear, complex project management, and the joys of walking home in midwinter wearing wet boardies under trackie pants and thongs.

If this sounds a bit ambitious and wanky like those programs for teaching your toddler orchestral composition, or rocket science, or 1st year university subjects, then let me explain. She's not actually learning the butterfly; the classes are designed to make little tots comfy in the water and teach them some very basic survival skills- don't breathe underwater, get in backwards, get out quickly if you fall in.

She's doing well. Bear is proving to be a derring-do risk-taker, and throws herself into most challenges with enthusiasm. Good and bad there obviously. Most of the other kids are older, and she handles being splashed or pulled along underwater better than many of her peers.

But each class sees her go under at some point, unplanned. It's just part of playing in the pool, you don't stop watching- closely- ever. She trips and goes under, my heart stops, I explode out of the water in her direction (even if, as in most cases, she's about 2 feet away) and haul her out and up into the air with both hands. She just blinks and blows the water away from her mouth. I put her down slowly and feel my heartrate zip up to 200 then back down again over the next 10 seconds or so.

Bear on the other hand is only fazed when the big dufous kid, sweet as he is, who should be in a higher class but isn't up to it yet, unintentionally thumps her into the water. It's happened twice, I'm getting antsy.

Late at night as I try to sleep I replay the events over and over. Staying sane (if I'm that, we could argue it) involves staving off the candid observation that at all times my reaction is the only thing preventing the unthinkable. That despite the supportive setting, the lifeguards, the specialist infant teachers, myself and the other parents, this is water, and it takes lives. Very quickly.

So I want her to learn, and be confident.

I will never forget the green of the swirling water as I fell into the crocodile-infested Morehead River in Papua as a 3 year old. The moments where I just hovered there, under the water, clueless, thinking 'I'm about to drown' until the boom and the hand grabbing my hair and the relaxation of knowing it's all ok, mum got me before the denizens of the depths.

Parenting- fear and fun wrapped up like a blindfolded schuss down Argentiere.

And then there is the matter of your schooling

The Melbourne thing. School scrambles start at 1, that is, if parents want to have options at 12.

This is an intractibly difficult question for us. Beloved and I both had lousy experiences of school, and I struggle with the impression nearly all of them are big old industrial institutions peddling mediocrity while lining up the next generation of worker bees.

We both prefer the idea of public. Neither of us has many good memories of our experiences at the tail end of school where we were bundled off to toffhouses. And there is the ideological ideal of giving all kids a similar basis to start off in life.

But education for its own sake is not prized in Australia and we simply don't trust providence to ensure our nearest school will give Bear a good grounding in literature, music and art, the sciences and history. In fact it appears optional for primary schools to even offer another language.

Beloved got sent to boarding school in part because music wasn't properly taught at her public school. At my cheapo catholic school history was poor, while the arts generally were all but non-existent. And uniqueness was never prized, always hammered back into place.

The toff schools weren't much better, especially not on the last point. And then there was the childish nastiness they inculcated, whether by subtle intent or effect- too many brats, too many parents who couldn't care if the entire world died tomorrow as long as they have a beemer.

So nothing's ideal, and therefore everything's on the table to be considered on its merits. The problem being that if we want to have options, she has to go on the lists now, or it will all be a moot point if come year 7 we look around and see that our nearest public school has no decent arts program, teaches no languages and has a resident gang sporting faux-hawks infecting the front entrance.

So she'll probably end up on a couple of lists, and we'll keep a hopeful eye on the local public, and time will tell...

Obama to Clinton to Obama- settling on the world's candidate

So she won West Virginia, her call to the angry white man met with a response from thousands of duelling banjos. A step forward for team Hillary, but a plus for the Republicans if Obama ends up the final Democratic candidate.

I started out wanting Obama to win. Then I fell across towards Clinton after my readings led me to the impression that she may have better capacity to lead development of effective policy, and is at heart a genuine social liberal.

Race and gender almost balance for me, I want the best candidate. Although for striking symbolism I think a black male leading a largely-white western democracy has far less precedents.

But I don't like where Clinton has gone. I think it's clear she's played the harder ball against the person in this process. But worse, by doing so much damage to Obama amongst the equivalent of Australia's 'Howard battlers' (but less educated and better armed) she may have left a poison pill with her party.

This is to a fair extent a consequence of the primary system, and having 2 very strong candidates staying, if not neck-and-neck, at least neck-and-shoulder. But so much more rides on the outcome of the real election than individual career aspirations.

Others are saying this already, but I have a further concern.

We, the rest of the world, are desperately waiting for a different US foreign policy to unfold. And I'm not convinced Clinton will deliver, even if she comes good on the domestic front.

We don't want palpably ill-conceived invasions like the one she supported in Iraq. We don't want the US contemplating genocide as it tussles with Iran. We do need a US that offers wise counsel to its close ally Israel, as opposed to the chirpy backing Clinton gave their last venture into Lebanon. We need some notional adherence to international law from the country that co-wrote most of it.

We don't want more of the same. I don't know how much of her chest-beating is rhetoric, but I am genuinely concerned that more of the same is what she'll give us.

Of the 3 contenders, only Obama has actively demonstrated a commitment to do things differently.

He's the world candidate, and once again he's got this irrelevant alien in his corner. Sorry Hillary, respect you a lot, but I think it's time to do a deal.

Take my baby bonus and spend it on something useful

We don't need it. Sure we'll take it if you throw it, who wouldn't, but we won't vote against you if you confine it to those who are truly struggling. Or better yet, scrap it entirely, and pump it into the services we all need.

I didn't realise what they meant by child care crisis until we had Bear. There is a child care crisis. It's actually sheer places, not just publicly-funded places, but all places. Some people can't get a place, full-stop. Battlers need it so they can get back to work. Isolated parents need it so they get respite and their kids socialise. Professionals also need it, the posh need it, in short, a win-win.

Then there's schools, transport, urban renewal, safety. In short, fixing this country so it's worth growing up in. Better, not worse, in 10 years' time.

See, it doesn't take a celebrity love-in to generate some policy ideas...

Groundhog day in unFairfield

When you think you really might win an auction, and buy a house, you can't help but imagine your life there. We came back, we saw, we imagined, then we were conquered.

In Fairfield, but an unorthodox layout and busy street were the reasons cited for the low price (in Fairfield this means anything under $700K). We picked over it and saw in the study a 3rd bedroom, in the high fence a buffer against the street, and in the layout enough usable spaces to accomodate a Bear and 2 exotic felines. Apparently we weren't alone.

The silence on this blog has matched a silence on the house front. I've been living the family life, getting by, ignoring the bigger projects and ignoring a misery that longer-term readers know kept us frustrated for months back around the time of Bear's birth. But house prices have been floundering on paper, with some bargains going in the suburbs to our immediate north, so we thought "why not us"?

Why not indeed? Why not us to win the lottery while we're at it?

I've bid at auctions before and not felt all that stressed. It's true. But this time was different, with the build-up, the real sense that we might get it, after such a hiatus from the market, and the imaginings: walking Bear to childcare rather than a 20 minute round trip, exploring the real bush parklands just 15 minutes away, coffee in the delectable local strip, the spot in the garage where I'd set up a bench and bag and become fit again, the corner of the large yard where Bear could have a cubbee house...

There were too many people. The auction we'd watched earlier that day had rocketed beyond the boundaries of fiscal reason. The omens were bad, and we were once again flumoxed.

$20,000 beyond our outer limit, the deal was closed for some sleazy looking professional bidder.

We drove around in a daze for a while. Watched Bear in a park, saying little. Went home. Sat. Slept.

Sunday was a better day.

"I am the feeling which became a daughter"

The mind boggles! For lovers of LOLCATS, enjoy this Engrish masterpiece:

CAT PRIN - The tailor for a cat you know....

Lady to Ladette - a girl learns to fart on cue

I think I have taught a Bear to fart on cue.

She was standing in the bath a few days back when a wet ripper split the silence. I of course cracked up laughing, so she chuckled. I then decided applause was called for. She took on a concentrated affect, and lo and behold, another one. More reward conduct from myself of course!

The next eve when I got home Beloved was holding her, and Bear immediately did a wriggle and let out a couple of charges in quick succession. Then yesterday, in the wading section at Northie pool, she immediately squatted down and a series of streams of bubbles (no doubt toxic) came up behind her head.

I am so proud. In fact, as I sat around with the mummies in swim class a few minutes later I bragged about her new skill acquisition lest any of them not understand that my girl is truly advanced.

This type of information is the big news in my life. Perhaps knowing most people aren't sitting around waiting to hear this is the reason I've blogged so sparsely recently.

Next episode may feature burping and saying "ahhh".

Teddy Bear Picnic?

Or gathering of oddball writers and allsorts?

Despite throwing out grumpy comments on friggbook due to not receiving a specific invite, I will probably take my loved ones, Beloved and Bear, to the gardens today to meet a blogger or three.

Details at Duck's.

We won't make it until probably close to 3.30 so if you're going down and want to meet a Bear, hang around.

I suppose I missed out because I rarely blog; indeed, the chance of more than 20 people reading this is now slim. Blogging is something that does rely on regular input, and that has become extremely difficult.

Hence today's gathering may be a bit of a goodbye to the blogging world, and an attempt to maintain the personal connection with the interesting people I've met even as the site pulls back the sheets, puts on the reading lamp, and prepares itself for bed.

First days of the new for my girls

Up well before 7 this morning. Put the coffee on the stove top, prepared a Bear's brekky. Got a girl up, while her mum frantically lurched from one side of the bathroom to the other.

Today both their lives changed. Beloved went back to work, and Bear, having been for a few short visits to get the feel of the place, spent her first full day in childcare.

I waved them off. Bear was waving and smiling from the back. It breaks your heart.

She went well, apparently, though neither sleep nor food were high on her agenda. But when Beloved picked her up she was fusty, and she took a long time to go to bed. She was a bit upset.

So I'm told anyway, I didn't get out of work until 6.30, I haven't even laid eyes on my girl since the morning.

There has to be a better way...

Queen of slang, my daughter is nang

The Bear is at the cusp of noveau-English. As discussed below, she uses nang-nag to capture the essence of being, the power of infinity. Either that or she's pointing out something more mundane like a poo that needs flipping (they're kindof like vege patties now, so when changing nappies we just carry the whole lot to the toilet and 'flip' it in!).

Now it is confirmed, nang, the base word, means cool.

My girl is clearly uber, what can I say?

Other words making the rounds include "dat" (while pointing at a cat) and something approaching "dadadad". Yes, she's started doing this while indicating in my general direction.

Today I came in tired, a bit depressed. Slunk into the couch, smiled at Beloved while Bear continued her feed. When she'd finished she sat up, saw me, sat up a bit straighter, clapped her hands, smiled and said something along the lines of "dadadigdablanangnangdaad".

Picked me up like a chairlift.