A lucid dream in the shadow of the new maternity care "reforms" in Australia

Yesterday, my three-year-old daughter said to me, "I want another baby. I want a sister. I don't have a girl to play with in my beautiful house in all my life!" (she has a quaint turn of phrase). Soberly, I considered the dimensions of this. "We might not get a sister, Misha- we might go through all that and get another brother! That would be OK though, yes?" I offered.

"I want a sister!"

How to explain?

And even less clear is what we'll be getting as a family in terms of maternity care. Less choice, certainly. Our preference as a family is to be attended at home by a registered independent midwife. We find the medical model just too restrictive and anxiety producing. Certainly, had I a medical issue or complication during a pregnancy or birth I would seek the advice of a medical professional. But I don't want my midwife under the supervision of the medical model. I don't want some remote obstetrician having power of veto over my birthing choices. What if I wanted a natural twin or breech birth at home without having to fight for it or get hassled? Or worse,to just get told I can't?

And I don't want the hospital clock ticking over my birth pool either.

If my labour wants to stretch out over a few days, or be on and off for a week, and myself and baby are OK, then I don't want the latex-gloved finger pulling the plug on it from afar.

Obviously, as a prospective fourth-time mum and third-time HBACer (homebirth after cesarean), the anxiety is already getting to me!

Last night, I had a dream...

I was going into labour at home with my fourth baby. It was early morning and the rest of the household snored. I was vaguely aware that there were other people asleep in the house, strangers... I became aware that I had made no arrangements for the birthing- I had no midwife and I was not booked into a hospital... I felt the baby's head begin to come down. I thought about just getting on with it, going it alone, but I was afraid- it wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to wake anyone. Should I call an ambulance? That wasn't what I wanted either. At least there would be midwives, somebody, at the hospital. And the baby's head was about to crown- how much could they stuff it up for me at this point? So that's what I did.

Once at the hospital, I explained that as it was my fourth baby, I had sort of just got on with things and hadn't thought to make arrangements for the birth until it was too late! I birthed my baby standing up in the delivery room with two midwives in attendance. The baby was born face-up. I reached down for the baby, eager to discover the sex. "You've had a daughter!" cried one of the midwives.

They let me have my birth, but they stole that precious moment of discovery for me, something I have cherished with my previous children. I was angry about that afterwards, in the dream.

But the anger that doesn't dissipate with the dream, is the anger over our dissipating choices as birthing women, precious choices being stolen from us right now. What will I tell my daughter about that?

"But I want a home birth with an independent midwife!"

How to explain?

Super-immune Chicken Stock, its Economy and Uses

I am inspired to create this piece by a friend's recent success in ministering to a mutual friend's cold with chicken soup. I am reminded of my discovery of the super-stock within the pages of "Nourishing Traditions" and full credit is duly recorded for it's discovery there. What I hope to illustrate around my discovery of this recipe is the ways in which it has benefited our diet, our health and our budget.

A well-prepared stock, simmered for 6-24 hours is a powerhouse of vitamins and minerals, and a natural anti-inflammatory. A gelatinous stock is a super-food for growing children. Yet to experiment with a beef stock (far more messy and calls for an extra-large pan), I present my chicken stock recipe. I rarely use bought stock anymore- only when in a tremendous hurry and have none of this far superior substance in the freezer. Fresh stock sounds like a luxury or a pain in the neck but it really is easy and quickly becomes a habit to do weekly or fortnightly or whenever. It becomes part of your routine.

Take a large free range and/or organic chicken. You want to minimise the amount of toxins the bird will have stored in its body because you want to suck all the goodness out of it, into the stock.
Rinse your chicken and pop it into a large pan. Wash an onion, quarter it and throw it in skin and all. Roughly chop a couple of carrots and chuck them in (if they are organic, don't bother to peel). Do the same with a couple of stalks of celery. Now, fill up the pan with filtered water and slop in a tablespoon of vinegar (this helps to draw the nutrients out of the food!). Put a lid on and let it sit for thirty minutes (can't remember why, but do it anyway). Bring to the boil and simmer for 6-24 hours. Add a bunch of parsley for the last ten minutes which will inject further powerful nutrients into the broth. Strain, and cool. Keep the chicken meat. Cool the stock and refrigerate. The next day, it should be like jelly- the sure sign of a super-stock. Skim off the fat and freeze in 1-2 cup batches to use as needed.

Out of this process I can sometimes get maybe four meals. A pilaf or rice dish, a curry, a pasta, a pizza, and sandwiches for everyone. I might do soup, a chicken and vege one, then a lentil one tomorrow. Chicken tacos. It's awesome. My kids love it just with noodles and some of the carrot, maybe some corn- much healthier than two minute noodles. Hammer it into them during flu season or whenever anyone is sick or looks like they might be getting sick.

Undercover in Australia

The following piece was written as a narrative to accompany a short film. It is based on the thoughts and experiences of "Lian".

Undercover in Australia- a day in niqab.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim, in the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

My name is Lian. I obtained a scholarship to complete my Masters of Education in Australia. I arrived on the Gold Coast with my husband and four children 3 yrs ago from Riyadh, the largest city and capital of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I worked very hard to meet the standards of English language to pursue my path here. But the language barrier was not the only concern for me in adjusting to the culture here. My first thought was of my Islamic veil, as this is the most visible sign of difference. Although our values may not differ from those the Australian people hold dear; honesty, family, charity, a “fair go” to name just a few, I am aware that some of our practices can seem alien, confronting and are often misunderstood.

Most women in Saudi Arabia observe Islamic cover or “hijab” including the veiling of the face, or “niqab”. In some Saudi Arabian cities women must wear niqab by law. In other cities it is not legally enforceable, but strongly encouraged. Muslims highly value a clear distinction between public and private life, which often includes the practice of hijab with its rules of modest dress and behaviour for men and for women. In a Muslim country there will usually be some degree of expectation for public dress and behaviour, because Islam seeks to protect the dignity of the family unit and of society in this way.

Women in Arab cultures have been wearing niqab for hundreds of years. But wearing niqab can be both a cultural and a deeply personal pracitice. Muslim Australian writer Rachel Woodlock has described the hijab as her “portable sacred space”. Niqab, for some of us, completes that picture. That is why it is not so easy for most of us to just take it off because we now live in Australia. We understand the covering of the face to be a highly commendable way to wear hijab wherever we go, a practice that is pleasing to God Almighty. But how would the Australian society view my niqab?

I started my Australian life here, in the Gold Coast suburbs. Thank God, everyone here respects the other. I have not faced any harassment. There are quite a few muslim families in our estate, mostly Arab, but some from other countries, and some Australian muslims. Our non-muslim neighbours are very friendly and open. They are used to seeing covered women wandering around. It’s not unusual here. Our manager is very kind and helpful and would not tolerate any bigotry on the estate.

At the local mosque I have met muslim women from all over the world and many are Australian. Some of the Australian women have chosen hijab and even niqab for themselves as a way of expressing their devotion to God. It is not unusual to see a pair of bright blue eyes peering over a niqab. Some muslim women in Australia would like to wear hijab and niqab for the spiritual rewards, but find the cultural pressure not to wear it too great.

I use the bus to go to university to attend my lectures. Usually I don’t lift my gaze when I get on the bus. I know that if I do, sometimes I won’t like what I see. Mostly, it’s just curiosity, but sometimes it’s anger and sometimes, it’s hatred. I tell myself, if I do notice this, that maybe this person is just having a bad day. Maybe it’s not me at all. Sometimes people whisper to each other and I know they are talking about me. Well, not about me, because they don’t know me, but about my niqab, or muslims in general. Sometimes, they don’t whisper. They talk as if I can’t hear them or see them, as if I am not there underneath my garments. Perhaps they assume that I don’t speak English. Perhaps they don’t care...

Generally speaking though, Australian people are great, really! Although Australians read more newspapers than people of any other country in the world, they are surprisingly unperturbed by any impression of muslims or muslim women they may have been exposed to in the media. They are still, largely, willing to give you a “fair go”. Some people seem to go out of their way to be friendly to me, as if they want to send me the message that they don’t hate muslims and they don’t mind the niqab. Some warm up very quickly when you talk to them. They can see that your eyes are smiling. They are relieved when the barriers are broken down and they find a person in there after all!

Although Australian universities do tend to be very diverse and liberal, many students still tend look at me strangely; but I understand, I really do. It’s normal behaviour, because it’s something new to them. Some students have ridiculed me with their words and their gestures and this does bother me. I am a normal person who does the same things as most other Australians do; eating, drinking, shopping, enjoying the outdoors with my family. I’m not different to the others, I just want to wear niqab.

Most of the bad reactions come at the shopping center. It can differ greatly from one person to the next. Once, some young people in the shopping center at Southport pulled off my niqab and laughed at me. That was frightening and humiliating enough, but even more disturbing was a man on the street who backed me into a corner and was talking at me, I couldn’t understand him, I didn’t know what he wanted…

At the end of the day, I know that it is normal for people to have some kind of reaction to the way I dress. But it’s wrong to take action against others just because they seem strange to you. Australia has a lot of different customs and traditions because it has been visited and colonized by people from many different countries, cultures and religions. We are free to practice some or all or none of them. Our central values are the same. I wear the niqab because I want to wear it. No-one is forcing me to wear it and no-one should force me not to wear it. It is my choice and I hope that the Australian people do not judge me because of the option that I chose.

Who's the Bad Guy?

The Captain has announced a “code silver”. Somebody on the aircraft is armed with a dangerous item but they aren't revealing the identity of the offender yet. We are to proceed as normal and await further instruction. I freeze, then freeze a smile on my face and launch myself down the aisle, gripping the lunch trolley. A soft, caramelly voice replies “Yes please” when I offer coffee. I look into the face and a knife twists in my gut. It’s him. It’s got to be. He looks just like that terrible man on the tv, the one that gloats via video every time innocent, civilised people are killed and injured in random explosions. A broad mouthful of teeth that are as white as my knuckles begin to disappear into a square mile of black beard, and the deep brown eyes turn from friendly to quizzical. He knows I don’t buy the “smiling assassin” act. The man lifts his turbaned head slowly to look past my shoulder and the eyes shift to hawklike mode. There is the rattle of china as I begin to fumble and spill things. Panicked voices fade to mute and everything morphs into slo-mo, as he rises from his seat and I think, I’m going to die…I register the strength of his large hands as he shoves me aside into safety... From the floor I watch the clean-shaven bandit in the grey suit lunge for the bearded, white-robed man with a gleaming pen-knife. Two undercover FBI agents seize the moment to apprehend the terrorist from behind as people scream and others gather around to assist me and the injured man in white.

Write Anything Fiction Friday 13/2/2009

“Sorry to have to deliver such bad news on the phone, but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible. Your whole department is being phased out. Downsizing, you know.”

Sandra hit delete before she had to hear any more. Then she sighed, deeply, trying to work with what the psychologist had recommended. “You have to walk through it with him, Mrs Cleveland. Learn his language.” Trouble was, it was a different bloody language every week. And this week, she didn’t really feel like learning it. What she felt like doing was marching up to the clinic, giving him a darn good shake, and saying “Snap out of it Robbie, please!” But that wasn’t going to help anybody, least of all her deranged husband. That sort of behaviour wasn’t going to bring Robbie back.

So she took a deep breath and called him.
“Miss Franklin, yes, how may I help you?” He was curt, perfunctory. She pressed ahead.
“Listen, Robbie…umm, Mr Cleveland, I know my…my work hasn’t really been what it could be, lately, but I really feel that I am…indispensible to…to the team and I think that we can get through the crisis, Robbie, ah, Sir, if we just pull together…”

“As I said, I’m terribly sorry, Miss Franklin, it’s really nothing personal. Four weeks pay and your desk clear by Friday. Oh, and if you’ll let the rest of the department know of course.” There was a click and he was gone.

Sandra hung up softly, silencing the last beep. It was so quiet in the empty office. The clatter was almost deafening as she swept the last of her sick husband’s things from his desk into a cardboard box. She left the building quickly, her high-heels ringing, insistent, cruel, like those damn beeps.

Write Anything Picture This #10 Memories of Sandals

My daughter reaches out to me from the photograph on Mum's bedside table. She is extra-chubby, nut-brown, smiling, around ten months old. I ache because I don't remember how she felt, how she smelt, what we did. Two months later I was pregnant with her little brother and from that time on the photographs all seem blurry, or like someone else's life. Her three-year-old chatter is piping up over the verandah from the beach below, and I let it lead me to the window in a sort of trance, still holding the photograph. She plays with abandon beside discarded sandals, tossing white sand aloft with two hands. She is, of course, accompanied by my husband. If she is far from his side it is never by choice. Like a crushing embrace a memory takes hold and it's not a fond one. It is my daughter's desperate cries for me when, pregnant with the new baby, I could no longer meet her needs during the night. It is her crumpled form on the floor where she had thrown herself, making, repeatedly, pathetically, the small hand signal I had taught her for "more"... Adrift, she anchored herself more deeply in my husband, as pregnancy, birth and the new baby swallowed me up like progressively larger, fiercer creatures.


Sometimes the old bond between my daughter and I reappears like a chance encounter with a childhood sweetheart. But mostly the territory that is "Mum" is soundly, roundly claimed by the passions of the new baby. Either that, or I need to read with the older one. Or my daughter simply withdraws from my lap, muttering something like, "You're not soft. You haven't got a beard." Or, like now, as the baby sleeps and my older son reads on the beach with Grandma and I still... can't. I need to do dinner. I can't leave the baby. I grip the photograph harder as I want badly to run to the sand, kicking it up with bare, free feet, towards my daughter. They troop, wet and breathless, back to the house at sunset and I feel like a shadow serving dinner and reminders of sandals.

When we get home late at night, and, after sleeping sacks of children are delivered to their beds, I take Mum's advice and let images help me start to find my daughter again. I trawl through the myriad pictures of our first baby girl, just in my mind. I remember her straddling me in the bath at nine months old, taking outright advantage of bare breasts. I begin to branch out from that with my husband's help as we recall the day she emerged from the bedroom with a bloody nose, having fallen off the bed. We rushed out straight away and bought a cot. A month later, she learned to ease herself safely down from our bed and the cot remained in the corner of our bedroom, useless. If I had my hands full and sensed movement or a soft noise I would call out to my eldest son to check on her. "Is she OK?" I would sing out anxiously. My five-year-old boy would report, like the weather man, "She's awake and playing" or "She's awake and smiling".

I leave the baby at home with my husband in the morning and make a visit to my neighbour. My three-year-old daughter relishes my empty lap and I cradle her close for a glorious fifteen minutes before she jumps up to play outside with the others. My neighbour recieves a telephone call from overseas and has to leave the coffee preparations. I hesitate between rushing to the kitchen to help and joining the children in the backyard. My daughter is gesturing to me from the screen door, indicating urgently the soccer ball under her arm. "More". She has the words now. I take to the grass with my naked feet and my daughter. It is only after we have been back home again for some hours that I realise we have both forgotten our sandals.