Polka Dots

I whispered to my sleeping Aeriadne today, “I have always wanted a little girl like you.”

It’s true. I have.

I never owned a Barbie, but how I wanted one. I found reasons to dislike her after my father said ‘NO’. I wanted a Cabbage Patch doll more than a Barbie. I liked my pretty hairclips – the ones with the flowers and leaves that my aunts didn’t want anymore. They glittered. I remember the first pair of earrings my dad bought me that I chose myself – dangling hearts that shone with crystal Zirconias. I loved getting the hand me downs from my aunt’s cupboards – dresses and skirts. I remember a red dress with a picture of a beautiful Victorian girl in a large flower-decked sunhat. It was a long red dress with tiny white polka dots that I had when I was 6. I wore it until the zipper got stuck. My mother fixed the zipper but when it got spoilt from overuse – she said it was time to move on. I cried. I remember that dress clearly now. And then there was a tee shirt with a picture of another girl on it, another hand me down from an aunt. I used it until it was threadbare. My mother had to throw it away when I was at school one day. Then came the white dress with tiny green polka dots that I cherished. It had an umbrella skirt and puff sleeves, not unlike Snow White’s. My father loved seeing me in it. And I loved wearing it through my teenage years. I had forgotten that dress until this moment.

Those were monuments of my growing up a girl. I realise now that I had held on to them so tightly because they were the only times I was freely allowed my status as a girl. I was scoffed mercilessly by a brother 8 years older, who scoffed at my tears, at my sensitivity, at my being a girl. My mother never stood up for me. Ours was a home hostile to feminity and she was a feminist who believed deep down that the only emancipation for a woman was to compete on equal footing in a man’s world. So I learnt over time that to be of any value and belong, I had to be as good as a boy. I never played with dolls. My aunts were scolded for painting my nails. They tried once and never went there again. My father made sure I stayed away from being ‘distracted’ by feminine objects.

I remember my 10th birthday so clearly. It has always stayed in my memory as my best birthday. I now know why. My mother made me a pink dress with a pink sash. It had tiny red and green, yes, polka dots. They bought me a cake. I had an actual birthday cake. And my father gave me a pretty pink Diary and on its cover was a picture of a girl in Victorian dress holding a parasol. That’s all I remember. But I remember that being the happiest moment in my life. And I realise now it was because my brother had not been there. It was his first year in college and he had gone away. So no one tainted my girly moment and instead the two uncles who were staying with us that year made sure it was a little girl party with their compliments and indulgences. And I had my pink diary to last long after the day ended. It was my prized treasure, a symbol of my identity as a girl in my secret moments.

I have never felt truly comfortable being a girl. Well trained by my parents, I always had a desire to best the boys. And always, the boys knew it and were intimidated. When I fell in love, it was a scary prospect for my parents. The biggest distraction for a girl, they wanted none of it. But my future husband was too strong a flame. He loved all things a girl should be, and he easily summoned and set free that trapped little girl inside me without either of us understanding what the great attraction was. He has been my unwitting knight in shining armour and for that, he has a lifetime of my unwavering love.

I was hesitant to have a son and when my husband announced he only wanted girls, I was thrilled inside. When my daughter was born, I felt like the Christmas present I had always wanted had arrived. I threw myself into loving her. But Aeslinn wasn’t as gentle as I had imagined a girl would be. She wasn’t very interested in all the girly stuff I rolled out and all my girly plans seemed thwarted. Competitive like a boy, athletic like a boy and self-absorbed like a boy – I had a hard time adjusting and accepting her as she grew into a girl I had no idea how to love. But I did adjust and accept, and when my second daughter was born 5 years on, I had no idea that she was the sensitive girl I had been waiting for. Adjusted now to dealing with a masculine approach to life, I had completely forgotten why I had wanted girls.

Aeriadne has had a tough time at home. I have so struggled to love her well. I should have suspected when she grabbed a teddy bear at 6 months old and brought it everywhere, that she was sensitive. I should have suspected when at 8 months her first words were ‘pooh bear’, that she was sensitive. I should have known clearly, when at 15 months she dug out and dragged ALL the soft toys Aeslinn had ignored, onto her bed and declared that her ‘friends’ were sleeping with her from now on – that she was sensitive. But I was too lost in my left brain to make the connection. Aeriadne believes in fairies and princesses and pretty shoes and nail polish and make-up. “Look mommy, a WHOLE SHOP full of make-up!!” she announced two weeks ago when we passed a cosmetic store. She was able to co-ordinate her outfits at 12 months old and yes, cries at the drop of a hat. It IS wearying, all that crying. And it gets on Aeslinn’s left-brain nerves – this sensitive sibling who isn’t left-brained in any way. I realise now that her crying hasn’t annoyed me because it’s loud or frequent. It’s annoyed my left-brain programming. And deep down, it scares me because she reminds me too much of the sensitive child I was, and I realise now that I fear she will be hurt for being ‘girly’ like I was, if she remains so right–brained. Some part of me wants her to ‘shut up!’ before ‘they hear you and come for you too!!’

Aeriadne loves her Godmother. I love her Godmother! My cousin is a girly girl who is a doctor; long ago considered a man-dominated profession. She is independent, strong, capable and stylish in her own right. She played Rapunzel growing up. She cried A LOT growing up. She still loves teddy bears and loves shoes. She buys Aeriadne nail polish. She buys Aeslinn nail polish..even if Aeslinn only wants it as a competitive sport. My cousin is like the Girly FairyGodmother, come into our lives, to get us out of the soot and send us to the ball as Princesses whenever she is in our Orbit. And I love every bit of it, as much as my girls because deep down, I am still a girly girl. And I am tired of being a left-brained girl, fitting into a man’s world out of long ingrained habit.

My father has passed on. I still love him and understand clearly that he didn’t want me to hit a glass ceiling in a man’s world, and that he wanted the best for me. But I also realize now that he grew up in the 50’s and 60’s when it was clearly a man’s world. This is the new millennium. It is no longer a man’s world for my daughters because I am their mother. And unlike my mother who believed feminism was being as good as a man, I believe feminism means being the best woman you can be. If you are left-brained woman, then feel free to be left-brained but judge not your right-brained sisters, who are equally free to be right-brained.

I have a third daughter. She is showing signs of being a blessed balance between her first two sisters. When I first realised how much she looked like a cabbage patch doll on my lap, a lightbulb went on in my heart. Somewhere deep inside was recognition of a dream long forgotten. Aenishea wears dresses like a doll, bats her eyelashes and flirts with grown men. All this at a mere 14 months. Her Godmother, the Girly FairyGodmother doctor, thinks she’s a sassy piece of girl power and her daddy seems to be happy with that description. She has no reason to inherit her grandfather’s fears. Aenishea Nadea means Constant Hope and aptly so. She has brought the light of right-brained feminism back into my life, and in so doing, helped free Aeriadne and provide Aeslinn a dose of feminity she much desires but is unable to establish on her own.

My girls have set me free and to return the favour, I only have one expectation left of them as they grow, the same expectation I have of myself: to live my remaining days being true to who I am so I can finally be the woman I was meant to be.

Today I bought Aeriadne an anklet, the one piece of jewellery I have always worn with a passion..the one piece of jewellery she has hankered after since turning one. It was not only a symbolic act of setting her free to be the girly girl she is, but also my final act of exorcising the ghost of my left-brained childhood and finally claiming my right to be the girly girl I was made to be.

Aeriadne has a favourite dress. And it is white with, yes, small black polka dots.

Ode to My Father

Today i remember my father. From him i gained my love or words, love of knowledge, love of laughter, love of plants, love of music, love of photography, love of life, and love of love.

He played the guitar and drums when The Beatles were all the rage. Then the kids came along and he had to be a serious family man. He would sit with his guitar on rainy days, when he could neither garden nor get sporty, and sing. It's how i learned many songs. Despite his meagre salary that mostly went to the family, i think good musical casettes were the only things he splurged on himself. Oh and cigarettes, which eventually killed him. But he always said he would die on his own terms.

My father earned a labourer's salary. His dug out rocks from the ground to make way for agricultural experimentation. They eventually figured out he was good with the plants and had an even keener mind to run the experiments, so he became a research assistant. The trips to his workplace are some of my most cherished memories. I saw amazing plants inside that agricultural centre, not found outside its gates. And my father knew all their names. In there, he was always his calmest and spoke from his heart. The day i got too old to tag along to work with him into that magical portal was the day i lost the door into his real thoughts and feelings. I often longed to go back there. And now i know why.

He always had a crossword going. He would bring home the Australian Women's Weekly gained from female colleagues, so he could do the crossword pages. He read voraciously. My father would start a Jeffrey Archer book and stop only for meals, baths and to sing me to sleep. But as he grew older he was able to space out his reading. But not his crosswords, gaining access to books specially dedicated to the topic when i got old enough to venture into parts of the city he never went to, to find them for him.

My father made his own things when he couldn't find it in the stores. Sometimes he would buy something and personalise it if he wanted something custom made but couldn't make the first part himself. Like buying a t-shirt and modifying the sleeves because he couldn't weave his own fabric. He once combined two blankets to create a make-shift version of his own quilt. Sometimes he would buy something and use it as a prototype for 'better' versions he felt would serve the world more practically. Like the time he fashioned several desktop stationery holders and gave them to his favourite people.

I still have the Brazil nut he made into a jewellery box. He made three. I wonder if the other two recipients kept theirs. He always said those nuts would outlive him. The only nuts tougher than him he said. And i'm not talking about the edible part of the nut mind you. I am talking about the outer Brazil nut shell that can only be opened with a saw before you get to the individual inner shells. He transformed them into works of art. But not everyone appreciated his artist heart.

My father had a hard time in a society that expected 'normal' behaviour, which really just meant following accepted norms and staying within the defined status quo. Looking back now, i compare my father to Vincent Van Gogh. A rejected artist, unappreciated for who he could not but be. A tortured artist, forced to fit in to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. He never found the great love his heart longed for. And my father lived most of his life a broken man. Undervalued, unaffirmed and haunted by a deep jungle of complex emotions he could not conquer, he lived most of his days a lonely man.


2 years after his departure, i find myself rewriting much of his history. For it is mine too. My father's legacy has been to leave me not only all the things he cherished, but also all the things that went wrong in his life.. for me to walk into those very same rooms and banish the darkness that he left unconquered.

No more shadows of failure and despair. All of his fears, all that he lacked, all he judged and was judged for... it is all over. All that he loved, all that he had in abundance, all he embraced and accepted with joy... I carry them with me, and am passing them on to my children with great advances attached.

My father, in his struggle to remain noble and find happiness despite his pain, taught me to be authentic. My father, in his weakness and through mistakes, taught me to be true. My father, within his tortured heart recognised himself in me and although with equal parts of fear imbued, wanted for me what he never had and more. And because he wanted it so much, I now have it all.