Lord of The Un-Ringed

Lord of The Un-Ringed

By Bronwyn Lewis

02/01/2015

Because Jesus.

I may not know everything, but I do know a tit load of things. I know I hate sticky, humid weather that makes my moustache feel more luscious than Baby John Burgo Burgess’ entire face and head combined. I know I love seeing people fall over and hit their melons really hard and pretend it didn’t happen whilst walking off clumsily in the wrong direction, like Karl Stefanovic at any event after 8am. I know I hate when people eat so loudly that I question whether they are deaf, raised by wolves - or both. I know I love when people are uncomfortable by weird things I say or do that they laugh awkwardly and frantically search for an understanding look in the crowd of ‘she doesn’t mean it, please don’t leave’. I know I hate when people overestimate how long I should stay awake at a dinner party and force me to fall asleep and drool all over a stranger’s shoulder. I love how I think I know exactly what I love and hate when I these two categories are confused and I forget what I hate and misconstrue what the fuck I really believe in. Here’s an example…

Recently I went on a holiday with my handsome boyfriend and our angry baby daughter. We went to Noosa, in Queensland: ‘The Smart State’ – according to their number plates. Whist it was lovely and scenic, it is arguably the most Anglo-upper-middle-class place in the whole wide world. The ladies that frequent Noosa look like they have fallen out of a Lorna Jane catalogue and I on the other hand was born in Wagga Wagga, NSW. It goes without saying that at times I felt like that enormous Kardashian sister trying desperately to gracefully and unsuccessfully fit in.

After conversations on the mammoth amount of young adults in Queensland getting married, a person from a different era to me mentioned that they “felt sorry” for my lovely, bastard daughter. I immediately asked why and they responded with, “Because she will be embarrassed at school when her friends ask if her mum and dad are married.” This conversation carried on to them stating that they do not consider us a “proper family” until we are married and justifying their point of view with it merely being “their opinion”. Unfortunately this opinion is not as rare as one would think.

I was outraged. Frankly, I still am. Surprisingly, my fury wasn’t catalysed by this person’s point of view, but more so at my unbridled reaction to it. I hate that I care what people of this opinion think. I hate that my decision to not be married before bringing a baby into this world is fragile enough to be penetrated by the dusty, out-dated perception that sin exists and decency is measured by the Bible. Whilst I understand people have read this mother-flippin’ book, I haven’t and I refuse to live my life by it.

What I would love is for my daughter to grow up and see that I am a woman of self-worth, with or without a husband. I want her to see me as someone rejecting society’s expectations of me as a woman, a mother, a girlfriend and most importantly, a person and carrying on as if they didn’t matter. This is what I care about the most.

I haven’t ruled out marriage completely, because it seems to be exceptionally important to my wonderful boyfriend, and I secretly/not so secretly would love to see how many marital traditions I can piss on one foul swoop. I also want a party that tells this said man that I love the fucking shit out of him, but if this party doesn’t happen, I will just be bloody stoked that I am happy as fuck and not searching to appease people who hold different values to me.

Honesty, I don’t care if it never happens. What I DO know is that I love my small, proper family more than Charlie Sheen loves cocaine and that whatever happens, I will show my daughter that it doesn’t actually matter what the fuck anyone thinks – all that matters that her heart is as full as that fat Kardashian’s pants.