PICTURE THIS
Auckland mum and writer Rebecca Wadey reflects on the ups and downs of raising two boys in the modern world
To echo the excellent The Guilty Feminist podcast, I’m a feminist, but I’ve grown entitlement and privilege inside my uterus. Yes, I’ve birthed not one but two white middleclass males. Just what the world needs right now. I’ve always felt omnisciently aware of the huge responsibility this brings upon me, but over the past 18 months it’s become far more acute. It goes beyond the usual “what did your last slave die of ” taskings of motherhood and into terrifying “how do we celebrate you without making you into a monster who wrecks havoc, Trump style?” territory.
As middle-class white males, the world at large is shown through their eyes. My sons have the privilege of hearing their voices and seeing their stories everywhere. I see my job as evening out the odds. Wherever there are stories, there are alternatives. For every Dumbo there is a Ponyo. For every Spider-Man, a Wonder Woman. For every shitty Imagine Dragons song, something amazing by Janelle Monáe.
My boys love comedy. Bad comedy. Slapstick comedy — Dumb and Dumber, Ace Ventura and their favourite, a truly terrible Adam Sandler/David Spade film called Grown Ups. Their love of this film is cause for much embarrassment. Truly. One evening we were having dinner in LA at the home of a reasonably well-known actor. He offered to put on anything the kids wanted to watch in his home theatre.
“Grown Ups,” said the boys. ‘No, you can watch anything,’ said the actor, confused. “Grown Ups,” said the boys. “No, anything!” repeated the actor, who does not yet have children. Then, hopefully, “E.T.?” “Grown
Ups,” insisted the boys. Shame on our name. (Thankfully, they carry my husband’s name and not mine, so really the shame is all his.)
The arrangement was that they watch their dumb slapstick comedy, but I sit in like an awkward third wheel. “Do you think it’s appropriate how they’re judging that woman based upon her looks?” I ask. “Do you think he is treating her with the respect she deserves?” Or, after a particularly vile scene in what is a truly terrible film, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, “So what if that man wants to be a woman? Ace liked her and enjoyed kissing her at the time. Do you think the way he is reacting is hurtful and mean? How would you like it if someone acted like that after kissing you?”
The original Ghostbusters was a hit in our house, but when I suggested to the boys I would take them to the remake, the youngest (who was six at the time) said, “No, that’s a girl movie.” So many things about my children have driven me insane over the years but nothing cut me to the core quite like that. Needless to say, we went to the new Ghostbusters. Twice. We also saw Wonder Woman and Black Panther, despite my aversion to superheroes.
Towards the end of last year, my husband was out of the country and, at the end of a long Saturday,
I was looking for some respite. The kids asked if they could watch Girls Trip. “Great!” I said, mentally patting myself on the back for having such evolved children, actively seeking female alternatives to
Adam Sandler. My work with them was practically done! I put it on and inexplicably left the room.
Last week, my husband and I sat down in front of the TV and, seeing Girls Trip in our ‘purchased’ history, decided to watch it ourselves. The first thing I noticed was that it was R16. The second thing I noticed was that the rating seemed woefully inadequate for the raunchy film that followed. For those of you who haven’t seen it, just know that a grandad featuring a huge saggy naked prosthetic penis, and a scene where Tiffany Haddish teaches a bedroom trick using a grapefruit, are just two things my children have now witnessed in their short lives.
“Um, boys... ?” I start a conversation gingerly. “Remember the movie Girls Trip?” They exchange glances
and giggle. “You let us watch it!” they protest. “Yes, I know… Do you want me to explain anything to you? What do you remember?” I ask. “Penises!” says one. “Swearing,” says the other. “I keep swearing in my head All. The. Time since
I saw it. Swear words are just bursting to come out of me.” He purses his lips and his cheeks go red, such is the effort of my 10-year-old angel to contain the evil I have exposed him to. The youngest remembers something else and giggles again. “Also, in this one bit, this girl is on a zip line, and she does wees on everyone under her.” Okay, great. Not ideal but perhaps one of the safer takeaways from the movie. I explain that the ‘girl’ is in fact a woman, Jada Pinkett Smith, and in real life she’s married to one of their favourite TV characters, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. “Oh!” says the elder, now warmed up. “There’s something else…” He exchanges a sly glance with his brother. “Grapefruit!” they both exclaim in fits of laughter. I decide that is a conversation best saved for another day.
PLAYING SNAP
Selfies with your little one not quite cutting it? Bam Bam Kids is a new Auckland-based venture here to bring polish to your family album. The idea came to life when stylist Rachel Morton, who was the art director and fashion editor at Fashion Quarterly for over a decade, and photographer Olivia Kirkpatrick joined forces to take portraits of their own kids. The duo has since lent their expert touch to cool snaps of children aged between two and 10 years. The results are as cute as they are chic. Email bambamportraits@gmail.com for pricing and availability.