Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

recent posts

about

  • A Noisy Fanny Speaks for Herself

     

    So, you’re pregnant. Or maybe you’ve already had three babies, each one exiting through your vagina. Perhaps you’ve c-sectioned two little ones, and reading this might cause you to intake some air, loudly. No matter which of these categories you fit into or not, we need to talk about a secret little topic which has been overlooked at mum’s group. Not even mention of your pelvic floor rehabilitation exercises gives this topic room to air…it’s the inconspicuous yet illustrious fanny fart. 

    The medical term for this unwelcome occurrence is vaginal flatulence, and studies quote that a highly variable number of women experience it. Hmm…it’s the topic flying under the radar, despite the fact that as much as 69% of us are well acquainted with it. Many women hear their vaginas contributing in random situations: For some of us a little air escapes during our morning yoga class and we’re scared to attempt a three-legged downward dog ever again. Others become wary of simply moving from sitting to standing at a coffee date, for fear of setting free what sounds remarkably like an actual fart and being judged by one and all. 

    Technically, a chattering vulva occurs when the integrity of vaginal wall tissue has been compromised – usually after a superstar feat such as the vaginal birth of a baby or two. The valve-like structure at the entrance to the vagina allows air to freely venture in while the woman is at rest, which seems fine, right? But here’s the catch. That same gateway closes with movement, trapping air inside the vaginal canal. With activity, the abdominal and pelvic pressures increase, and air is expelled through the closed entryway, much like air escaping through a musical wind instrument. Voilà! Your vagina now not only produces babies, it is also an in-built French horn which toots whenever it feels the need. 

    Obstetrics and Gynaecology Fellow at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney Doctor Sarika Gupta states that interestingly, younger women of reproductive age and slimmer women are more susceptible to a noisy giney because pelvic floor muscle strength is lower in this group overall. This is likely due to the youngsters believing they have a “ good pelvic floor” and not routinely engaging in pelvic floor strengthening exercises, particularly after childbirth. As if the thought of a human leaving the womb via a teeny tiny hole wasn’t enough to handle, this such action is the very provoking factor to a chatty fanny. In childbirth, 75% of women undergo perineal tissue damage, which usually requires getting stitched back up to keep everything in. And then, the pelvic floor exercises need to become habitual in order to repair the ruins and keep the varting on the low-low. 

    Worrying about keeping our insides inside is another fear inducing concept that we’ve all thought about before birthing a little person. Women who give birth to a big baby, have an instrumental delivery or shoot out multiples are at higher risk of developing a prolapse – where part or all of the vagina heads downtown. Those who experience this have a lot more work to do on the recovery side of things, and some even need surgery to replace everything properly. Unfortunately, ladies in one or more of these situations are more likely to experience vaginal wind, as the tissues in that area are weakened with such an injury. Sheesh! 

    All of this goes hand in hand with pelvic floor function and is all too familiar to pregnant mum of two, Emma Muskett. After two uncomplicated natural births, her vaginal back wall has prolapsed, and the fanny farts are real. For Emma, they are most obvious during everyday movement – so much so that she has employed some little tricks to try and evade awkward situations where friends and strangers might think she’s passing wind. “I try and do a movement, kind of like rock in my chair before getting up, to maybe get it out before standing. This sometimes works!” Kudos to Emma, she hasn’t let the queefing impact her quality of life. She still goes out despite its prominent occurrence in her everyday routines. She remains vigilant, however, to use these little techniques to keep the flatulence at bay. 

    Not every woman has the confidence that Emma has, however. Doctor Gupta says that actually, most studies indicate that vaginal flatulence causes considerable distress that leads to a severe decrease in quality of life. But again, almost all of us are ignoring the presence of it. The limited data available suggests that the majority of women do not seek medical help for flatulence alone, due to embarrassment or shame. That’s one huge reason there isn’t a whole lot of chit chat about it! Here we are, experiencing a loss of our libido, with the thought of a fart-sound making itself known at exactly the wrong moment, while others in the Queef-Club are reporting social isolation due to the insecurities associated with emitting wind in public. So, what can we do about it? 

    Targeted physiotherapy is most often the first line of management for tackling vaginal wind. This sort of physio improves the integrity of the muscles and tissues of the pelvic floor, which then translates into narrowing of the entrance, thus preventing that valve from forming and limiting air from being trapped. Bam! Failing this, ladies, we also have the option of placing an object in the vagina such as a tampon or pessary, like a little piece of hidden treasure. This would fill up the vault space and prevent air from entering and getting trapped. Our in-built wind instrument would sing no more. 

    Thank goodness there are ways and means we can tackle this problem. And the first step? Let’s talk about it. We don’t have to continue doing yoga in our living rooms forever, girls! It might take some courage to address, but the upside will be downward dogs and shoulder stands with our vaginas remaining forever silent, and the confidence to leave the house for normal tasks restored. Nobody should be afraid of bending down in the supermarket aisle. And the best thing about it: you can begin right now. In and up, ladies! 

    ——-

    An altered version of this feature article was published on Essential Baby, here

    References: 

    Jeffery S, Franco A & Fynes M. Vaginal wind—the cube pessary as a solution? International Journal of Urogynaecology, 2007 

    Neels H et al. Vaginal wind: a literature review. European Journal of Obstetrics & Gynaecology and Reproductive Biology, 2017 

    Krissi H, Medina C & Stanton S. Vaginal wind—a new pelvic symptom. International Journal of Urogynaecology, 2013 

    Hsu S. Vaginal wind—a treatment option. International Journal of Urogynaecology, 2007 

    Contributors: Doctor Sarika Gupta, Obstetrics and Gynaecology Fellow at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, MBBS, MIPH, MRANZCOG, PhD (Usyd) Illustrations by Sarika Gupta 

    Case Study: Emma Muskett

    Others: Emma Grant and Brit Jollife and Women’s Health Specialist Samantha Craddock 

    http://www.essentialbaby.com.au/pregnancy/pregnancy-health/vaginal-wind-the-embarrassing-condition-no-one-wants-to-talk-about-20210429-h1vjd0

  • undone | a poem

    I’ve lost my way.

    There’s been too much thinking going on.

    I’ve been misled; believing that planning to write would get me writing.

    “Planning” has kept me away from the pen, the keypad, the notebook. Because a plan begins with an idea, and an idea could come from anywhere.

    But thinking too hard has interrupted my natural flow, and now I’m stuck with nothing.

  • outside the binary.

    Recently, a man was at the park with his two kids and dog. After a brief chat, he commented to his kids that he liked my son’s hair (the top knot). For some reason this urge to explain his hair style has overcome me lately; perhaps there is something inside my brain that believes that the explanation warrants the style: somehow making it acceptable for a little boy to A.have long hair and B.wear it tied up. I pursued this path with my clarification, and followed it with something akin to: everybody assumes he is a girl, though he really does have quite a boyish face.

    This man in the park with his two kids and dog then said to me, “I know what you mean. This is my son” with a flourish of his left hand he gestured the child next to him. My eyes darted to the child I had already seen and chatted with and then back to the father. I thought this man was having a laugh, playing some sort of sick joke with the little girl next to him. He was delighting in the protagonist role in some sort of weird “let’s freak out the mums at the park” satire. To express that I didn’t know what to say would be false because I didn’t even get so far as to consider a response. All that I actually managed to sputter was, “really?” Even the boy nodded in my direction.

    The child in question looked every bit the stereotype of a grade 3 girl. He had long, blonde hair swept to one side in a low ponytail. He was wearing a pair of earrings in the lower lobe, identical to his sister: little dangling stars. The sky blue school uniform shirt was the same as his sister, and he was wearing navy tights with tiny sparkles all over them. He had a lovely face, freckles and deep dimples highlighting the smile of an innocent child.

    At that moment, I thought I was a fairly unassuming person. I thought that my education, my career choices and the “seeing the world” I’ve done had played a part in shaping my understanding of the world. I realised though, very quickly and shockingly, that in fact the society we live in has simply shaped my perception of gender in the way that it wants me to comprehend. Girl equals this, this and this and boy equals the opposite. This notion is embedded in fixed patterns that we expose our children to from the moment of conception onward and is perpetuated by most people. It’s the whole “pink is for girls, blue is for boys,” put simply.

    Prior to this occurrence at the park, I listened to a podcast which warped my present understanding of what gender is. I thought that there were two genders: male and female, and I was surprised to hear that Science disagrees. Not every body fits into the binary; with the biological makeup of the body (sex) aligning with the social expectations associated with it (gender). For as long as history has determined, our society has set the rules for the gender binary. It is both prescriptive and proscriptive, meaning those individuals who develop two X chromosomes are expected to fit into the category of “woman” by identifying, acting and developing the body of a “woman” and those with X and Y chromosomes do the same with expectations to act in line with masculine stereotypes.

    There is another classification that occurs naturally for a person, for which our society has long ignored or tried to change. Known in circles today as intersex, the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights defines this “category” as:

    “Intersex is an umbrella term used to describe a wide range of innate bodily variations of sex characteristics.
    Intersex people are born with physical sex characteristics (such as sexual anatomy, reproductive organs, hormonal patterns and/or chromosomal patterns) that do not fit typical definitions for male or female bodies.”

    The podcast, “My Body, My Podcast” hosted by Elizabeth Banks is beyond informative and eye opening. She interviews Pidgeon Pagonis – intersex activist, writer and artist, who themselves experienced a confusing childhood, within which their truth was concealed by medical professionals in order to try and squeeze them into a predetermined category: one of the gender binaries. My mind was blown; I really had no idea firstly about the traits of an intersex person, nor the struggles endured by someone navigating an unconventional life in a conventional society.

    Over recent years, representation of people who fall outside of the gender binary has grown in the public sphere. The LGBTQ+ community is alive and well, and with a growing general presence and flourishing confidence in the media, people like me are challenged to question the internal biases we’ve been raised to believe are the status quo. And so we should. I can only envisage the heartache and challenge of daily life when you feel that you’re one thing but you’re being told you’re another, and the question of who you really are is constant and unanswered. The way our rule makers attempt to bring order to what could be a chaotic world is through creating distinctions between girls and boys. But these lines of distinction enforce inner turmoil for those who cannot adhere to them, and that just isn’t just.

    About three weeks ago, my four year old boy asked me two questions. The first one, seeming to have come simply from a pondering and curious mind was: “what happens when a girl and a girl love each other?” My response was this. “When a girl and a girl love each other, they can live together if they want to, they can get married if they want to, and (with the help of science) they can make a baby if they want to.” Locking eyes with my husband, the question was whether this answer was okay. My son’s second question was: “what happens when a boy and a boy love each other?” and I acknowledged the query in a similar way, recognising that if two boys want to have a baby, they need the help of a female body. I didn’t go into further detail, though I’m certainly not afraid to do so.

    It seems that recently, my exposure to the topic of gender binaries and all the very many subcategories which fall inside, outside and all around, has increased. I am happy to feel somewhat disarmed by this, because my reaction means that I’m open to learning. My mind is not glued into position and reluctant to modify ideals. My kids are going to grow up knowing everything there is to know, so that if the time ever came that either of them was in a position where their own identity was compromised, or even that of a friend…they would know that it’s safe to ask, it’s safe to express, and being who you want to be is acceptable without judgement.

    I am glad that the situation at the park made me feel awkward and wrong. It’s not okay to make an assumption about a person’s sex or gender thus place them in a category that doesn’t fit with their choices. My reaction should not have been so stark, and I see now that I need to actively shift the stereotypes which line the seams of my mind, so that future encounters might be tended to differently. Diversity is intriguing, and intrigue is a magical thing.

  • difficult people | a prompt

    It can take some serious strength of character to handle a difficult person with compassion, but what can sometimes happen if it’s done well is the total subversion of a tentatively terrible situation. Recognition of The Ego in oneself and then the ability to quieten it must first occur, so that you don’t feel the rush to get back at the person giving you grief. Then, you can depart with satisfaction that you didn’t also lose your shit.

    The other day, I attempted to reason with and assist a man (who was being VERY difficult) to help him realise, politely, that he was in the wrong. He had been stationary whilst I began a three point reverse park into a ‘parents with prams’ car space. This elderly man went just a little short of psycho with the assumption that I was a thief, robbing him of his car spot on this Tuesday morning. I ceased moving, blocked three or four cars from passing and buzzed my window down.

    Irately, he claimed that the car spot, clearly indicated among a row of signs with a human figure and a stroller, was his. I calmly replied that no, sir, have a look. I gestured to the signs and informed him that these spots were for parents with children in tow. “I”M AN INVALID!!!” he screamed at me, syllabic emphasis made obvious with his British accent, spittle surely raining down his window panel and steering wheel. I signalled to the five or six empty disabled spots further along. Apparently, these weren’t suitable.

    Composure retained, I replied again. I told him that he could have the spot despite not being entitled to it and I followed that cordially with the words, “just because you’re an ‘invalid’ doesn’t mean you have to be an arsehole!” I pressed the button to close my window and drove serenely away, releasing the flow of traffic which had been impeded by this comical car park episode.

    In front of my four year old, I was content with my dealings of this difficult, self righteous specimen. I allowed him his victory but hopefully stung his stinking attitude with a taste of virtuous honesty. Despite having a strong sense of compassion and empathy, I won’t be walked over for no good reason, nor will I teach my son to bow down to acrimony. When you’re right, you’re right and when you’re wrong, you’re wrong. Knowing both sides is fundamental to developing into a “good” person and living a happy life.

    I hope that gentlemen’s cup of tea burnt his wretched tongue.

  • self talk | a prompt

    The bridge to happiness and contentment in life can depend almost entirely on the colour of language that forms in one part of the brain and is received in another.

    Self Talk is the modern name for the little jabber jabber chattering on your shoulder, dictating your every move, reviewing your decisions past and present and sometimes playing the role that represents a relative of Lucifer – the one you don’t get along with.

    Many of us listen with resolution to this voice, allowing the words to infiltrate and activate our existence, no matter the flavour. Few of us realise that in fact, the fragrance of the word tones emitted and accepted are defined by our very own consciousness.

    It can be hard goddamn work to tell yourself one thing when your cells are working in unison to spread fake news about another. It turns out though, that the catalogue of words which filters through the back of our eyes and decorates the daily mood weather, can have an impressive impact on how we actually show up to our day. Self talk can inflict a sense of elation if you want it to, or it can bring you smack down into the crevasse of a chronic depressive…if you want it to.

    Knowing this, the choice to make really shouldn’t be a difficult one. So let’s just cut the bull shit and get it done. Positive self talk that is going to progress our lives is what we all need. Give power to yourself.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
          How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate,
          I am the captain of my soul.

    -William Ernest Henley

  • morning sex (a prompt)

    It used to be a regular occurrence. Three or four times a week, the day would begin wrapped within the flesh of the other. From deep sleep the journey to surface involved one hand sleepily, slowly feeling the outer thigh of another with one nose to the other’s neck, warm breath and warming loins in preparation to greet the other, good morning, beautiful human.

    Both still technically asleep but that was the depth of the bond between them; waking or sleeping state, they had to be fused together for love and ecstasy.

    She would dream of him all the time, his firmness pushing against her as he too dreamt of only her touch. It was difficult to know what was real but it was always possible to make vivid what had actually played out in the realm of deep sleep, once the day had broken and it was time to rise and live.

    Now, things are different. There is more than one male figure in the bed, and two extra bodies between them separate their physicality. No, the mornings no longer belong to this couple whose connection still causes the heart to flutter. Having children will do that, apparently. Goodbye for now, morning sex!

  • memories of a baby

    The roundness of his cheek in stillness proves that nothing exists, more pure, than a sleeping baby.

    The soft, cushioned pads of his little fingers. His hands move with innate purpose, feeling the curve of my jaw in the darkness and the security of a breast through pyjamas. His tongue clicks and his tiny jaw dances forward and back as he seeks comfort with a thumb in his mouth. The way his fine blonde hair flicks with the beginnings of wholesome curls and his coming to understand that those wisps are a part of him, on his head and belonging to his body.

    The smell of him in every instance. After breakfast when it’s butter from toast, mid morning when it’s fresh with winter air and soil from his escapades outside. Mid afternoon when it’s milk from a bottle or the evening; his small body washed and ready to rest. Inhaling these many scents is vital…before they change, before the fragrance of his babyhood is lost forever and replaced by another impressionable bouquet, from another time and far far away from what is right now.

    His naked body is unashamedly sublime in all its plumpness and covered by a skin surely thread by angels. Running fingers over the rolls covering his arms and legs, I ponder the tautness of the muscle these bumps are sure to become.

    His voice; the babble which day by day is becoming more coherent, a bittersweet harbinger of growth but which for now remains at the sweetest pitch. Knowing that one day this very voice will break as he passes through the arches of manhood and the baby in my arms will be a long distant memory is unbearable and unbelievable: perception of presence in every moment right now is crucial, my heart and mind concur.

    One day, the weight of him – at times heavy on my hip and cumbersome with managing more than just holding him, will be too much to carry. The smallness of his body and the way in which it moulds to mine will fit no longer; likely more so that he will exceed my form, towering over my ageing figure as he embraces me with tables having turned.

    He will choose his clothing; the seams woven in the cotton explaining the storyline of his young life. He will dress himself; help with socks and laces but a hindrance to his independence. He will move his body with intuition; the funny experimental gestures he entertains now having become cemented into the cells that make him up.

    The fairness of his wispy hair will thicken and darken and I can only hope that he retains the delicate curl of a very young child. The photos will be all that exist to prove what once was…and the memory.

    He will act with intention, his words thoughtfully structured into sentences with the deepest of feeling behind them and the sweetness of baby’s chatter forgotten; alas for the little moments passing another child in the aisle of a supermarket or on the street in spring time.

    He will make choices based upon reason and hopefully instinct will guide him; a beacon of light in moments of darkness he will no doubt venture into alone. With hope in my heart I envisage him coming to me; a mother’s counsel incomparable and ceaselessly sought.

    Now, it’s not possible to deny his primordial desire for proximity and how could you. For even with the knowing that the nighttime brings a fear felt only by those who have visited the enclosing walls of a mind unslept; even then the bond of a mother stands unyielding. A dose of courage is taken daily, alongside a quiet reminder that one day, all of this will remain only as a collection of memories, pieced together by fragments of colour photographs and conversations of how things once were.

    You would think that these intimate moments, filled with subtle poignancy and corporeal closeness would remain clasped safely in the chambers of a mother’s heart for all time. But the mind is an evolving species. Fluttering wings in new climates force the feathers to adapt: the memories become a part of the mechanism that enable the instrument to function. Though the minute particulars of the sensory experience slip sadly and quietly from the mind, they are forever etched into the soul.

  • Holly Clark: an AWC assignment

    “…arms come up, and exhale.” Through the slit of her left eye and with her nose wrinkled, she sneaks a peek at the laptop screen and wonders for the hundredth time if she’s doing the posture right. She’s alone in the room, inhibitions as dormant as the desire to continue with her scheduled zoom meetings for the afternoon. Living through the corona virus lockdown in Victoria has helped Holly realise two things: 1. yoga is better without other bodies to accidentally fall on and 2. she wants to be a writer.

    Holly Clark is the sort of woman you can picture nestled in a cosy cafe, cappuccino cup empty but notebook stuffed as she drafts her third journal entry for the day. At this stage, journal entries are coming out as thick as her newly feathered eyebrows – her longstanding desire to have them done finally won up against the cost. After all, she has been impassively earning a living within the marketing and public relations arena for too long to not spend a bit of that hard earned cash on herself.

    The desire to make some bank was the drive behind Holly’s choice to divert from her original path. She studied journalism at Uni and was always an ambitious student – writing her 24000 word thesis on the hashtag ‘clean-eating’ and body image representation was a simple task. She strode toward a career in writing with intention and the feedback on her thesis confirmed that choice. But alas, Holly fell into the trap that captures many graduates; work for money, not for love. She slid into a job doing marketing with a tech start up, which ticked all the boxes except the one labelled “passion.”

    The work was enjoyable enough and in this role she certainly learned a lot. Interestingly, Holly was the sole female employee for the entire two years of work there – qualifying the stereotype that we need more gender diversity in the technology sector. This might have been a novelty for the friendly geeks, but sharing a unisex toilet certainly wasn’t. Their attempt at embracing gender diversity outside of work was endearing, though “they didn’t even have enough females to run a mixed netball team.” Holly laughs as she says this – indicative of her affable personality and making it easy to believe that she made “some really strong friendships that remain today.” Her extroverted nature and full face of perfectly applied makeup was not misplaced in this male-dominated-tech-nerd workplace. “I taught them social graces and they taught me to code!” Pretty cool.

    Now, Holly’s competency in communications translates through her work as a manager within a program that brings startups and government together to solve a variety of social challenges. The work is gratifying. She likes being the bridge between different worlds and as a woman previously in tech, Holly finds joy in bringing innovation from that space into the public sector. In the last 12 months however, things changed for Holly as well as the rest of the world. She became conscious of her deeply outgoing nature, and decided that working from home was not her thing. The social gatherings at the water station were non-existent as she refilled her bottle at the kitchen sink, and her exercise routine – once a stop in at the local boxing gym, cancelled altogether. Instead, the end of her day alone saw the closing of her laptop, a quick search for her joggers and the selection of a terrifying crime thriller audiobook, in order to make her run faster.

    Horrifying crime thriller audiobooks are not the only thing that scare Holly. Despite being a proficient writer with a distinctive and amusing tone, Holly has been reticent in sharing the words she writes in her personal time. Recently however, those paragraphs have begun to make the rounds through friends and family with positive reception. As she comes to her fourth week of completing a feature writing course, her confidence to serve the world with her expressive genius will no doubt grow.