By Anna Bowness
I wasn’t being objective or disinterested when I devised the theme of this issue. I was, at the time of its conception, already starting to grow out of my pants and to sense something wiggly and earthshattering in my abdomen. The idea of “family,” already fraught with controversy and intrigue for me, was taking on even more weight and becoming even more confusing, so I decided to sort out my issues in here.
I still don’t feel any better prepared for what’s about to befall me-or fall out of me-but it does seem like I’m in better company than I thought. Audrey Gagnon’s feature, “Radical Mamas and the Naptime Revolution,” suggests, to my great relief, that there may actually be more to having babies than sleeplessness and poo. The insights and advice of some of the contributors in “Nuclear Testing” give me hope that I don’t have to become selfless, weary and uncool the minute my kid is born. The very fact that several BP staffers have turned into parents in the last few years (music section editor Terence Dick, subscriptions manager Tara Gordon, and venerable publisher and huckster Hal Niedzviecki) means I’m entering an OK demographic. It also means the rest of the BP staff should check their birth control.
The chicken-shaped object you see in the photograph is my future son or daughter, and my excuse for bailing on Canzine this year. He or she is scheduled to come slithering out, slimy, coneheaded, and bewildered, sometime shortly after the release of this issue. I’ll be concentrating on him or her for a while, so you, dear audience, will have to contend with the editorial caprices of Lindsay Gibb, who will be standing in for me. Lindsay has been running the film section for the past few issues, has lots of magazine savvy, is smart and appropriately indie-minded, and seems to have no intention to reproduce any time soon.
So long for now. I’ll be back when I realize just how hard it is to live without a paycheque.