It's funny how some subjects you would never before have read about in a punk fanzine are now becoming run-of-the-mill column topics. What with yet another infant arrival on the (not too distant) horizon, there's a rumour going about that the name of this here mag is about to be changed to Nappy House, with a split issue with Mother and Baby in the pipeline… Heh, heh. I'm really quite stoked actually, as being a punk rock mother is a lonely business. The two worlds have never really collided well. I mean, you look out of place amongst the floral Laura Ashley frocks and sensible shoes at the baby clinic (Queers tees and wallet chains have yet to become key items in the average mom's wardrobe), yet on the other hand how many punkers wish to discuss the absorbency of diapers when there's a new Groovie Ghoulies alb out to spin? It all seems to be changing though; meeting up with friends at gigs, the conversation tends to run along the lines of " Is Billie walking yet?"; letters from zinesters and Stinkie customers nearly always contain a "PS - say hi to Bills for me"; sheesh, babies were even the main topic of discussion when my boyfriend Dave and I interviewed Dr Frank last month! I don't know, what's happening? Is there something in the water?

So, being partly responsible for a big (10llbs 8oz) part of this punk rock baby boom, I read Rick's column in the last issue with most interest. It basically summed up everything I was feeling this time last year, when Dave and I were going through the whole scary business of Becoming Parents…. And it is a really scary business, believe me! I found myself pregnant at the age of seventeen, and before that, my sole concept of responsibility had been limited to feeding the hamster every day, and cleaning it's cage out every once in a while. And then , when that blue line appears in the pee test, and you're suddenly responsible for another tiny, fragile human life, that's it, life is never the same again. Suddenly , you're old. In that second it's goodbye to lie-ins on Sunday mornings, free time, spare money, drinking all night (most of the fun stuff, basically - only kidding!). It grows you up in a split second - it makes you seriously rethink all your attitudes to life, that's for sure.

I think one of the main points of my adjustment after Billie's birth was realising how much I had previously taken my own mom and dad for granted. Unless you yourself have been in the position where you are totally responsible for another human being, I doubt you'll ever appreciate just how much your parents do for you, believe me! Being a parent is harder than any job you could think of, and it takes such a lot of determination and patience - and there's no pay, no time off. You've got the flu? Tough, there's still nappies to change and bottles to fix… I'm raising this child of mine on my own now, so I can empathise with my own parents a whole lot more, and now I can see for myself it's no easy task to be a parent…And if you think it is, try being a parent sometime, see how long you last.

It's still kinda strange to think that I am someone's mother, and one day Billie (and any future babes) will turn around and whinge at me because he can't stay out 'til 3am, or whatever. A few other columnists have touched on the subject of Growing Up in recent issues, and uh, I guess this is my two pence worth. I can't think of anything more sobering than to be seventeen years old and know that already you're somebody's boring out-of-touch parents! To tell you the truth, I don't feel nineteen years old at all. Whereas your average nineteen year old is going out and having fun and thinking about leaving home, I'm reading Spot The Dog books and changing hideous poo-filled diapers. Not that I'm complaining at all…It seems that all the things I once thought important as a free and single lass no longer mean that much to me at all. Even the way I dress has changed - jeans and sneakers are the norm now (have you ever tried running after a toddler hell-bent on destruction wearing kitten-heel shoes?!), I no longer go out and spend forty pounds a time on stacks of books (mostly because I'll never get the free time to read them in). You change, things change. But for the better, no doubt about it. What's all that compared to the joys of playing rubber duckies in the bath tub with my gorgeous little son?

Reading other people's thoughts on the whole Growing Up thing - their reluctance to act responsible and settle down, and stuff like that - is pretty interesting. And yea, I guess I can see where they're coming from, 'cause who wants to be a bloody boring grown up when there are zines to write, gigs to go to, beers to down? But it's something I wish I could be feeling sometimes. Sometimes I do kinda wonder what my life would be like if I didn't get pregnant so young. It's kinda ironic , really; me, being the youngest -but-one columnist for Happy House, yet I've already gone through what a lot of other, older columnists are dreading. They reckon the grass is greener on the other side, but sometimes it would be nice to dread growing up.

To be frank, I think I did a lot of growing up way before I should have. I didn't exactly have a Brady Bunch childhood; I pretty much found myself in a position where I didn't have the choice between goofing off and being a kid, or taking on responsibility and growing up. Uh, I kinda saw a lot of bad things when I was a kid, and well, I guess I just didn't have your average childhood. And I was really bitter towards my mom and dad for a couple of years, I was just so angry, because they kinda messed up in some ways raising me and my sisters. But now, being a parent myself , I've sorta found this empathy for them. They tried. My mom was kinda depressed for a long time, and my dad has some mental health problems, so everything was against them from the start, but they tried, and I can see that now, whereas two years ago all I knew was I was hurting really bad because of their actions. But I don't hate them like I used to think I did. I still haven't spoken to my dad for a long time, gosh it must be over two years now, but I don't think I ever could again because so much stuff has happened that would just get in the way of any possible relationship, and anyway, he just doesn't feel like my dad any more. I kinda learnt how to be a parent to myself, even though I will admit I wish I'd just had a normal peanut butter and barbie dolls kinda childhood, and that they were still about to hate the colours of my hair and lecture me about staying out 'til all hours. The ironic thing is, I don't think I'd have Billie now if it wasn't for the fact that I left home and went to live with my boyfriend - fate, eh?

I think maybe something good can come out of my childhood; if I can remember the mistakes my parents made when they were raising me, and how I felt when they messed up by me, then I know not to make those same mistakes, and if I do I'll be able to understand how Billie's feeling because I've been there before. Of course, I'll do my damnest to make sure that I will be the best mom I possibly can, and that all Billie and his brothers and sisters (if he has any - right, Dave?!) will have to moan about is the fact he can't stay out late/sniff glue/ whatever. I guess I'm a lot more focused now, where my family is concerned, I've rebuilt bridges with my mother and my sisters thanks to Billie, and well, even having another baby is something I'm looking forward to doing when I'm older. Yeah, I'm still the same old unorganised, scatty kid, but my life has one solid goal now, and that's to raise this baby up good. You grow older in your head, and nothing's really the same any more, so whereas I still have my writing, my music, my mailorder, and all the same hopes and dreams as before, I now have a family, and obviously that's the most important thing of all.

None of this has absolutely anything to do with punk rock. In fact, none of this will mean much to you at all. But it means something to me, and this is my column, after all. So there.

Before I go, congratulations to Rick and Sam on their expectancy! Now I will no longer be the only one at gigs with a little blob of baby spew resting on the shoulder of my tee. Oh, and my sister Kizzy is preggers too, so congratulations to her also. Goddamn, there's a baby invasion on! 'Til next time,

Laccie.