The countdown is on...

With around three weeks to go until my giant stomach magically metamorphoses into a tiny human, I can't help feeling a little whimsical. Bear with me - yes, I have held non-stop tirades about burgeoning bellies and boobs, but I am a sentimental creature at heart (many was the time when, invited to a matric dance where I knew absolutely no one except my date, I would stand weeping over the canapes, overcome by sadness that everyone was going their seperate ways). And so I find myself reminiscing over the various milestones of my bump:

1) The first time the baby moved so violently it made my clothes jump. To say that I was alarmed is an understatement. We were sitting on the couch at the time; all of a sudden, my shirt made a movement as if ten chihuahuas had been stuffed inside it and had gone to war. My husband - an unabashed Earth Father type - looked at me as if I had just replaced Einstein's theory of relativity with a far more accurate model, and started a vigorous bout of stomach rubbing. I, on the other hand, could not believe that parts of my body had developed St Vitus Dance, and started an equally vigorous beating on my stomach, trying to squash the baby back into place. I think this is why it clearly already loves its dad much more than its mother - my husband has only to place a gentle hand on my stomach and inevitably a tiny bum or leg goes swimming up towards it. He is the fetus whisperer.

2) Antenatal classes. Again, James proved himself the superdad while I proved that not all Jewish women are born with an innate 'Yiddishe mama' instinct. Take the baby bath incident, for example. Apparently, it was an enormous treat for us to watch a real live baby having its bath. At least, all other members of the class thought so, as their squeals of delight and rabid grabs for the poor infant's legs seemed to indicate. I, on the other hand, looked at the baby's wizened, prune-like face - it looked remarkably like the love child of the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland and my grandfather - and heard its cries, and felt as if I was watching a horror movie. Since my policy on horrors is: don't watch them, you're inviting evil into the home, I sensibly went to sit down and check Facebook statuses on my phone instead. James can now bath everything from prawns to baby elephants, while I start rocking backwards and forwards and making a strange keening sound when I see baby soap.

There was one time when James let the side down, though: we were watching a slideshow on what to expect from your newborn, and were shown a picture of the first dirty nappy. For the uninitiated, meconium (the first pooh) is a highly effective form of contraception. Picture a blend of crude oil, bovril and tar, and you're about 50% there. While everyone else made a polite grimace at the sight, James made an audible gagging sound and uttered a cry of 'sweet Jesus' before burying his head in my shoulder and whimpering softly for the rest of the lesson. The jury is still out on who, exactly, is going to be changing nappies in our family.

Still, even this did not dent his popularity in the same way as my introduction to the class pre-empted any chance of my forging friendships with the other expectant parents: As we went around the circle, expounding on our excitement about our hatchlings, I all of a sudden could not stop myself from blurting an admission of the fear that had overtaken me since my last scan, where I had finally caught a glimpse of my baby's face. Instead of looking sweetly cherubic, I couldn't help but notice that it was ferociously nashing its toothless gums together and tossing its head from side to side, looking for all the world like it was snarling and growling at me. It looked nothing like an innocent baby and more like a furious Rottweiler, or Hannibal Lector catching a wift of underdone fillet. Can you imagine how the thought of breastfeeding makes me feel? Thus, while all the other moms spoke happily about their due dates, I weepily confessed that I believe my child has plans to eat me alive.

3) The first time I woke myself snoring. I have never been a snorer. Many is the night when I have laid awake pondering the unfairness of being caught between my husband's pig-like oinkings and the slightly more gentle puffing of our Jack Russells. Alas, no longer do I have the moral highground. The first time I was aware of my new nocturnal habit was when I fell asleep in front of TV, and was startled awake by a sound like a hog being viciously slaughtered. "What? Who - me?" I asked in sleepy surprise. "Yes," said James gently. "I didn't want to tell you but you have been snoring for months now." Reluctant though I may have been to believe him, the proof is incontrovertible - just last weekend I actually kept myself awake with a repertoire of moos, chokes, snorkles, sighs and snuffles that would make the most experienced woodwind orchestra proud.

Of course, there have also been myriad life-changing moments that I will cherish forever. There was the thrill of watching my early scans, where a jelly baby - a real diminutive human being; but not just any human being, MY human being - turned somersaults and waved a tiny hand, showing delightful signs of outgoing friendluness right from the start. There was the joy of phoning my mom so that she could hear her grandchild's heartbeat, and listening to her tearing up as she became better acquainted with the newest member of her family. The look of awe on my husband's face as he watches my stomach grow and imagines the little person inside there. And most of all, the second we heard our child's heartbeat for the very first time - as he describes it, the moment when a vacuum we never knew existed suddenly became flooded with an incredibly powerful love.

So, Baby Witepski Cloete, here is to the next three weeks until your grand arrival. We can't wait to welcome you!

What's in a name - Part 2

Since yesterday's post, I have been thinking a lot about names.

Having been born with an Eastern European tonguetwister of a surname, I've always been fascinated by other people's nomenclatures. I absolutely love my unusual name - we're the only family in South Africa to have it, and in fact, even though I've done a search in the phone books of every town I've travelled to, I've never been able to find anyone else with it. I love that it speaks of an entire family history - it's taken directly from the town the family originally hailed from in what's now Belarus, and it travelled with my various ancestors as they traversed Europe, avoiding programs and Holocausts, until we landed here - a mining town on the southern tip of Africa that's as far from a snow-covered shtetl as one could get.

There's also a spiteful part of me that simply loves hearing people chewing on it like a piece of steak that's too big to fit in their mouths - even though it has a respectable ratio of vowels to consonants (until other surnames from the same region) and is essentially phonetic. It's especially fun to hear call centre agents wrestle with it. In this case, rather than helping them out by saying "just call me by my first name", I listen to them labour over all three syllables like a remedial six-year-old struggling to learn to read.

My great love of my surname is the reason why I didn't change it when I got married. Also, I felt a little peeved having to swap my distinctive name for one that is a dime a dozen in South Africa. I have tried, rather unsuccessfully, to double barrel it. The combination of Jewish and Afrikaans just doesn't sound right - it's like Abromowitz-Van Jaarsveld or Rosenberg-Labuschagne. Doesn't have quite the same ring as Norwood-Young, does it. The result that is that I sound like a new South Africa type law firm - we have the Jewish, we have the Afrikaans, we just need a Zulu partner. People don't even try hide their amusement - the other day, my doctor's receptionist, making an appointment, blatantly sniggered as she said, "Just listen to this patient's surname".

Which is why I love watching the end credits of movies, which present a real opportunity to find names freakish and fabulous. The Olympics was another grand occasion for me, for the same reason - hedre was an entire globe full of people with weird and wonderful tags. My personal favourite was a competitor in the hurdles, whose surname was Stumblova. Another athlete was called Smellie - how's that for unfortunate. And as for the swimmer, Rebecca Poon - enough said. Actually, maybe I have just one more thing to say. I have a friend called June, and if she were to marry Rebecca's brother, the results would be hilarious. Oh, and how could I forget the Chinese contendor Ding Ling who plays - guess what? Ping Pong.

What's in a name

I hate to be the Name Nazi, but I really think people should be more careful about what they call things. For example, I just saw a group buying special for a dental company called The Big Red Tooth.

My own personal preference would be to visit a dental practice without a snazzy name; I have no requirements beyond that the word 'Doctor' appear somewhere on a brass plaque. Dentists kind of sell themselves - when you need one, you'll go, so any kind of fancy branding or quirky naming is probably unnecessary.

But I feel Big Red Tooth is particularly unfortunate. It make me picture a giant, suppurating gum leaking gingivitis. Would I have root canal done there? Only if I wanted to walk out with my own big red spill of blood dribbling down my chin. Just a thought.

Exercise excess

I am completely wracked with guilt tonight - the guilt you have when it's been a day of milk tart and carrot cake, and you turn down your one chance at redemption. Yes, I skipped my exercise class.

The thing is, I find it really difficult to dredge up enthusiasm for my special pregnancy classes. I'm always surprised that I actually enjoy exercise. I'm not the kind of person that's built for it:  my head turns into a giant red spongy mass after 20 minutes of exertion and actually swells, often one and a half times its size, making working out something that's best left as a solitary - ahem - exercise. Nor am I very coordinated. To say that I am unathletic is to say that the female javelin throwers at the Olympics were meaty. That's probably why I was always the very last girl chosen for PT teams at school. If it was a choice between me and the girl who had BO, one eye and webbed feet, she would have gone first (I justify this by thinking she would have been really good in the swimming relays).

Nonetheless, I truly do love exercising. I love that whole feeling of pushing yourself and feeling yourself become stronger and fitter, until it feels like you can do absolutely anything, and people look at you admiringly in the Pick n Pay parking lot as you effortlessly sling 10kg bags of dog food over your shoulder.

This is not the feeling I get in my pregnancy exercise classes. One of the reasons for this is because I look so hideously undignified. The puce, sweaty face which is my usual exercise hallmark would be a dream compared to the spectacle I have seen in the class mirrors: If Picasso had had a round period, it would have been inspired by me. There I sit, my giant round belly as large as the giant round exercise ball on which I am precariously perched, like an obese fairy balancing on a misformed toadstool. Then comes my round bosom, and on top of that, my head - also round. I am like a series of circles, a perfect snowman shape. Of course, in comparison to my other round bits, my head looks tiny. And a bit crazy, since the efforts of trying to keep up with the instructors have me bobbing and nodding madly, like one of those dogs on a windscreen.

Speaking of instructors - wow. I often wonder who on earth would give up their precious time, after a strenuous work day, to encourage pregnant women to heave their hefty bodies from side to side. I can't come up with a definite answer but I will say this for them: they are each, in their own way, particularly quirky. Take my favourite one, for example: I like her because she is especially enthusiastic, energetic and loves what she does. Unfortunately, I think she takes this passion too far. The woman has starved and exercised to the point where her limbs look like pieces of linguini, which she tosses about with such emphaticness during the workout it looks as if they are hideous spiders which she is trying to shake off her body. Then there is the one who, in her excited encouragement, takes on the exact look of a rabid Pekingnese. I always feel nervous when she approaches me in case one of her eyes pops off into my lap. Oh, and not forgetting the one who clearly forgets herself and, mesmerised by the awful club music (Katy Perry with her screechy voice which evokes inside me the same feeling as a scratchy hangnail; Rihanna whispering saucily about how she loves the smell of sex - gag - and old Justin Timberlake hits), gets the 'club face'. Yup, you know the one: eyes sexily at half mast, mouth pouting - the look which signals that a move to pull up your shirt and reveal what you, six whiskies down, believe to be your toned six pack, is but seconds away.

Odd though these ladies may look, there's no denying that they are all a damn sight more attractive than us, their slowly stomping students. I don't think any pregnant woman looks especially good from the back: the word 'blockish' comes to mind. Now, picture a room full of these blockish people, all seated on their exercise balls, marching in time to the music as their ponytails sway with that focus that seems to come over people the minute they put on a pair of Nikes. As we roll ourselves forward and back, I am reminded of a Lego army advancing forth, not on steeds, but on bubblegum balls.

I truly admire the mobility of the other ladies, however. I myself have reached an awkward stage where, if I try to do anything like a push up or the plank, my stomach drags on the floor. The feeling is quite revolting, kind of like dead man's finger amplified exponentially. I must look like a snake that's swallowed two ostrich eggs. The worst is when the instructors make us sit on the floor to stretch. Do you know how cruel it is to make a pregnant woman get up from a cross-legged position? The other day I was left flailing around for minutes, trying desperately to find my knees so that I could hoist myself on to them. Since there was no one to help me but other pregnant women, I got plenty of sympathetic smiles, but no assistance.

Hmm - come to think of it, maybe it's not such a bad thing I missed tonight's class. May as well take comfort in another piece of cake.

Me and my motor

You get people who love and adore cars. My sister, for instance, can rattle off the spec of every SUV made by every car manufacturer - something I have always felt is a peculiar trait for someone who collects every edition of Garden & Home. I, meanwhile, am simply proud to know that the word 'spec' exists.

Also, past experience has taught me to think of cars as functional pieces of tin designed to get us from A to B. It's an entirely Zen approach that leaves no room for emotional attachment, and ensures that I am free to spend my money on things besides car repayments (utterly random things - like the stage I went through of hunting in junk shops to buy old editions of Nancy Drew mysteries; or the 300 plus recipe books I own in spite of the fact that I never cook; or the gazillions of salad servers I own despite going out of my way to avoid lettuce at all costs).

I learned to adopt this attitude when my mother gave me my very first car, a Jazz Blue Chico which I duly called Geoff (as in Jazzy Geoff). She was quick to catch on to the fact that driving was never going to be one of my strong points. Her lack of faith became evident when she took me on a practice ride and, by the time we had progressed to about five kilometers away from our house, decided she would rather hop out of the car and walk home than spend another instant with me in the driver's seat. I was almost relieved: there are only so many times you can see someone frantically depressing an imaginary brake before you begin to lose confidence in your abilities. My father, thankfully, had a far more relaxed approach. "You really should have tried to stop at the red light," he would say mildly as a phalanx of furious drivers struck up a hooting chorus and tried to dodge my right turn.

I blame my lack of skills on the fact that I got my license with a teacher who taught me the art of parallel parking by strategically placing a piece of Prestik on the back windshield. All you had to do was line up the Prestik with the test poles and hey presto, you were in. Sadly, though, someone forgot to pass on the memo about the Prestik to the major car manufacturers. Anyone who has tried to parallel in 4th Ave Parkhurst on a Saturday morning will realise what a grave oversight this is.

As it turned out, by the time Geoffrey and I parted ways, he had a waist - both sides were concave from regularly smudging them against walls, trees, poles, other cars (which also gave him rather an interesting paint job). In fact, it would be fair to say he resembled a parabola, since all sides were vaguely conked in. There's no denying that Geoffrey earned his stripes though - he is, to this day, the only car I know that could take off in third gear.

Also, he had to put up with a lot. I am an extremely messy person - not dirty, just messy, although my passengers over the years would contest this. My sister is one such passenger - and after the tramezzini incident, I can't really blame her. You see, one night, I was driving home after a late theatre show and STARVING. So I pulled up at a Woolies one stop and bought a tramezzini, planning a late dinner. By the time I got home, my dinner could not be found. I thought this was very mysterious - since I was driving home from a ballet and not a debauched night of shooteres, it was highly unlikely that my memory of purchasing the item was suspect. So I had a search around but was honestly unable to retrieve the tramezzini, covered as it was by a landslide of papers and magazines. It was my sister who found it, around three months later. Looking for some keys that had slipped behind her seat, she pulled out the food and asked, horrified, what it was. I still maintain that the scariest part about this story is the fact that the tramezzini looked pretty much the same as it did when I bought it. Surely, left that long, it should have become a laboratory of sorts? Makes you wonder what they really do put in those things.

So the tramezzini may have gone to waste, but there have been times when my hoarde has definitely come in handy. Once, while on the road, I received a spontaneous invite to go to a swimming party. Other girls would have had to turn around, go home and fetch a bikini - but not I. After a rummage through the rubbish, I found just what I needed. I've had similar luck with shoes, when I've realised that the pair I have on just aren't the best match for what I'm wearing. Lucky for me, there has often been an alternative at hand.

And as for 'infllight' entertainment - you'd be surprised how much quicker those traffic jams go when you have a novel with you (no, of course I am not proud of that particular habit - but it's better than, say, picking your nose in traffic, which seems to be the pastime of choice for other drivers).

Anyway, after Geoffrey came George, my little silver Micra. The transition between the two was difficult - I remember sitting in the parked car outside my house for a full half hour the night before the swap was made, doing the ugly cry (the one where your mouth opens wide in a way that would give even Edvard Munch nightmares; the mucus strings connecting your top and bottom incisors so thick and strong it's a wonder your jaws don't snap back together). Poor George - as it turns out, he too was put through the ringer. When we parted ways, he had no more power steering, no more air con, and one of his back doors wouldn't open.

I can't be blamed, then, for welcoming my Mom Mobile with open arms as a little bit of luxury after the Boot Camp exercise that driving George had become (you'd be surprised how aerobic driving a car without power steering can be). There is a reason people love those German feats of engineering. The only thing is, I find my new car to have very little personality. If she were to have one, it would be that of a stern German governess, who would wear her hair parted down the middle and braided into plaits which are then looped over each ear. She would dress in dirndl skirts and demand you click your heels together whenever you see her - which is something I am very nearly tempted to do every morning as I gaze upon her frostly countenance.

She has all the mannerisms of a strict governess too. I know this because of her eagerness to employ Park Distance Control. Really, I have to query the wisdom of this feature. The very people who need Park Distance Control, whose every venture behidn the wheel is likely to set off an insane and frenetic beeping, are the ones who are most likely to be distracted by it. Needless to say, Park Distance Control has become the soundtrack of my life. Sometimes I get it from both the front left side and the back right, making me feel like a naughty schoolchild being scolded by my mother AND my father at once. The very worst incident was, ironically, on my first day of driving the car when, in spite of the car's insistent warnings, I drove it into the wall. There was a sickening moment when the car was squealing like a troop of monkeys caught in the branches of a burning baobab, as the sound of the Park Distance Control melded with the screech of metal against brick. Then, as I surveyed the side mirror dangling from the door like a tooth clinging desperatelt to the gum of a prize fighter recently punched in the mouth, all went silent. I have not felt such disapproval from a car since the time I followed a Garmin's advice and drove up one of those perilously steep Cape Town roads, so narrow that even two anorexics walking sideways and sucking in their stomachs could not pass at the same time. (Interestingly, the Garmin refused to take responsibility. I could tell by the crisp, accusing way it said 'recalibrating' - and then kept quiet, indicating that I was too much of a lost cause for even the most advanced satellite technology to assist).

My car is also a dyed in the wool snob. I know this because every time a vendor comes too close, it starts bleating - that damned Park Distance Assist again. It can be very stressful when someone is trying to wash your car, sell you a newspaper, convince you that they have a club foot and throw avos in your window all at the same time, whilst your car is bellowing in protest to their proximity.

Nonetheless, I sense that the German governess, for all her airs and graces, is going the same way as poor Geoffrey and George. The Tuna Juice Incident was the first inkling that this might be the case. Once again, my mammoth bump had got in the way between the driveway and the boundary wall. My first attempt at solving the problem was to place my lunch packet (containing a tupperware of tuna pasta made the night before) on the seat to free my hands. Then, I placed one foot on the ledge of the front seat, one hand on the inside and another on the outside, hoisting myself in. I dare say it was actually a rather strong and graceful move; the kind that might be practised by a stripper on who pole (albeit in a club catering specifically to men with strong oedipal hang-ups). Panting from my exertions, I placed myself on my seat - and noticed I was sitting in something wet. And fishy. Yes, my tupperware had leaked tuna juice all over my new car. I was now faced with two choices: I could either head inside, fetch a cloth and wipe up the spill - or I could suck it up and smell of mackerel all day, and leave my car to reek like a fishing trawler. I am ashamed to say that, given the effort required to repeat my snazzy move, I decided it wouldn't be so bad to smell of fish after all.

Thus, my car has already acquired a broken mirror and some odorous sticky patches which have since become embedded with Jack Russell fur.

See why I am just not a candidate for a smart ride?