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!
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!
No comments:
Post a Comment