My darling Leya Rachel arrived on Wednesday, and within seconds I was transformed from a stomach-rubber deriding cynic into the worst cliche about motherhood. I spend endless minutes marvelling at her beauty when, in reality, she bears more than a passing resemblance to the lovechild of Queen Victoria and Winston Churchill. Or like a French bulldog. Same thing, I guess. I am stymied by emotions so strong I never believed them possible. And I have done a number of things I swore I would never do.
Like sniff her bum to find out if she's 'packing'. This is an action that has always repulsed me, but never more so than when James and I were on a tram in Amsterdam, watching a family interact with a particularly poxy looking child. One of them picked up the infant, inhaled long and deep at the seat of its pants, nodded and proclaimed "Shtunke". This is a particularly hideous word, I am sure you will agree - one that is not only onomatopeiaic, but also seems to convey a sense of smell. Clearly, the other family members did not were unpeturbed, however. The baby was passed from one to the next, each taking a whiff of the baby's bottom, solemnly nodding and valildating the verdict: "Ja, shtunke".
As mentioned, I have never understood why people do this. Parents' standard argument is that pooh is different when comes from your own child, but this has never held water with me: on the contrary, pooh is pooh, no matter its egress point. You wouldn't walk past the bathroom after your spouse has lost the battle against last night's vindaloo, gag, and then walk inside to get a better smell, just to confirm that your instincts were right and the air is, indeed, rancid. So why does it make a difference because it has exited an infant.
I found the case of the Dutch family all the more puzzling, because they had already established that something rotten was going on. Surely, having been warned, they would then try to protect themselves from such a phenomenon, instead of deliberately exposing themselves to it. It reminds me of those people who say "Wow, that tastes disgusting, you must try it."
Nevertheless, there I am, sniffing my own daughter's bottom and finding nothing wrong with the practice. Please don't judge.
Speaking of getting up close and personal with my child's bodily secretions, I have just become acquainted with the Nose Frida. First, let's discuss the name of this product. Does it come with accessories like the Throat Margaret and Ear Hilda? Because it really does bring to mind a doughty matron wearing support hose and tan leather shoes with sensible heels. In this sense, one would think that the Nose Frida is a tiny fairy that lives inside the nostril and provides nasal relief - not, of course, a glamorous Tinkerbell type fairy but a practical, no-nonsense one who spreads tissues rather than glitter dust.
If only the Nose Frida were so innocuous. This product is actually a tube that one attaches to the baby's nostril; the other end is inserted inside your own mouth and you literally suck away at the contents of its nose. This reminds me of that joke: A man is bitten by a rattlesnake on his privates. His friend dashes off to find a medicine man who can provide advice, and is told that the only cure is for him to suck the poison out of the bite. He returns to the snake's victim and says, "Bad news, you're gonna die." The concept is so gross that when a friend first told me about it, I thought she was joking. In a world where we can grow new skin, how is it possible that there is not a more sophisticated solution for a baby's blocked nose?
And yet I am quite happy to suck away at my baby's snot if it means she'll be more comfortable. Only time will tell if I pick up more habits previously regarded as beyond the pale, but my guess is that, if I love her this much now, and would be prepared to do anything for her, it won't be long before I'm licking the leftover food off her face.
Like sniff her bum to find out if she's 'packing'. This is an action that has always repulsed me, but never more so than when James and I were on a tram in Amsterdam, watching a family interact with a particularly poxy looking child. One of them picked up the infant, inhaled long and deep at the seat of its pants, nodded and proclaimed "Shtunke". This is a particularly hideous word, I am sure you will agree - one that is not only onomatopeiaic, but also seems to convey a sense of smell. Clearly, the other family members did not were unpeturbed, however. The baby was passed from one to the next, each taking a whiff of the baby's bottom, solemnly nodding and valildating the verdict: "Ja, shtunke".
As mentioned, I have never understood why people do this. Parents' standard argument is that pooh is different when comes from your own child, but this has never held water with me: on the contrary, pooh is pooh, no matter its egress point. You wouldn't walk past the bathroom after your spouse has lost the battle against last night's vindaloo, gag, and then walk inside to get a better smell, just to confirm that your instincts were right and the air is, indeed, rancid. So why does it make a difference because it has exited an infant.
I found the case of the Dutch family all the more puzzling, because they had already established that something rotten was going on. Surely, having been warned, they would then try to protect themselves from such a phenomenon, instead of deliberately exposing themselves to it. It reminds me of those people who say "Wow, that tastes disgusting, you must try it."
Nevertheless, there I am, sniffing my own daughter's bottom and finding nothing wrong with the practice. Please don't judge.
Speaking of getting up close and personal with my child's bodily secretions, I have just become acquainted with the Nose Frida. First, let's discuss the name of this product. Does it come with accessories like the Throat Margaret and Ear Hilda? Because it really does bring to mind a doughty matron wearing support hose and tan leather shoes with sensible heels. In this sense, one would think that the Nose Frida is a tiny fairy that lives inside the nostril and provides nasal relief - not, of course, a glamorous Tinkerbell type fairy but a practical, no-nonsense one who spreads tissues rather than glitter dust.
If only the Nose Frida were so innocuous. This product is actually a tube that one attaches to the baby's nostril; the other end is inserted inside your own mouth and you literally suck away at the contents of its nose. This reminds me of that joke: A man is bitten by a rattlesnake on his privates. His friend dashes off to find a medicine man who can provide advice, and is told that the only cure is for him to suck the poison out of the bite. He returns to the snake's victim and says, "Bad news, you're gonna die." The concept is so gross that when a friend first told me about it, I thought she was joking. In a world where we can grow new skin, how is it possible that there is not a more sophisticated solution for a baby's blocked nose?
And yet I am quite happy to suck away at my baby's snot if it means she'll be more comfortable. Only time will tell if I pick up more habits previously regarded as beyond the pale, but my guess is that, if I love her this much now, and would be prepared to do anything for her, it won't be long before I'm licking the leftover food off her face.
Not yet a mother...that made my stomach turn. But I am sure your little one is delightful. Congratulations.
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