Aural fixation

In recent months, I have developed a hatred of Bob Marley. Who could dislike the ayrie fellow, I hear you ask? Someone who has to listen to him 12 hours a day, I answer.

You see, Leya has just emerged from a stage where the only way to calm her moods was to sing her reggae. Immediately, James and I dug out our old Bob CDs so that we could expand our repertoire and get the words right (Old Pirates, yes they rob aye; Not, old pirate's just a rabbi; a lyric which previously puzzled me yet simultaneously made me proud that we Jews are so multicultural as to have been embraced by the reggae fraternity.)

Anyway, I digress. After many, many hours of singing about three little birds, even the notion that everything was going to be alright lost its charm. Now, of course, I long for those days. Leya has since discovered the Moms and Tots 2013 All Time hits and, as a result, I spend my days constantly thinking about teddy bears who go into town knocking all the people down (why are these teddies so violent?) and elephants who have no fingers and toes.

To be honest, I find the songs slightly disturbing - not least because they are sung by a woman who sounds deeply concerned about something (even whilst urging children who know they are happy to clap their hands) and a man who sounds as if he is in the grips of severe constipation.

Moreover, every single song is about nodding, clapping and stomping, which makes me worry that Leya is going to grow up with a picture in her head of humanity like those bobbing head dogs, randomly clicking and smacking their hands together, in the manner of Tourette's sufferers.

This is not the first of her CDs to which I have had an adverse reaction. Back in the days of the nap drive, I used to play her lullabies to try, well, lull her. These appeared to have very little effect on her, but frequently I would find myself driving in a zombie state through streets I did not recognise at all.

Its seems that sound is, on the whole, a very difficult area for children and their parents. I refer here to the 'musical' toys. It's not just the electronic xylophones we have to worry about: in Leya's early babyhood, I had a mini-mobile hanging from her car seat. I became, like the lady from Banbury Cross, quite accustomed to hearing music wherever I went, as one sharp brake or corner would set off a tinkling peal. This is quite unnerving when you are setting off to a meeting with a CEO.

But that's far more innocuous than many of the other toys and their sounds Leya has in her collection. There was what I called the 'me too' toy: a ball which played nursery favourites (always slightly off key, as if the manufacturers couldn't afford the full rights to the songs and therefore went for the Fong Kong version) and which emitted a burst of notes if Leya left it alone for more than two minutes, as if trying to win back her attention.

That's nothing compared to the horrid little Barney my niece was given as a gift: on pressing its tummy, the toy would say "give me a huuuug". One night, when my sister and Marc were watching TV in the lounge, their kids safely tucked in bed and the toys in their toy box, they heard Barney's voice issuing from the playroom, pleading for that hug. Creepy.

The last word goes to a friend, who, unbeknownst to her, was carrying a Father Christmas that had been stuffed into her handbag by her child. After a major argument with her bank manager, she angrily turned on her heel, only to have the dignity of her departure completely deflated when, from her handbag, came the tinny sound of Santa Claus going "Ho, ho, ho, Meeeeeery Christmas!"

Making a meal of it

If I were a visitor to my house, I would hesitate before touching anything. There, I've said it. I've openly admitted that things aren't as sanitary as I would like (although the dried cumblike crust covering everything from couch to table is a dead giveaway). And the reason for this state of affairs? Leya, of course.

My daughter has given new meaning to the phrase 'eating on the go'. She has brought a sort of artistry to it. I don't think this is particularly surprising: after all, her paternal grandmother is an artist. But, while Jill has selected oil paints as her favourite medium, Leya's is tuna pasta. She creates her masterpieces by dipping one stubby fingerlet into her bowl, in the manner of someone hesitatingly trying out the water of a swimming pool, and making a dirty little print on the surface of her choice (her options range from the curtains to the TV screen). Then, having satisfied herself that this is, indeed, a delightful activity, she scoops a handful and smears it all over, using bold, exuberant strokes and splashes.

And what do I do while this is going on? I sit next to her, plaintive and pleading (yet entirely ineffective), trying desperately to dodge her flailing hands whilst simultaneously striving to poke a spoon into her mouth. My goal is to catch her unawares, as she seems to take more joy out of turning down my culinary offerings than eating them.

Eventually, though, she tires of this and we proceed to Stage two of mealtimes: The conga line. At this time, she starts weaving in and out of the legs of the diningroom chairs, occasionally taking a seat underneath the dining table itself. My role at this time is to try catch her: a task made a little tricky by our significant height disparity. Nonetheless, because I am a Jewish mother, and by definition intent on getting food into my daughter's stomach, I find the strength and flexibility somehow to crouch cross-legged underneath there with her. At this point things become crowded, because the dogs have joined us. Like me, they are focused on Leya's food - except that their objective is to get it into their own mouths. This is not a clean enterprise. Inevitably, we all start to sport large patches of food.

After a brief second's respite, the baby en croute emerges from under the table and her surprisingly speedy meanderings start again, with the conga train of us (me, Sherpa, Lucy) following her (me crawling on our hands and knees) hot pursuit. Every so often, she pauses to take a handful of food, and my heart leaps - only to sink again when she feeds it to the dogs. They're smug and happy, she's smug and happy, and I have pains in my knees and shredded beef on my cheek.

My last word on the subject: this is usually the only time Leya is affectionate with me. I don't believe this is true affection: I believe it is, in fact, her cruel sense of humour, as she knows I am so desperate for kisses and hugs from her that I will take them, even when she is wearing a coat of hake and pasta and has an Abraham-Lincoln style goatee fashioned entirely from couscous grains. She also regularly charms me with her generosity, taking the food out of her own mouth to place it lovingly against my lips. She has also used the opportunity to demonstrate her persistence, as if I refuse to eat said morsels, she mushes them into my mouth, grunting and kicking with the effort. I suppose she is merely mirroring the behaviour she has just seen me display.

Sigh. On the bright side, I don't feel the need to go to gym. Running after my little miss is exercise enough, thank you.

Put that thing away

So, great news: I read an article on Friday saying that Miley Cyrus has decided to retire her tongue. While I am sure I am not alone in hoping that the rest of her will soon follow suit, we take what we can get, and it certainly will be refreshing to see photos of her with a closed mouth.

Tongues in photos always make me nervous, probably because I have a rocky relationship with said organ. It all started when I was a child, and my mother used to feed us a dish called 'tongue'. At the time, I thought it was just a strange coincidence that I had a body part sharing the same name as this food; after all, when you are five years old the world is full of such amusing serendipities. And then, one day, I was faced by the moment of truth: lying on the kitchen counter, defrosting, was something that looked remarkably like my own tongue. This particular one appeared to be holding a pose. I remember thinking that it looked as if it were about to scoop up a mouthful of meadow; even its tastebuds were clearly visible, like it was waiting for a treat that never came. And that's when I knew that, in the words of a friend, I was tasting food that could taste me right back. I count this as one of my childhood traumas. This is why I avoid deli counters: there is one particular luncheon meat (don't you hate that phrase) made up of tiny little tongues quilted together like patchwork. It gives me shivers.

But back to Miley and her own renegade appendage. No doubt when she started her 'tongue-out-of-cheek' posturing, she thought of it as her own take on a wink; cute and sexy with just a touch of the ribald. Sadly, Miley, that's not at all how it comes across. James last week commented (unkindly and rather indelicately) that it looks as though she has bitten off someone's willy and left it dangling out the corner of her mouth. While that's a touch graphic, I can't help but agree that the size of it is quite astounding: to me, it looks as though she went rifling through one of those cans of Enterprise 'meals-in-one', bypassed the spaghetti and peas, pulled out a flaccid pink Vienna and stuck it in her cheek, making her look less like a cheeky nymphette and more like a thirsty, gormless dog who's really happy to see its owner. Perhaps the whole tongue-out thing isn't actually an attempt to create a signature pose; maybe it simply won't fit in her mouth?

Apparently, I am not the only person who is concerned by the sight of Miley's tongue. The other day, I read a brilliant blog by Emily Mendell (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/emily-mendell/mileys-gift-to-moms_b_3903346.html), who had this to say:

After the third or fourth mom "friend" of mine posted some condemnation about Miley's performance, I linked over to the video to see what all the fuss was about. And like many of my peers, I was more than a little grossed out -- not so much because of the twerking or the foam finger. I was really disturbed by Miley's tongue. Maybe it was the resolution on my browser, but it just didn't look healthy to me -- all colorless and gray. Leave it to the Jewish mother to worry about this girl's health -- but did anyone else think that we should be more concerned about Miley's camel tongue than her camel toe? Dehydration? Thrush? Dr. Oz? Dr. Phil? Anyone?
Apparently not.

Emily, I couldn't agree with you more. To Miley's tongue: you've had a great run (you even have your own website), but a truly great performer recognises when they've been licked.

Most awkward press launch ever

Every job has its drawbacks. For example, I used to be South Africa's foremost writer on taxidermy. That's right; every time the SA Taxidermy Association wanted on article on what trophy mount is best for giraffes in small spaces, or what to do when your lion's head starts losing its eyelashes, they would give me a ring. Oh, I shouldn't complain - I got to have many experiences that many other journalists don't have. After all, you just haven't lived until a man smelling strongly of formaldehyde and wet fur has whispered into your ear, "Would you like to see my skull shed?"

Thus, I should have more empathy for the poor PR whose mail ended up in my inbox the other day - after all, she probably felt as awkward penning her email as I did reading it. The email in question was an invite to the launch of a new porn DVD. The name of this girl's company suggests that she usually spends her time penning releases about musicians, so I can just imagine how the request to invite journos to this event came like a bolt from the blue. Oh, she tried bravely enough - waxing lyrical about the appearance of the gorgeous star at some adult shop, as if she were merely discussing Princess Kate milling around at the opening of a children's theatre - but I can't help wondering how many positive RSVPs she received.

Why do I do these things

I am convinced I have some kind of brain issue - it seems I lack the filter that intercepts thoughts that are wildly unappropriate and stops them before they become deeds.

Exhibit A: Last month, James' nephew and his friend cam to stay with us from Wales. While here, we took them to a cell phone store so they could get air time. As one does, I took a seat cross-legged on the floor while they settled into a booth. There Leya and I gambolled a while, until it became apparent she was peckish, and I pulled out her snacks. The friend, spying her organic multi-grain vanilla hearts, commented on how intersting they looked. Would you like to try one? I asked magnaminously. Yes, thank you, he answered. Overlooking the fact that this 20-year-old is childless and therefore probably has not come to terms with the foor as a perfectly acceptable surface to eat off, I dusted off the myriad hair strands strewn across MTN's mud-smudged floor, and handed him one of the hearts that had tumbled out of the snack tupperware in Leya's eagerness to eat. Why I didn't give him one of the pristine ones remaining inside said tupperware, I can't explain. I know he also wondered about this, because he saw my eyes dart towards the clean ones before I handed him the tainted heart. "Oh - sure. I don't mind eating the one with floor juice," he finally said - which is when i finally realised that what I had done wasn't quite right.

Exhibit 2 - Just yesterday, I was driving through the streets of my suburb, trying to block out the sound of Leya's wailing. I mention this because it may be significant - I am hoping that I was driven temporarily insane by noise, as this would provide an excuse for what happened next. You see, as I inched past the stop street, I spotted a man I knew slightly from university. We weren't especially friendly back then, but we are Facebook mates, so I have gotten to see the pics of his wife and baby and perhaps that's why I felt it was acceptable to slam on my brakes and jump out my car to greet him as if we were old army buddies reunited after 20 years. I;m not sure why I did this. Perhaps it was the sheer coincidence of running into someone from ny varsity years, or maybe I felt an imagined kindredness caused by parenthood. Either way, it's sad that this happened right at rush hour, when many other cars were trying to navigate past my vehicle, sitting inconveniently in the middle of the road. It's sad too that leya and I had been tussling over a cup filled with Freezochino just moments before, and that she had also smeared me with her rice cake; therefore what the couple saw screeching towards them was a crusted madwoman thrusting a screaming child at them. Again, it was only when they expressed their surprise, with the wife of my acquaintance giggling nervously and saying "I asked Pete who that was looking at us in the car, and he said 'I don't know but she's waving, and then all of a sudden you got out and started talking to us', that I thought to myself, "This isn't normal behviour".

I hate to imagine what I will do next.

Dazzled by vajazzling

So on Friday night we were having a dinner party and the conversation turned, naturally enough, to vajazzling. Vajazzling, in case you haven't kept up with pubic fashions, sees ladies glueing coloured diamantes to their nethers. And there I thought that nail art was tacky.

Now, I'm the first to admit that I am an anachronism. I've never photographed my food (perhaps I am self effacing in my belief that no one is interested in the fact that I had a sandwich with cheese and tomato for lunch, but there you go). I have never indicated my disbelief by saying "I know, right?" And I have never spent hours of my time decorating my vagina. Since I can bearly get it together to apply mascara to my eyes, I think it's safe to assume that this is never going to happen.

But I do wonder about the girls who are prepared to sacrifice half an hours' sleep so that their vaginas can be sparkly. What must this be like for the person on the receiving end (I am assuming that, unlike a pedicure or facial, one does not vajazzle for one's own satisfaction). Imagine it - you go out for a drink; the drink turns into dinner; next thing there's kissing and clothes coming off and - ka-ching - like a shiny tooth in a mouthwash ad, there's a glint coming off the lady's privates - even though the lights are off. It's disco fanny!

Quite honestly, if I were a man, I would be taken aback by someone lavishing that much care and attention on their vagina. I just want to point out that girls who have French manicures are frequently thought of as high maintenance...

Also, the choice of motif raises some questions. Of course you get your run of the mill vajazzles - butterflies (because an insect hovering above a vagina is always a turn on) and so forth. But one that stands out for me is the vajazzle cross. I believe that the girl who adorns her vajayjay with such a pattern is sending deeply conflicting messages. Perhaps it is a good choice for the convent girl exploring her nasty side.

Certainly, if I had decided to elevate my bits from lame to aflame, this is one that I just couldn't go for. But the last time I looked they didn't make Stars of David.  

Life is just unfair

I am the one who put on thirty kilos just so that Leya could have life. I am the one who started to resemble Gerard Depardieu, becoming so grotesque in my aspect that, eleven months after the fact, my father still reassures me at least three times a week that I was the ugliest pregnant person he has ever seen in his life. I am the one who has had all kinds of substances, from antiobiotics to chicken liver, land in my hair as Leya raspberries her disapproval thereof. I am the one who has incurred her wrath and had to dodge tiny flailing fists because I have dared to remove cigars fashioned from dead leaves and duck pooh from her inner cheeks. I am the one who has woken up at five am to pretend that trying on a hat is the funniest thing I have ever done in my life. I am the one whose mind has turned into a jukebox with only three offerings: Wind the bobbin up, Clap your hands and Twinkle twinkle little star.

And yet, am I the favourite parent? NO. For the second night running, I have been a spectator to the Leya and James Show, the Greatest Love Story on Earth. Last night, they rested their foreheads against each other and stared into each others eyes for a full minute, gawklingly grinning at each other like two Internet daters who have finally struck gold. Desperate to be part of the scene, I laid my head on James' shoulder, trying to insinuate myself into their happy family. It was pathetic. I was like the short, badly dressed person who stands on the periphery at a cocktail party and laughs at inappropriate moments.

I haven't felt this left out since being the only Jew in the class at Christmastime.

Sneaky confessions

There are some things about myself, only just emerging, that I am not proud:

1) I use Leya as a gym prop. This is largely her own fault, though, as she still demands being rocked and rolled to sleep for at least half an hour every night. Her favourite position is tummy down, in my arms, like a baby leopard cradled in the crook of a tree. She is the ideal weight and length to provide some extra impetus for toning exercises - which is why I intersperse my soothing swishing with a set of squats and lunges, using her prone form as a counterweight. I think she quite enjoys it.

2) I have developed a fixation with baby foods. I think I am going to make the most excellent old person - my love of soft foods that can be eaten without teeth knows no bounds. While I don't personally think there is anything wrong with tucking into a delicious apricot, prune and cinnamon puree for lunch, I am aware that my habit of stealing the food out of Leya's mouth (literally) is perhaps less than admirable. 'One for you, one for me,' I tell her as I share out her deliciouses, keenly aware that she cannot complain that most is going into my mouth.

3) I have become a kleptomaniac. This really isn't my fault; it hasn't been intentional: it's just that I now use the bottom pouch of Leya's pram instead of a shopping trolley. Inevitably, an item or two that has been covered up by one of her blankets, socks or other discards escapes my intention and therefore the cashier. Bad for my conscience, great for the family shopping budget.

4) My paranoia over childhood diseases has led to bizarre behaviours. For instance, I often find myself licking bits of Leya's arms or face to test for saltiness, just to make sure she doesn't have cystic fibrosis.

...And another thing...

Following on from last night's admissions, there is one more secret for me to spill.

Logic and I have never been friends. We parted back in Grade Nine, when it became clear that the only answer on my maths test I could give with any confidence or certainty was my name. I dropped maths; took up home ec; learnt how to make mean scrambled eggs but lost the ability to separate fact from fancy and do even basic addition. That's right: I am the person in the restaurant whose calculator comes out as soon as the bill is presented, and the adding of the bill becomes a performance not vastly different to an ancient religious ceremony in that there is much humming and chanting and swaying back and forth, with my tongue gently poking from the corner of my mouth, as I try to work out the tip on a cappuccino.

Stop streets also present a challenge for me. Many is the time that I have paused at an empty street, waiting for a car to appear so that I can then actually stop for it. The converse is also true: there have been times when I have been so determined to take a gap between fast moving cars that I have forced my car to take off in third gear.

From this, we can deduce that spatial perception is not my forte, nor is planning. This was proved again last week, when a bout of flu left me bed ridden and my store cupboards empty. When finally I was ready to face the world again, it was clear that a touch of grocery shopping would have to be a priority. I decided to stock up on provisions in the afternoon. In the morning, though, it was time to knock some deadlines on the head. The only problem being that this goal relied upon the acquisition of some goodies. Coffee was needed, as was soup, toilet paper and tissues. Now, a person more given to the constructive use of time would have decided just to go ahead and do all the groceries at once. But not I. I elected to go to the very poorly stocked Woolworths at the top of the street. Once there, I realised that the soup flavours were all decidedly lacklustre and that I preferred to make do with a cappuccino from next door. Which left me in need only of toilet paper and tissues.

Now I have always found toilet paper an embarrassing purchase. Especially when buying in bulk. Actually, no, it's more embarrassing by far to purchase a single roll at a time. But either way, I feel more secure when my toilet paper purchases are thrown in amongst tomatoes, brown sugar and Jik.

As a result, by the time I went to check out, it was just me and my tissues. By now I felt vaguely ridiculous for having trekked out just to buy a box of snot rags and, as is my habit, my ridiculousness started manifesting as aggression. "Would you like a packet?" the cashier asked innocently enough. I immediately decided that this was a judgement disguised as a question; say yes, and she - and everyone else in the check out line - would label me a polar bear killer who doesn't even try to remember to turn off the geyser and pool pump, I thought. Thus, I turned down her offer and marched out of Woolworths, clutching my tissues.

There were two ways I could play this: I could walk around nonchalantly, as if a tissue box is the accessory du jour, in the same league as Hunter boots or a statement necklace. Or I could get all protective, looking people directly and challengingly in the eye, like those self consciously quirky individuals who put collars on their cats and take them for walks, or women in their thirties who wear pigtails.

And so it was that my tissues and I perambulated around the Parktown Design Quarter, stopping at Vida for a cuppa, pausing to catch a ray of sun and then driving back home. They thoroughly enjoyed their excursion, I think - and I'm glad, for no one can tell me a tissue's lot in life is a particularly pleasant one.

Things ain't what they used to be

I used to have an outstanding vocabulary. "That's obscure," I would mutter scornfully. "You're allowing yourself to get bogged down by minutaie," I would advise. "I am not a fan of these quotidian mundanities."

But now, in the words of the Pet Shop Boys, I'm not sure why, I'm not sure how - words no longer want to fit my mouth. For someone who makes their living off them, it's an awkward situation. Here are some of the blunders that have occurred during the past few days:

• There we were, driving along, when a short-sighted (myopic) and foul-tempered (cantankerous) woman turned into our lane, almost on top of our car. "Oh my G-d James, we are about to have an affair," I yelled. Needless to say, he was grateful for the warning. I confess this isn't the first time I have made this particular error. Back in varsity, only narrowly escaping being run over while crossing a road, I shouted out, "Oh heavens we're being mowed down by a homocidal psychopath." At least that's what I wanted to shout out. My brain, caught in the frenzy of the moment, made a quick contraction and instead issued me with "Oh heavens, we're being mowed down by a homeopath."
• Again, on the weekend, watching as Leya happily fashioned a cone out of a tissue and munched on it, taking small yet regular bites, I tried a spot of discipline. "Leya, you cannot eat that tissue as you would if you were snacking on a bunch of flowers," I instructed.
• This last one is not so much a verbal failing as a moment of pure WTF. I have developed a habit of passing out in Leya's feeding chair while trying to entice her back to sleep. Obviously, there inevitably comes a moment when I revive, wonder why I am sleeping on a chair, and stagger back to my bed. But this is where my world becomes a surreal twilight where nothing can be trusted. Once back in bed, I will awaken at the sound of the next cry, wondering where on earth I am. It's the kind of sensation I imagine heroines in Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew books to have suffered a lot, for some reason; as I come to, I can almost picture a common sensical, lightly accented British voice saying perkily, "When she opened her eyes, Lisa had no idea where she was." Sometimes, things get very spooky. Obviously, when I am on the chair, Leya is cuddled in my arms. Nine times out of ten, when I go back to bed, I cuddle James. The other day, I woke up with James in my arms, completely confounded, wondering how on earth Leya had become so large and hairy in a matter of hours.

 

Shhh....It's a secret

I have been feeling uncomfortable all day. This is because of my secret socks. Now, I don't really like to talk about secret socks. They're one of those things that just make me feel awkward for no absolute reason. I guess because I look upon them as the panties of the foot world. They are, after all, supposed to be secret, so when I catch a glimpse of someone's secret sock I have the same hot-cheeked feeling I would get if I walked in on someone in the toilet or saw a woman's armpit well past its shave by date. Maybe because this is an admission that, without the sock in place, their feet would be moist and sticky; their probably collecting bits of fluff from the shoe the way a bellybutton collects lint. The feeling is even worse if it is a man's secret sock, because I hate to think of men and their bodily functions. I feel the same way about blowing my nose in public. It's just so personal - only one step up the ladder from picking one's teeth.

Thus it is with a mixture of shame and embarrassment that I confess not only to having worn secret socks this morning, but to having put them on the wrong way around. In fact, I have avoided this particular pair (there! I'm out and proud - I own THREE pairs of secret socks) because I always find them hideously uncomfortable and therefore spend much time trying to surreptiously insert my finger into my ballet pump to rearrange. However, like trying to scratch an itchy bite on your posterior, there is no way of doing this discreetly. Also, it defetas the object - not only do I experience the very foot stickiness I am trying to avoidf, but I find myself walking about with a giant wodge of fabric padded under my toes.

Now I realise this is because, for over a year, I have been putting my toes where the heel should be. I don't know how I could make such an elementary mistake. But it does remind me of the time I went to a spa and, instead of spending five hours basking on Cloud Nine, squirmed in pubic hell - and realised, only when it was time to leave, that this was because I had put my paper G-string on backwards.

Dressing - sometimes, it's just not as easy as you think.

The Monstermorphosis

Once upon time, there was a little castle, where there lived a happy laughing baby and her unpsycho mother. But, although the baby and mother spent their days frolicking and gambolling together, the castle was under an evil spell, and as soon as night fell, both of them turned into terrible monsters. The baby started yowling and mewling and couldn't stop, and the mother turned into an nasty spitting, hissing harpie.

That mother, dear readers, is me; and that baby is of course Leya. For you see, as much as we are best of friends during the day, come 6pm, it seems that we turn into determined adversaries: me, craving sleep, and she doing her utmost to ensure I don't get it.

I call the change that comes over us the monstermorphosis, because it happens slowly but surely every evening. Our nights start like this: It's 6pm, and Leya has just finished her bath. She smells of her unique mixture of Elizabeth Ann's and savoury chicken (this baffles me a bit - why does her bath not dislodge this odour). She has that winsome after-bath appearance that babies get: hair in fluffy disarray, pink and fresh, and looking slightly like a chubby male silkworm now that winter's here and she is tucked into her striped velvety sleep sack.

As she falls asleep, I am overcome by a tsunami of love. I cradle her in my arms in a way that she will no doubt one day discuss with her therapist, and together they will identify this smothering mothering as the cause of all her issues. For now, though, she seems to enjoy it, and she begins to make her special sleep noise, a low little hum. "How sweet," I think to myself, "Your own little lullaby." As she drifts off, I tuck her in, stare down at her for a few minutes longer, then bend to kiss her and whisper, "G-d bless you my darling, I love you with all my heart." As I steal one last glance at her, I lament the fact that her babyhood is whizzing past - how soon until I can have another one (or two), I wonder.

Forty-five minutes later, she beckons me - the first of several times. I smile wryly to myself ("poor little girl, still not linking sleep cycles") and give her a quick mommy shuffle. At ten o'clock, this performance is repeated. I acknowledge to myself that, somewhere, Anne Richardson, Doctor Ferber and all the other sleep specialists are shaking their heads and having quiet apoplexies, but - silly though it may seem - I've missed her in the past three hours and am ready for a cuddle. All the same, I'm getting a little tired of all this tender bending over the cot, so I just blow a kiss near the general direction of her ear and walk out as quickly as possible - at least, as quickly as one can while trying to avoid creaking wooden floorboards by employing an exaggeratedly pointed toe-heel walk like a ballerina mimicking a creeping gnome.

At 2am, I have to ask myself what the hell was I thinking. Why would I have missed this sqauwling? Indeed, what is there to miss? No longer is a shuffle sufficient; now she wants to be cradled again. But she is very particular about her cradling stance: testily, she flings herself back and forth like a St Vitus sufferer trying out mattreses in a Sealy shop. Having eventually found a comfortable position(inevitably, one that forces me to bend my neck so that my ear touches my shoulder), she starts her wail. "I don't see what you have to cry about," I mutter sharply under my breath. "Here you are, being rocked by a human hammock - the height of comfort. If anyone deserves to be crying it is the human hammock who would far rather be horizontal."

Then starts the sucking. Now, I have tried repeatedly to give Leya a dummy. The last time, she took it out of her mouth, gave it an appraising look, and stuck it back in - the wrong way round. And then decided she prefers me. I am beginning to feel self-conscious - is my entire person breat-shaped? Is this why she fastens her lips on my nose, my knees, my arms - any part of me she can get a handle? I have more hickies now than when I was a drunken first year student with an undiscerning eye.

Finally, the sucking stops - and now, the sleep sound sets in. "Stop that," I order, thinking that she sounds like one of Khalisi's dragons with a stomach ache. We rock some more. I finally dare to put her down - she glares at me through closed lids and whines. I pick her up. We start the process again. "I can't understand how anyone possibly puts themselves through this twice," I think poisonously.

The night wears on, with this sequence repeating on and on, until finally it is morning. Order is once more restored to the little kindgom. The mommy, unpsycho once more, goes into the little baby's room to find her smiling and gurgling. There is kissing and hugging and lots of love...but in the shadows, the threat of the 6pm monstermorphosis looms.

Shudder

I usually listen to Mix FM, which plays the best music (even if it does run ads that end in slogans like "for zee attire zat is nice", uttered in some supposedly foreign accent in order to add sophisticated European appeal), but this afternoon I tuned in briefly to Highveld, where Anele was hosting a competition. The theme was something along the lines of being a little crazy to do good, and Anele gave the rather sweet example of a girl who purposely threw herself off a horse to show a little boy, who had also fallen off a horse, that it happens and the best thing to do is get back on.

Today's winner was somewhat different. Rochelle's contribution to ubuntu was accompanying a friend she had made two weeks ago, and whose greatest dream was to get a body piercing, to a parlour. Once there, her buddy ran out of courage, so Rochelle did the noble thing and got herself a piercing, going first even though she hadn't previously wanted one. "And where was the piecing," asked Anele. To which the Mother Theresa type replied: "In a private part."

So far so gross. But things got worse. "Ooh," squeals Anele, "you had your vajayjay pierced!" While concentrating on trying to block this image from my mind, I hear her tell Rochelle that she has won (drum roll): tickets to Justin Bieber.

"Yay!"shrieks Rochelle. "My son is going to love this!"

Son...pierced vajayjay...telling everyone on radio (perhaps even her son was listening)....anyone else feeling a tad queasy?

Early mornings with Leya

Leya has developed a nasty, nasty habit of sounding the alarm at 5am.  And as much as I start to miss her after she has been asleep for a couple of hours, that pre-dawn squawk makes me realise that sometimes it is nicer to miss someone than it is to spend time with them.

That sounds mean. I don't mean it to be, but in my head, the freshly woken Leya is a cuddly ball that snuggles into me and lets me doze for a couple of hours in my feathery soft haven of a bed.

In reality, there is nothing fresh about the newly awake Leya: there she is, waiting with a foully sour nappy that blasts my still not quite functioning senses with violent force. That first nappy change is always a challenge: I must remember that, although it may seem like a good idea to keep the lights on dim in order to shield eyes which at this stage feel as vulnerable and naked as newly hatched turtles, it's just not worth it. Adding to the difficulties is the burst of energy which comes upon Leya the minute she is placed on the change mat, so that she is jigging around like a possessed highland dancer - always a danger when there is a dirty nappy nearby.

Having successfully prevented an unsavoury incident of poohfoot, I carry her hopefully back to my bedroom, place her among the pillows, and hope that this lushly comfortable environment will lull her back to slumber. To ensure she gets the message, I look at her encouragingly with my eyes closed. She responds with her own message: a boisterous "HOOOOOOOOOOO", delivered with a swift kick to the cesar scar, as if reminding me that I signed up for this.

Still I refuse to open my eyes, and still she refuses to shut hers. In fact, she mounts her campaign, grabbing a fistful of eyelid and gently plucking it. Next, it's a chunk of cheek that gets twisted like an Oreo that's being pulled apart to get to the cream, before she spots her real target: my hair.

Now, I must just say at this point that my hair is not looking good. I have written before about the delicate relationship I have with my follicles, and how the actual strands, like a tempermental and fraught fiance, seem ready to up and leave at any minute. It appears they have done that a lot lately: I confess that I spent a good deal of time in the office bathroom the other day, staring at the shiny bits of scalp which are becoming visible through the sparse fronds. The situation has not been helped by my daughter, who doesn't realise that my hair is a scarce and precious resource. I have heard of other babies who liked to stroke their mommies' hair, or twirl it around their fingers. My Tarantino-esque daughter likes to yank giant fistfuls of it, leaving it littering the bed, the carpet - the other day I even (gag) found some stuck to the ice in the freezer.

Unable to take the pain any more, I devise a canny solution (one that would make better mothers turn pale): I will feed her to sleep. However, she has come up with her own game plan: she will finesse her fine motor skills. She does this by pincering little bits of boob, then twisting them between her daggery little nails. When I gasp in pain, she looks at me, eyes wide and delighted, then grasps my nose in her tiny hand and pulls.

By now I feel like an abused woman. I have come to realise that she has no intention of letting me go back to sleep and so, bruised and battered, I take her to the playmat - where she begins a fresh assault. Whoever invented those talking toys she be drawn and quartered - but only after they have been made to listen to half an hour of electronic dogs barking to the tune of Old McDonald.

All this, and it's not even 5.30 yet. YAWN.

Awkward, awkward, awkward

Gosh, but yesterday was embarrassing.

You see, due to my incredible driving skills I had managed to bash poor Ermentrude (my superGerman mom-mobile) as much as three times in six months. The people who were insane enough to insure me had kindly allowed me to get her panel beaten, and I was pleased that there were people who are even more insane and had agreed to lend me a rental car (which, by the way, also took a few hits...Drat that grass-covered pothole.)

Anyway, yesterday it was time to bid adieu to the rental and welcome Ermentrude back to the fold. I was not at all sad to do this. I felt a bit like Fred Flintstone in the rental - having absolutely no power, I got into a few of those awkward situations where you think you are going to overtake someone, then find out that your car is not up to the task, so instead you drive abreast glaring at each other for a while.

Also, it did not have the tight turning circle I am used to. As a result, there was a nasty occasion when, at the height of rush hour, I found myself stranded on a traffic circle after discovering that my intention to zippily turn around was not matched the car's abilities. As a result, cars queued behind me for several long minutes as I fumbled around with the gearstick, eventually executing a clumsy 16 point turn before proceeding at 30km per hour. Not an ideal speed when there are frustrated motorists, dying for their hometown sundowners, baying for your blood.

The only good thing this car had going for it was that it's aircon was so loud it successfully drowned out the sound of Leya's Car Cries.

Yesterday was therefore an understandably big day for me. It would appear that the excitement affected my reason and ability to think clearly, for I decided to take Leya along with me to fetch the car; after all, there's nothing like a lovely excursion to a panelbeater for a six month old.

Perhaps it was because I was focused on her that, when the time came to pay my bill, I sat her down on my service consultant's table. "This is your invoice," he said. "Yes," I agreed. "Do you love it here on your desk?" He looked a tad confused before he understood that this last comment was directed at Leya, currently perched on his table and reaching for his pen. Realising that he was not, apparently, as taken by the cuteness of my future executive as I was, I put her down on the floor to play. And then - and I still don't understand why I did this - I joined her. It was only after I had been relaxing cross-legged in his office for a full minute, and I heard his voice filtering down from above - he, after all, was still seated on a chair - asking for my credit card - that it dawned on me that this was not really appropriate behaviour.

Mustering what dignity was left, I then tried to drive my car out of the lot. I say tried, because my time behind the wheel of the Flintstone-mobile had addled my brain and left me uncertain as to how to drive an automatic. There I sat, my feet pushing down simultaneously on the brake and the accelerator, and the car making a dreadful noise, while the bemused service consultant looked on, no doubt sure that he would be seeing me again in just a little while. After a minute I gave up and, striking a blow to feminists anywhere, gave a little wave of my hand and said, "I seem to be unable to drive my car." In such situations, I have learnt, a little haughtiness helps - is it not better to be thought a mean cow than a useless airhead? I think so. My approach must have worked on Mr. Service Consultant, because with admirable forebearance he leaned forward and explained, "Well, this is an automatic..." I won't bore you with the rest of the details of my driving lesson - suffice to say after his instructions, I decided it would be best to do away with the confusing notion of a second foot. So, with great effort (my legs are still encased in their pregnancy cocoon, so crossing them always involves a bit of a heave and huff) I tucked my left leg underneath me (noticing, as I did, that the tear in my jeans made my thigh bulge unflatteringly out of the fabric - something which I did not want Mr Service Consultant to see, since I think his view of me was already rather dim).

And so I zooted out of the parking lot - only to phone back half an hour later to enquire whether he had seen my phone.

I truly wish my car dealership worked with another panelbeater. This was a bad way to start a relationship which I fear is going to become long-standing.

The Office

It's been almost a week now since I left my trusty dining room table work station to take up typing in a real office. During this time, I have discovered and uncovered certain things:

1) I love having an access card. I like to fling it about with the zealousness of a newly engaged girl using hand gestures. I'm not sure why this is: my access card is, after all, nothing more than a tatty piece of plastic that is probably coated in E.Coli from the other people who have taken it with them to the bathroom. But there you go: Forget Porsches, this is my ultimate status symbol.

2) Actually, I take that back. There is nothing - NOTHING - that embodies the strange glamour of working of in an office, quite like the canteen. Oh, I could spend hours here. You see servers and buffets full of gloopy beef and stir fry that tastes exactly like the pasta alfredo; but I see an exotic and tantalising array of culinary possibilities. You have no idea what it's like to leave the sweaty cheese and stale bread at home and instead walk up to a counter and decide what flavour wrap I'll have - or, better still, order a capuccino!

If my fascination with these corporate commonplaces sounds bizarre, consider that for the past 10 years I have been tucked away in someone's house, with absolutely no connection to the outside world save for the occasional email or phone call. Oftentimes, I used to wonder if the Rapture had taken place and everyone else had moved on to a better place, leaving me grappling with a deadline that really didn't matter any more.

So that's the good when it comes to office life - but there is also the bad and the ugly:

3) Lifts. The silver lining here is that summonsing a lift gives me the chance to flash my access card around a bit. But on the other hand, I am not a person who goes in for frottage (look it up), and close contact with others makes me squirm. Especially when they have conversations like this: "Does that tonic work?" "Yes, especially for mucus." "And increased energy?" "No, just mucus." Ahem, Ms Mucus, do you either know or care that you have just confessed to us all that you are a heaving Snot Monster?

4) The toilets. I look around at the women in my office, all of them writing for upmarket magazines, and all of them bearing the trappings of a well to do life - neon accessories and summer scarves, for example - and I can't imagine what these females have done to make it necessary to post notices saying "PLEASE FLUSH!" Also, why must they be reminded to wash their hands? Just an aside here: my lavatorial loathing has probably been deepened by two factors. The first is that, unfortunately, my thighs touch the SHE bin when I sit down. Doesn't bear thinking about - except to say that there is probably no clearer message that it's time to lose the pregnancy weight. The second is that, in a state of nervous distraction on my first day, I dropped the toilet roll down the bowl, resulting in an unplesant bout of fishing around to retrieve it because I felt bad for the next person who would try to use that cubicle.

So that's it: my first week, in a nutshell.

 

Nasty things my husband says about my clothes

I'm starting a new job tomorrow, at a rather glamorous magazine. It's the first time I've worked in an office since I did my internship back in the 90s - until last year, I worked in a home office where I used to spontaneously choreograph interpretive dance moves to entertain my sister (who was also my colleague), wear slippers and make a party train to the kitchen when I wanted a cup of coffee (it was a rather sad party train, as there were only the two of us most of the time, and she doesn't like party training).

I don't think such moves are going to go down too well at the new company, which is one of South Africa's largest media organisations. I didn't think my clothes will, either: it's a bit hard to gush about glamour when you yourself are wearing a T-shirt stained with breast milk and there is a carroty crust in the hank of hair that's hanging down next to your ear because you were slap dash when you tied the rest of its limp friends into a ponytail.

Thus, I took action. My plan was to have a haircut and a pedicure, as well as a new wardrobe: in my mind's eye, I strode into the office with a Brazillianed Cleopatra bob and my nails flashing vintage red. As it is, the thought of spending all that time away from Leya sent me into a panic and I refused to leave her at all this week, so my feet look like the leather that is given to old Eskimo women to chew on and my hair is perching like a wayward cat on my shoulders.

But I do have some nice new clothes. At least, I think they are nice. I have gone for some dresses that I am sure can be described by some special fashion word, but I don't know what it is. James, I am sure, would like to hazard a guess, as he has expressed some strong views on my new look.

For my first day, I have chosen one of those dresses that has to be explained to you by the shop assistant, otherwise you end up wearing it upside down. I am regularly drawn to these garments: a few years ago, I spotted a bright orange item at The Space in Rosebank. I liked the colour, and although I couldn't quite make out which part you put on your body, the label had it down as a 'skirt/top'. I wasn't really sure how those two pieces of clothing could be interchangeable, related to two entirely parts of the body as they are, but nonetheless, into the change room I went, and slid it, poncho style, over my head. I found it odd that the iterm seemed to have been designed with slits strategically placed so as to display, rather than cover, my boobs, but since I've never been much of a fashionista, I just thought it was an avant garde look, and decided I would wear a strappy vest underneath. I did have concerns that I would look like one of those children's drawings of a seal at the circus - you know, with a frill around its neck. But hey, I thought, sometimes it's nice to be edgy.

As it turns out, the top was meant to be worn as a boob tube - around the chest, not the neck.

James, it would appear, does not share my appreciation for the unusual frock. When I tried on my first day dress, I was so excited, so proud that I looked nothing like a mommy, that I was beaming. Which is why it hurt when he erupted with a guffaw, snorting, "You look like you're going to a toga party. No wait, are you wearing a continental pillow case."

He was not much more complimentary about my next choice; a dress which is admittedly a little large and square but which gains shape when you gather it in with a belt. Cue the laughter, again; this time, I looked like I had taken a black garbage bag and cut holes for the neck and arms.

This is not the first time James has been mean about my clothes. My favourite assymmetrical white blouse has been dubbed my 'mastectomy shirt'; he told me one of my button downs made me look as if I had got into a fight with a tramp and the tramp walked away with half my clothes.

But I don't care. I am entering the fashion world, James, and leaving those who walk around in takkies and socks with their costumes (ahem) far behind. So don't even try to walk next to me and share my glamour next time we're out.

New adventures

This week, Leya and I joined one of those child stimulation classes, mostly because I have run out of ideas to keep her occupied. Even I no longer laugh when I walk her from mirror to mirror saying, "Who's that pretty girl in the mirror there? That's right - it's mommee!"

So off we trundle. We arrive at our class late, so I knock politely and apologise. "That's! Alright!" exclaims the teacher, who sounds as if she's high on Rainbow-and-Fairy flavoured Redbull. "And! who! do! we! have! here!?" You can practically see the exclamation marks, pink and glittery, bouncing through the air. I just know that, were I to encounter this person early in the morning, I would hate her. And yet, when I answer, I find the same creepily over-enthusiastic voice coming out of my mouth. "This! Is! Leya!" I boom happily. It sounds like a CeeBeeBees audition with a whole lot of try-too-harders.

Now I notice that Ms. "I can airpunch with my voice" has strapped on a clown-shaped full-body apron, kind of like a mask that starts at her crown and ends at her feet. "Leya, say hello to Tommy!!!!!"

"Umm, I think that Leya may have a genetic fear of clowns," I admit. I feel bad because I can see that she really, really wants Leya and her alter ego Tommy to be friends, but facts are facts and I would rather spend a night with a tarantula than shake Tommy's hand. "BUT TOMMY IS A FRIENDLY CLOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!" she excitedly insists. I remain sceptical, remembering that "But I am a friendly clown" were the very words that came out of the mouth of a clown I met at Gold Reef City, whom James had told about my clown phobia. Shortly after making this promise, she proceeded to chase me around the theme park on her unicycle. She was particularly scary because she was wearing stockings that had little bits of wool embroidered on them to make it look like she had hairy legs. Such attention to detail mught be admirable in other instances, but here it just seemed especially threatening.

Leya looks at Tommy, aghast. It is clear that she, too, is thinking that, somewhere, there is a serial killer who enjoys making people into scatter cushions and lures them by wearing much the same get up.

Nonetheless, we survived. Leya had a natural talent for all the activities, winding the bobbin with alacrity and snatching beanbags with the speed of a mugger outside a tourist hotspot. I was amazed that the teacher did not comment on her obviously superior skills, and even made an oblique invitation for her to do so, saying, "I know her father will want to know how she performed. What can I tell him?" I figured that Iwould sound less like a freakily competitive stage mom if I implied it was James who was interested in these things. I'm not sure that the teacher was fooled. When she replied, her voice gave nothing away - except that this is definitely a woman who should stay away from caffeine and helium.

The unbearable tightness of bad jeans

My friends Lisa and Chevorne have a term for people with short legs: Ducks. This is because, with their stumpy little appendages, their bums appear to dangle just centimeters above the ground, at sharp odds with torsos that are the same length as everyone else's, in much the same manner as - you guessed it - a waddling duck.

I, sadly, am very definitely a duck. Don't get me wrong, there are undeniable advantages to this body type. I don't get uncomfortable on plane trips or during movies, and people travelling long distances with me in a car like me because they don't have to move their seats forward when I sit in the back.

But there are drawbacks, too. It's a matter of bad jeans.

Now, you find me a girl who enjoys shopping for jeans and I'll show you a girl who has never let a Ferrero Rocher pass her lips; a girl with such high self esteem that Maslow built his entire theory of self-actualisation around her. For the rest of us, however, jeans shopping is an exercise in self-flagellation. Worse, actually, as I would rather shave my shins with a cheese grater that had been dipped in salt, than stare at my cellulitey ass trying to shimmy into a pair of denims that, inevitably, will get stuck half mast around my giganti-hips. If I am to tackle the challenge of finding a pair that look good, it must be on a day when I am feeling invincible; when I have had only one brownie in the week; when my hair is straight and shiny rather than pulled into the half pony I favour when in a rush (a look that should be labelled the anti-Botox as it instantly makes me look like a middle aged tuckshop mom called Beryl)  and when I have, if not polished my toenails (because, with my lack of interest in grooming, that's an unlikely event), at least cut them.

Such days do not come about often.

My reluctance to invest time in finding the perfect pair has resulted in some horrible mistakes. It would appear that people with my hip size have much longer legs, as most of my jeans have ended well below my cankles, leaving me with three options: I can a) roll them four times, so that I have donutty bunches at the bottom of my pants, making it impossible to take neat steps with my feet in line with each other - instead, I have adopt a slightly more wide-legged gait; b) wear them long, so that I look like an old-fashioned Chinese mandarin with a mysterious and surprising penchant for hiding things in my pant legs or c) throw away my flats and wear high heels forever, embracing a circa-1990s, I-like-to-look-vaguely-corporate-even-on-weekends look.

I thought that my hunt for the perfect pair had come to an end on honeymoon. If you think about it, this was an auspicious time: I had just ceased to be a single girl, plucked from the desert of loneliness by my man. So, too, had I been rescued from the morass of bad denim by my chance visit to Diesel at the Tel Aviv airport. The jeans were a revelation: softest blue denim, a great length, snug around the waist, creating that elusive combination: comfort and good looks.

I would be able to wear them for another three months before I fell pregnant.

What happened after was nasty. I have nothing nice to say about the jeans I wore while pregnant; suffice to say that by the end of my 30 kilogram ordeal, the fuzzy black wasitband (jeans with a fold down waist - the horror!) had been washed so many times it had grown a fungus of bolletjies. Emerging from these beauts was a great occasion. But quickly it soured - their replacement was a pair of skinnies with a crotch that had a nasty habit of hanging around my knees, and pulling my knickers down with it. I felt utterly compromised when wearing them.

Thus, you can imagine my delight when I discovered, today, that I can fit into my dream Diesels once more. I would of course be more delighted if the frayed bits that were apparently included in the denim weave to give an artful shabby chic look hadn't given up the ghost - they've gone from frayed to falling apart, I can only imagine because the strain of trying to hold my thighs in was to much for cotton threads without the benefit of reinforcements. If these jeans were a person, they would be the puny IT guy who had entered a gym for the first time and was trying to benchpress 200kg.

They're going to take the pain, though. There's no way I'm going shopping for a new pair.


 

Don't grow up too fast, little girl

This weekend, Leya did something that broke my heart, had me crying at 3am on Sunday morning: she grew a tooth.

My gorgeous niece waited a full year before she started teething, so I honestly thought that we would be able to delight in Leya's tortoisey smile for some time to come. But no - it seems as though that baby face is going to change all too quickly (oddly, while most babies apparently grow the bottom front tooth first, Leya's tiny pearler is on the top jaw, so that when it has fully emerged she's going to look a little like a Disney crone).

How can this have happened so fast? It seems that just yesterday she was a minute blob with a decidedly Asian cast to her face and hair that grew in a helmet shape, starting at her left eyebrow, stretching around the back of her head and ending at the right. Not only that, but her hairline started at her eyebrows too. (We found it most amusing that a baby bearing the name of one of the world's most famous space characters should have an astronaut's headpiece fashioned entirely from her own hair.)

I remember how she used to glare at us, her snappish eyes darting from side to side and her diminutive hands clasped at the fingertips like a small but furious shareholder who was decidedly unimpressed by the results reported at the latest Board meeting. It was as though she found the world decidedly lacking, and was placing the blame solely at our door. "What do you think her personality will be like?" I asked James one morning and he, looking at her cross, hirsute little visage answered, "Angry and suspicious, I'm afraid."

How wrong he was. Leya has a grin for everyone: many's the time an onlooker has turned to me, awed and happy and said, "She smiled at me! Babies never smile at me!" It's really sweet that they feel favoured in this manner; far be it for me to tell them that my daughter is the world's most undiscriminating smiler.

Now that that smile is about to change, I feel bereft. It's just one step from here to her refusing to walk next to me when we go to Sandton City because she finds it embarrassing to have parents; and wearing a brown velour tracksuit when I force her to do so, in the time honoured tradition of children who believe that the best way to deflect attention when with their parents is to look ugly. Of course she won't always want to look ugly though; soon she'll be thinking about boys...and this sets my mind down a train of thought it just can't handle.

Is it any wonder that during tonight's Mommy Shuffle I warbled my way poignantly through 'Sunrise, Sunset, stumbling sadly over the words?

Drat that tooth!

Rice and other dirty four letter words

James has a little tale he likes to tell about me: during our first year together, I took him out for a romantic birthday dinner. We were both wearing our very nicest clothes and smiling a lot at each other - and then something happened that revealed the real me: the waiter gave us the dessert menus. Unable to choose from the list of delisheses, we decided to get two different dishes and share.

We both attacked James' pudding with gusto, making great gulping grunts of delight. Then, we turned our attention to the scrumptious little morsel waiting patiently on my side of the table. "Mmmmm," I swooned, "that's delicious." James, his spoon poised, waited for his invitation to dig in. "That's just outstanding," I muttered between lip licking. "Mmm mmm mmmm MMMMM." By now, he was looking a little agitated, wondering when I was going to slide the plate toward him for his share of the dessert - a moment which, as it turned out, simply didn't arrive. "Gosh, that was good," I said as I finished the last mouthful. That was when James realised that I had never had any intention of sharing; that I had only pretended to support his idea of going halves on each serving so that I could eat most of his dessert and all of mine, too.

No, it's not a flattering story; but it's one that illustrates the seriousness with which I take my food; a trait I appear to have passed on to my daughter.

When Leya was introduced to solids two weeks ago, I was warned that the going might be tough. "She'll pull all kinds of funny faces," the nurse told me. "She might gag, but you must just push on through," advised my sister (counsel I could thoroughly identify with, as many's the time I have felt positively ill because of the sheer volume I have ingested, yet, determined to continue until the last mouthful is down the hatch, I push on with the perseverance of a woman in a Nike ad).

As it turned out, we need not have worried. I had scarcely mixed up Leya's cereal when she seized the spoon from me and all but swallowed it whole. She has taken to food in a manner that does her maternal family - a group of people who think nothing of going out for coffee and cake seconds after the breakfast dishes have been cleared - most proud.

In fact, such is her enthusiasm that no matter how quickly I tried to feed her, I just can't shovel that cereal in fast enough. Hence, the establishment of my two-spoon production line - while Leya is munching down on one spoon, the second is already loading up the next mouthful. It's not actually necessary to present one spoon after the other; she quite likes having both proffered at the same time, so she can go from one to the other, her head darting quickly from side to side as if watching a tennis match on a miniature court.

Even then, it sometimes happens that proceedings do not take place at the speed she would like. At such times, Leya finds one of the blobs of cereal which has fallen to her bib, and sucks them off. Sometimes, she tries to eat her bowl. With an excitement that would not be out of place at a Roman feast, she happily squelches the cereal into her hair, mascaras it onto her eyelashes and mashes it between her toes. I, too, get covered in flying rice flakes, until I am covered in a crispy caul of cereal. Yesterday was a particularly messy day: Just as I brought Spoon Number Two, fully loaded, up to her mouth, a giant sneeze from Leya made the cereal fly even further. Jackson Pollack could not have been a better job.

The last stage of the meal involves removing my little girl, now covered in her own food coating like a breaded chicken schnitzel, from her Bumbo and placing her in the bath. This is no easy task, for two reasons: I'm still trying to avoid the giant gobs of cereal (a pointless exercise, really, as one or two extra dabs on my clothes will make no difference) and, in addition, Leya's chunksome thighs tend to get stuck in the legholes. As a result, this is usually a two-person job: one holds her seat down while the other gives her a hearty yank. Going it alone often means that baby and Bumbo arise as one solid unit.

There's no doubt that mealtimes are the ultimate nightmare for anyone who's even mildly tactile defensive. But they're also one of the greatest comedic events of my day.
 

Creepy things I do to my baby 2: The hand that rocks the cradle

So, let's talk stalking.

If you are a man reading this, and we used to have a relationship, you need to realise that, at some point, I have stalked you. Remember the 90s, when your phone rang a lot but there was never anyone on the other end? Oh yes there was; it was me, trying to find out if you were home - and, if you were, trying to fathom why you weren't phoning me. If we were at varsity together, you may have spied me walking a good couple of hundred meters out of my way to see if the light in your res room was burning. And if our fling happened in the past decade - well, what is Facebook for, really?

Now, there's no point really in stalking James since he's with me most of the time. And so I have turned my attentions to Leya. Well, not Leya herself per se; rather, her nanny. In fact, both of them together.

You see, I'm terribly jealous of Leya's nanny. She is a wonderful, old-fashioned type of nanny; the kind of lady with a giant laugh and an even bigger heart that Leya will reminisce about when she's all grown up and has babies of her own. She'll tell them how, when she was tiny, Nomonde used to make up songs for her; and shake her tinkly giraffe for her, pretending its was an ice cream van and she had to choose her favourite flavour; and how, when Leya was just a newborn and nothing I would do could stop her crying, Nomonde would get out of her bed late at night and soothe her within seconds.

All of which should make me love Nomonde - and make no mistake, I do. But I know that Leya loves her too, and - well, there's no way of putting this without sounding scary and psycho, so here goes: I want to be the person she loves best.

Yes, I do realise that sounds like the admission of an Edward Norton character. But here's something even worse: so crazed am I by the sound of Leya and Nomonde having fun and laughing together that I follow them throughout the house. That's right: I will leave whatever I'm doing to casually saunter past Leya's room, hover outside the door, and try nonchalantly to peek in. Of course, I can't help but feel silly doing this - there's no way you can feel good about yourself while spying on your baby.

Inevitably, my jealousy has found expression in a furious spirit of competitiveness. I've explained before how, when Leya cries after waking up, I run with a speed that would make Bolt blush to reach the cot. Nomonde meanders over too, and together, we transport Leya to her change mat. That's right, it takes two of us to walk two meters and place a baby on a compactum.

Now it's time to dress her; a job that falls under Nomonde's ambit; but, coldly, I shoulder her out the way. But what's this? Leya isn'transfixed by me; instead, she's still beaming over my shoulder at her nanny. What to do to reclaim her attention? Ah, an orangatang-like shriek should do the trick. "Leeeeeeyyyyyyyaaaa", I scream piercingly. At this point, I think Nomonde has wised up to the fact that we're rivals for affection. "Baaaaaaaaaaaaabbbyyy" she hollers. I lose, because Nom can ululate, and I can't. But that doesn't mean I don't give it my best shot, and for two minutes, the house reverberates with the screeches of two grown women making nonsensical sounds, garbling and gurbling as we strain to be the first to make Leya smile, until our throats are raw and scratchy.

Sometimes, I think that Nom has ventured into the realm of psychological warfare. Just the other day, she and Leya were walking outside when I hear, outside my window, "such big smiles, Leya. Why are you smiling so much?" Hrrrumph, I though to myself. Why are you smiling so much? Why are you having fun without me? I stood to peer out the window and identify the cause of such mirth. But there was nothing. No smile even - which made made me wonder if Nom had made it all up, in the way of a teenage girl exaggerating her Saturday night to make her friends envious.

None of this is sane, I know. It's slightly shameful; I know that too. But whoever said that love and sense walk hand in hand?

Creepy things I do to my baby

One of the first things you notice about Leya is her mouth. It looks like an adult's kisser has been planted on her baby face: her lips are all pouty and rosebuddish, with a cupid's bow the likes of which is usually not seen except on the painted faces of 1920s screen idols.

Needless to say, this is a mouth that just screams, "kiss me, mommy!" (Well, not really. At the moment it just screams like a parrot; sometimes, when I wake up to hear Leya's squeals and chortles, I feel like I must have mislaid myself at the Montecasino Bird Park during the night.) BUT - I know that if she could give kisses, she certainly would. And so, as all good mothers should, I lend a helping hand. After her 2am feed, when Leya is sleeping and has no idea of what I am subjecting her to, I wrap one tiny arm around my waist as if she is cuddling into me. It's absolutely delicious; I feel like she and I are having a real snuggle. Of course, during her waking hours, she is far too busy to do this, so it's precious time indeed. Then, after staring at her for a good 10 minutes, I bend towards her tiny face and smoonch my cheek onto her mouth, so that it is as if she has decided to give me a smacker. I do this several times, until she starts to frown in her sleep and pummel me a little with her tiny fists, and that's when I return her to her cot.

Yes, I suppose it is a little creepy to force kisses from a sleeping baby. But that's nothing compared to how I stalk her and her nanny throughout the day...which is a story for another time.
 

Nigellisms

Nigella. I absolutely love her. Who else could make cooking look so saucy (no pun intended). While I have always felt sorry for the ingredients that have given their lives so that I can enjoy my fillet pasta, I picture that same cow mooing with happiness at the privilege of being masterfully massaged with olive oil by Nigella's skilled hands.

There are some parts of her cooking technique that worry me, however. The constant tossing of those glossy locks - should she not put a hair net over that mane? That's just an accident waiting to happen. No matter how luscious a tart, no one likes sinking their teeth into a pastry and finding a stringy hair attached to their lips. I know this, because back in my childhood, I bit into a romany cream baked by my granny, and as I pulled the biscuit away from my mouth I felt the sensation of a hair dragging across my tongue; a feeling so repulsive it has become indelibly burned on my memory and has given me a phobia that makes me check every meal for hair ever since (sadly, this proves the dictum that if you seek, you shall find, as I almost inevitably find some keratin strands in whatever I'm eating). I can't even tell you how nervous the batting of her eyelids makes me feel. No one wants to crunch down on someone else's mascara-coated lashes.

The heaving chest, too, is a tad worrisome - at least for Nigella's domestic. We all know that a jutting bosom makes for the perfect drip tray, and I can only imagine that Nigella's cleaning staff have had some battles removing the tougher stains resulting from her boobs catching bits of falling ingredients.

But it is her way with words that captivates me most. Here, then, are some of my favourite Nigellisms:
- "Look at their chocolatey little bodies" - You'd think she's tooking about gorgeously fat black babies here, but no - it's dessert
- "Hessian woven strands" - that's spaghetti to you and me
- "I find that gooseberries are far more proud" - Yes, I probably do have a dirty mind, but for some reason this makes me think of the panting breasts of Mills & Boon heroines
- "Look at them reclining on their duvet of cream" - Actually, perhaps it is not me who has the dirty mind
- "I just love this art deco colour scheme, jet and gold" - For heaven's sake, it's only a pavlova!

People who comment on other people's babies

I've said it before, but I'm constantly amazed at how the world's attitude towards you changes when you are pregnant or have a young baby.

When I was toddling around, dragging my 30 extra kilograms of self, I was appreciative of the sympathetic glances that came my way; although slightly less so when strangers asked, with a freaky awed expression in their voices - as if they were blessed to come into contact with my fertility - if they could rub my stomach, a region too uncomfortably close to my swimsuit area for me to feel ok with being touched by anyone except my husband.

Now that I am toting Leya around, the glances I get are even more beatific. It's as if people have stumbled across Mary in their midst, and they can't believe sher is ding something as commonplace as having a cappucino. And I won't lie; as someone who frankly enjoys a spot of attention, I rather enjoy it, and I find it especially gratifying when people compliment my daughter (as well they should).

But when their comments go in the opposite direction - well, that's a different story altogether. I have just come from a breakfast where a man I have never met before walks up to me and inspects Leya with a shrewd eye, like a sheep farmer at a Free State auction. Immediately this strikes me as odd; attention from women I expect, but when men - and elderly men at that - want to discuss my baby, I wonder why they are not more interested in stocks and bonds, even if that makes me a chauvinist. "Hmm," says the man speculatively, "what's that on her wrist?"

"A birthmark," I answer, still bemused.

"Ah," he says, "that's alright then." My hackles rise slightly, I must confess. Am I to be relieved that this stranger does not mind my daughter having a birthmark? Has he been so troubled by it?

Now he leans in, confidingly. "She's a bit chubby, isn't she," he asks. Now, the answer to that is self-evident. Leya is a gloriously fat baby. The rolls on her thighs are so poly that it looks like she has three 'wu-wus' (as her dad calls them); her hands feel like soft feather quilts. Her plumpness is delicious, and I love it. "Yes," I say proudly. I must at this point mention that the man in question has a double chin so loose and wobbly it looks like a goitre cut loose from its moorings and trying to escape his neck - but, despite his own physical shortcomings, he says to me, "Well, as long as she loses it all."

WHAT??? Since when does it matter if babies are fat? Personally, I feel sorry for thin babies, but I would never walk up to a mom and say "Shame, your child looks like a brittle twig jutting from your hip." Since when is it ok to cast negative aspersions on people's relatives and their looks? Would he like it if I went up to him and said, "Tough luck with what happened to your daughter's face their, chum. Ah well, there's always rhinoplasty."

Does anyone else get indignant about this, or am I just defensive and sensitive, and perhaps in need of an extra hour's sleep?

The scariest thing in the world

A little while ago, James made us watch The Woman in Black. He said he chose it because he thought it would be amusing to watch Harry Potter in a grown up role - and, indeed, it's a little difficult to buy the boy wizard as a bereaved 30-year-old (although, in one scene, it did look as though he had a scar on his forehead - this time, for some uncreditable reason, the MasterChef symbol).

If you haven't watched the film, it's heavy on the melodrama; a ghost story complete with chairs that rock even though there is no one sitting on them, toy monkeys clanging cymbals and vacant eyed girls in Victorian dress. In a roundabout way, it's about a haunted house, with all the occult action taking place in the nursery. A sublime choice for someone who has to get up to breastfeed during the night, especially someone whose imagination is as mild and orderly as Charlie Sheen.

I first started taking fright in my house when I saw the cellar. It's deep enough for me to stand upright, and runs the full length of the house. It was my sister who made me think of it as something more sinister than an awesome place to store wine: "What if thieves hide in here?" she asked. I now realise that if someone is prepared to hunker down somewhere dark and dank for hours, hack their way through wooden floors, then drag away our TV without waking us, they probably deserve their loot.

However, her comment did get me thinking, not so much about thieves as ghosts: what if there is a resident phantom lurking down below? Many's the time I've waited for James to come home, terrified that said spectre might float through the floorboards.

I'm equally scared of our bathroom; not only because it has a full length mirror in the shower (a terrifying sight), but because it has glass doors leading outside, meaning that anyone meandering past can see in. My particular fear about this room was again fuelled by a film, this time one starring Jonathan Rhys Meyer as a possessed and demonic meanie. Since watching it, I have been unable to stop imagining Jonathan's icy blues staring at me while I'm on the loo, to the point where I feel really shy every time I wee and try make it all happen as quickly as possible. I am still a little scared that such a scenario should transpire, although I realise that if it did, it really is more likely to be a criminal peeking in, and that would just be embarrassing. Should this happen, I do hope that I really am just making a wee, and I dread the policeman asking me what I was doing at the time of the break-in.

But I digress. Now that we have Leya, the baby monitor has created all manner of food for my phobias. I lie there at night, imagining that I can hear someone say "Hello" over the airwaves. It's doubtful that any intruder - real or otherwise - would start their intrusion with a courteous greeting, but there you go.

The reality, though, is that there is something very scary lurking in the nursery at night - and it's Leya herself. Anyone who has walked into a baby's room at 3am, only to be greeted by a giant toothless grin, will know what I am talking about. These are times when no amount of Grand Old Duke of York helps. Leya wants to PLAY. Nor is it possible to bounce her to sleep on the gym ball - I've tried, only but found its impossible to balance with one's eyes shut. I've tried feeding her without making eye contact, but have discovered that she has an uncommonly compelling stare. I begin to feel quite juvenile and churlish, like a child ignoring her best friend for no good reason.

That's the thing: Leya just looks so delighted to see me. And the truth is that, if my eyes weren't gummed shut by sleep, I would be delighted to see her, too. But there we sit, in a tortured stand-off, her happily gurgling, me groaning and yawning, until 5am.

And then, suddenly, the tide turns. Her excitement at seeing me turns, in a second, to rage. Her tiny face turns puce and she bellows, her fury bordering on indignation, for all the world as if I am the one who insisted on a midnight rendezvous. Now it's her that's exhausted and me that's oulling out all the stop to mollify until, finally, she slips back into slumber, and I'm able to use the last reserves of my energy to leopard crawl back into bed.

All of which makes me think: surely no encounter with a ghost could be quite as wearisome

 

The giant vajayjay and other horror stories

I have to ask myself why I watched Channel 184 last night. There I was, all tucked up in bed, when my sister advised me that Embarrassing Bodies would be featuring a giant vagina. Well, I was intrigued - wouldn't you be? I mean, what exactly constitutes a giant vagina? Immediately, I thought of that tunnel one comes across when travelling to Limpopo.

Now, I am in no way proud to admit this, but even with Level 9 exhaustion, I climbed out of bed and back on to the couch where, just an hour ago, I had been treated to another view of Gordon Ramsay's bum (Why? Why has Ramsay's rump become a superstar in its own right? Again I say: is this a man for whom it is necessary to strip off every five seconds?)

But Gordon's derreriere was nothing compared to the sight that was in store. For the uninitiated, Embarrassing Bodies is a series all about the grotesqueries that we usually only admit to after the third cocktail, and only if our drinking companions are our very closest friends, or even share our DNA. Even then, when one awakens the next day and recalls recounting, blow by blow, the finer points of one's flatulence problem or third nipple, one feels not so much liberated as steeped in shame, and greatly encouraged to check out to move town.

Not so the people on Embarrassing Bodies: the producers have somehow conned a bunch of folk into believeing that the very health issues they have kept secret for years should now be shown, not only to a doctor, but to the whole world; the idea being that they visit the show's medical  experts, who can be found hanging out in a special trailer waiting for people apparently desperate to be on TV, but no good at hosting dinner parties, to show them their verucas and halitosis. Think of it as Come Be Repulsive and Misshapen With Me.

Ms. Salami Down A Passage Way is a case in point: in all honesty, I'm freaked out by the voyeuristic streak that made me sit down and watch something so intimate - and, even worse, that got a good giggle out of it. But if that's bad, what about the producers who felt compelled to flight something like this, knowing that this worst kind of Sideshow Bob would boost viewing figures in a way that a programme about, I don't know, good old fashioned romance between a man and a normally endowed woman wouldn't. And as for the lady with the large labia - clearly, this is something very painful for her. I'm just not sure why, when she's been reluctant to share with boyfriends her little - oh, sorry, gigantic - problem, she decided to skip the gynae appointment and go straight for the money shot, to be viewed by millions.

What made it even worse were the pithy little comments, replete with puns, that British reality presenters seem to be so fond of. But, while it may sound cheesy to say "Will Tracey and Dom sizzle like the steak she just cooked for him" on Dinner Date, telling us that "Mary's roomy bits have her and her husband sleeping in seperate rooms" is not quite the same.

That all said, I've lost my appetite for spying on things that in a more genteel era would have been kept under one's hat (or knickers, as the case may be). Perhaps it's not necessary to describe a pregger as being "in the family way", but in my mind, it's equally unnecessary to have a gander at the parts involved in getting her that way.

 

What's up with Gordon Ramsay?

A few years ago, Gordon Ramsay was just a chef with a potty mouth and a face like a sharpei. Now he's turned into some kind of sex symbol.

Don't believe me? Then tune into Gordon Ramsay's Hotel Nightmares. Yes, our furrow faced friend has stepped out of the kitchen and is using his expertise as a seasoned meanie to lambast hotel owners who really should know better than to use Auntie Dorothy's floral nightgown as a bedspread or allow great wads of hair to collect in the drain.

When we're not treated to views of Gordon's trademark expressions of disbelief and horror, signified by ever more rapid rubbing of his brow and eyes, there is the odd money shot: just the other day, I caught a peek of his pert little bum (actually, it's neither) as he stepped into the shower. The thought did occur to me: my, how far Gordon's come. He started out cooking rump, and now he's showing his.

I did, however, find this little splash of nudity bizarre, coming as it did in the middle of a programme highlighting the problem of inadequate security at hospitality establishments. Nonetheless, Gordon carried it off with flair, managing to appear simultaneously coy and furiously put out by the hotel's shortcomings, as if it were somehow the manager's fault that he had to take his clothes off to shower. Also, I won't pretend it wasn't refreshing to have a man's bits flashed across my TV screen, even if his bum is about 99th on my list of posterior must-sees, hovering somewhere between Bill Crosby and the guy who pumps gas at the Shell on the corner of my road.

 

Mind if I don't

It all started innocurously enough: back in 1939, faced with the fear that the Nazis were about to start banging on Britain's door, the government dreamed up a propaganda campaign that spoke directly to the nation's fortitude and ability to keep drinking tea even while the SS were polishing their jackboots. Keep Calm and Carry On, they said (I would write 'urged', but it hints at the very kind of strong emotion that is swallowed up by the stiff upper lip). Although this stirring slogan was printed on posters, their distribution was rather limited, so the entire campaign was all rather under the radar. Until 2012, when 15 new posters came to light, and what followed was anything but calm.

All of a sudden, the need for calm was bleated at us from all manner of items: from scatter cushions, from cakes, from bunting. Never before has calmness been so feted; if the number of instructions to keep calm and carry on is anything to go by, then we are a society prone to dropping our pens, remote controls, shopping lists (or whatever the case may be) and falling into an eye-rolling, foot-stomping, hyperventilating fit with nary the slightest provocation.

Personally, I find that this chirpy little tagline has a very unsoothing effect. It makes me so irritated, that immediately I want to fly into a wild rage and rip whatever is bearing the slogan to pieces. This might be because it has become absorbed into other trends that I absolutely loathe: botanical prints, peter pan collars,cupcakes and ceramic bunnies - basically, anything that is commonly described as 'lovely' or 'sweet'. So, yes, put a poster in front of me saying 'Keep calm and have some chocolate', 'Keep calm and hug a ceramic bunny', or 'keep calm and have a pedicure', and I will gouge your eyes out. After that, I will, indeed feel far more serene.

I wonder if there is a male counterpoint to all this Zooey Deschanel, crochet-type calmness. Are there any navy blue posters out there saying, "Keep calm and watch some rugby", "Keep calm and eat some biltong" or "Keep Calm; it's still there".

There are, however, some iterations of the line that I have found and like very much: I will not keep calm and you can shut the fuck, says the one, while the other says Freak out and go hysterical. Far more my line of behaviour.

And so, with apologies to Dr. Seuss and Sam I am, I have composed a little rhyme:

I will not keep calm.
I will not keep calm in a barn,
I will not keep calm on a farm.

I will not keep calm and eat a cupcake,
I'm chubby enough for goodness' sake.

I will not hug a ceramic bunny
I find them neither cute nor funny.

I will not keep calm and wash my hair
I will not keep calm and dance on air
I like to lose my temper, so there.

I will not keep calm and carry on
I tried it once, and found it's wrong.


 

Choosing shoes

Forgive the conceit, but I think that, in my former unbabied life, I managed to be slightly glamorous. When my hair wasn't plunging, lemming-like, down the drain, it was always GHD'd into helmet-like submission; I could prance, goat-like, in high heels, and I owned a pair of jeans that I actually looked good in (again, this sounds like bragging, but considering my upper and lower bodies are so at adds with each other, it looks like two different people were joined together at the waist, this is no mean feat). I even owned a stock of vintage dresses so that I could be pretentious at gallery openings and the like.

Ah, how I miss the polish of those days of yore. I think of them with the fond nostalgia of McCaulay Culkin remembering the eighties; they are a blinking mirage of fabulousness casting a shadow over the distinctly unglamorous me that stares back in the mirror every morning.

For there's no getting around it: I look like a potter. Not just any potter; a vegan one. Someone who eats sprouts and has an earthworm composting unit.

I have my hair to thank for this new image: having escaped the confines of its bob, its behaving like a defiant teenager. Not quite straight, it refuses to be curly either. Instead, it hangs around in unflattering frills around my face, making me look like a sad spaniel or, worse still, like Jan van Riebeeck after a late night.

Then there are my eyebrows. I have no idea what shape my eyebrows are, since I have been plucking them religiously since university. In fact, back in those days I tended to get a little carried away, and consequently resembled a surprised Marlene Dietrich. Nowadays, either my vigilance has waned or those little little hairs have become far more enduring - make that sneaky, actually, as many's the time that I check to see if a plucking is in order, decide the answer is no, and wake up the next morning looking like Fuzzy Felt has been affixed to my forehead.

By far the greatest contributor to my new down-home look, however, are my shoes. I actually have great shoes tucked away in my cupboard: shoes that make your heart give a little squinch, that are so beautiful you don't want to touch them. But there is little call for seven centimeter heels while I am doing a mommy shuffle, so I tend to stick to sandals. The problem with this is that I seem to have neglected updating my 'shoedrobe' last year, and therefore have to choose between several variations of hideous gladiators. They're all bad, but by the worst pair by far looks like they have leprosy, with little scags of old silver paint hanging desperately to straps that have started to curl at the sides. I hate to admit it, but these are also the most comfortable - which means that (arrest me now, fashion police), they're the pair I wear most often.

This week, I took myself in hand. Begone, aura of clay and kiln, I thought to myself - and so, in a moment laden with expectation and excitement, I stepped into Woolworths. Sadly, though, it has been some time since I went shopping, as my paranoia about Overstimulating Leya means thatr my outings are generally restricted to the kind of restaurants that have jumping castles and hot dogs on the menu. I therefore found myself terribly out of practice. Oh, the selection - there were flatforms and platforms, ballet pumps (not a great choice for summer) and sandals with narrow neon strips, with silk flowers, with kitten heels, with high heels - but there was not, alas, a simple, wear it with anything plain shoe, the wardrobe solultion my ugly silver gladiators presented all those years ago.

Bombarded by colour, materials and choice, I started whimpering. Leya started whimpering too. It was horrible. I turned tail and ran, as fast as one can go pushing a pram the size of a Hummer.

I now feel very sad: a golden opportunity to look like someone who understands what is meant by 'colour blocking', wasted. I now have to concentrate on rebuilding my shopper's focus and getting back out there, like a divorcee going out for drinks.

The only thing is, no matter how well I prepare for my next shopping excursion, the fact remains: I will have to walk into the shop in my leprous gladiators, hoping no one looks at them while I try on new pairs. A walk of shame, if ever there was one.

Dating and disasters

One thing I've noticed as a new mom is that other new moms seem to be on a bit of a friend recruitment drive. It's almost like speed dating - we meet at baby massage, moms and tots or whatever other baby-centred activity is taking place that day, and then invite each other for coffee. Ostensibly, this is so that we can build up a circle of friends for our offspring. However, I have not noticed Leya partaking in any serious conversations with her peers at these get togethers, so I infer that what's really going on here is that my fellow moms have, like me, realised that our old friends are losing patience with our habit of consistently arriving half an hour later than arranged and staring at them with the zombie eyes of the exhausted, while making incorrect responses because our brains simply don't keep up any more.

Sadly for me, my mommy dating has not, so far, been an overwhelming success. I don't think I was ever much good at normal dating. I had some awful habits that, aware of them though I was, I simply couldn't kick. My hair, for example: I'd constantly whip it around to create the same effect as that caused by those industrial fans used during photo shoots. It didn't help that at key points during my dating career I was actually experiencing some unfortunate hair loss, so far from tossing about a mane, the one or two resilient little sprouts that were still, magically, clinging to my scalp, would bob a little unsteadily before I would remember that this was probably not the way to impress.

My second strategy focused around my mouth: I was a compulsive pouter. I'm actually pulling this face while I write this blog, and even now, I can feel how, as my lips assume their fish-like position, my shoulder juts forward and my head cocks just a little to the right. How any of my dates managed to keep a straight face is beyond me.

Nor can I pretend that my date behaviour was sufficiently charming to make up for these foibles. The worst date I ever had saw me inviting my hapless male friend in for a coffee. As we crossed the threshold into my kitchen, we both noticed that my dog had left a present on the floor. I'm sure you'll agree that pooh is pure kryptonite for romance but I, filled with the confidence of several glasses of wine, believed I was sufficiently winsome to make him disregard any lamentable additions to the decor. "Oh, a pooh," I chuckled coquettishly (and rather redundantly), breezily stepping over it to put the kettle on; not noticing until later that my date had appeared rather reluctant to drink from my mugs. Who can blame him, given the apparent hygiene challenges.

I like to think that I am no longer quite such a dating disaster, but my ventures into mommy dating have proved that I am. My porridge brain has left my rapier wit somewhat dulled, and my banter is decidedly more bland than brilliant. In fact, I have degenerated into outright Spanglish, frequently using whatever word first pops into my head to fill in my blanks. Thus, my bemused husband may be informed that we are having dinner with Chris and hairy, or that I am going to Panado to pick up some yoga quickly.

Having known me for 20 years, he finds it all sweetly comical, but my new acquintances are less beguiled by my verbal trip ups. Take my latest mommy date, for example: from the outset, I had been on the back foot, as she was wearing makeup and I was wearing a vomit stain on my shoulder. It wasn't long before I realised that there was no way I could hold up my end of the dialogue; a conclusion which was confirmed when she wittily informed me that her friend has coined a term for that moment when you're so happily immersed in singing in your car that you lose track of everything else: "Oblivioke". I became momentraily excited, remembering how, years ago, I had killed myself laughing as my sister recounted an embarrasing 'Oblivioke' moment: she had been pouring all the passion of an unrequited crush into a duet with Celine Dion, a performance complete with the anguished flinging of her hands from the steering wheel to her hair, only to look up and find some rather dishy guys laughing at her in the car parked alongside her at the robot. Thrilled that I might, at last, have something vaguely amusing to contribute to the conversation, I tried to translate what was happening in my head. It came out as: "that happened to my sister, once." My mommy date looked at me encouragingly, willing me to complete the story and come up with a punchline, then tactfully turned her attention to her cappucino when it became clear this wasn't going to happen.

I haven't heard from her since, just like I never heard from Kitchen-Pooh Boy. But I am not alarmed. Just as I found my husband, a man who would happily drink coffee from a none too clean kitchen just so he could spend more time with me, so I am confident I will find a friend who agrees that going to mosquito to have some matte black is a sterling idea.