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?
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?
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