The mental and physical health benefits of having a toddler

A lot of people seem to complain about how difficult parenting becomes when their children turn two and start throwing tantrums/crying for no reason/insisting on wearing their tutus and nothing else to the shops/shouting out "Jojo made a big pooh" randomly in public. To these glass-half-empties, I say - tosh! Raising a toddler is an amazing opportunity for self-development, saving you thousands on therapist's fees and gym membership whilst helping to hone your mental acuity.

Let me demonstrate:

1) The only way you could be more trim is if you had Tim Noakes living in your kitchen. It's my theory that Usain Bolt trained for his 100m sprint by taking a toddler to a shopping centre. Anyone who has tried to keep up with one of these little fellas as they go blitzing through stores will attest to the intense workout it is; plus, there are the heart-pumping benefits of your windmilling arms as you try to put back the items they have randomly tossed from the shelves. So that's your cardio sorted. As for toning your core, arms and thighs: I could be wrong, but a two-year old screeching "pick me up" fifty times a day will do far more for you than any bootcamp instructor.

2) They give you a reality check. I confess; going to work makes me feel really glamorous. It's probably the lack of child-minders and people under four foot that does it, but whenever I'm putting on my makeup and wearing clothes that are free of food crust and smudges left by pummelling dirty little feet, I feel quite pretty. Thankfully, I have Leya to put me in my place. "Hello, Big Bum," she will boom cheerfully. Or, "Mommy, your boobs are parachutes" (I know my body isn't what it used to be, but I hadn't realised things had gotten so bad that even a toddler could recognise my submission to gravity).

3) They build your resilience. When you are waiting in the doctor's rooms and your child shouts out "I hate Dr Jackie because she's dirty", you realise that the only thing to do is smile.

4) They teach you the importance of an enquiring mind, rational thinking and creativity. I have one word for you: "Why?" It seems that toddlers have one word also. And finding answers for it can be difficult. Like: Leya: What is that?
Me: That's your daddy.
Leya: Why?
Me: Because I liked his green eyes? Because when we were lovestruck youngsters we used to stay up all night to watch the moon travel across the sky? Because no one else makes me laugh as much? Because he was the only guy to ask me out that year?

4) They teach you the art of zen. Let me relate one of me and Leya's more intellectual conversations from the other day.
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."
Leya: "Again."
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."
Leya: "Again."
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."
Leya: "Again."
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."
Leya: "Again."
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."
Leya: "Again."
This went on for a good couple of minutes, before we started discussing the finer points of dinosaurs. And then, to my horror, we drew up at another robot and it started all over again. There is no way you can survive this kind of discourse with your faculties intact unless you are able to retreat into a meditative state. Kind of like when you're doing Ashtanga yoga, and you know the moves so well you're able to drift off while your body does its own thing.

5) They give you an ego boost... There's nothing quite like the happy smugness of being Favourite Parent. My heart trills when Leya tells James that he's not able to dress her/make her tea/come into her bedroom because only her mommy is allowed. In one particularly nasty case of schadenfreude, I laughed for days when he tried to snuggle with her and she told him she didn't like to because "it's stinky". In more enlightened moments I realise she's selected me to be her personal moments, but the Pollyanna side of me thinks its because she loves me more.

6) ...But never let you get too big for your boots. Sadly, the shining glory of being Favourite Parent for a Moment is always diminished by the knowledge that Leya's nanny, Nomonde, is Favourite Person In the Whole Wide Universe, Including Galaxies Still To Be Discovered, For All Eternity And Even After That. I know this because of little reminders like the following:
Me: "Are you my special darling?"
Leya: "No. I'. Nommy's baby."
This doesn't seem fair. After all, Nomonde didn't put on 30kg to bring Leya into the world, nor does she have chips in her wall from when she threw every single one of her shoes in a fit of insane pregnant rage; nor does she get woken up by 5cm fingers prising her eyelids apart. But there, again, is one of the special life lessons that toddlers have for us: life isn't always fair.

7) They can make you feel really, really good about yourself. The other day, Leya asked me to fix her bottle. I jiggled around with it, handed it back, and when she found it working once more to her satisfaction she turned to me and said, "Thank you mommy! Good boy." I have never felt so proud.

Miss Ann Thrope

Just  quick list of things I am hating at the moment:

1) People who call cappuccinos flat whites. For years, everyone was content to call them cappuccinos. When did this change? And why did no one tell me? My dad and I once spent a miserable afternoon at Melissa's sipping Earl Grey and wondering what kind of coffee shop didn't serve cappuccinos. And wondering why we saw the odd foam-topped coffee being swished past us. It didn't occur to us to look out for flat whites on the menu. I still feel poncy ordering one. Or as if the waiter will decline my request on the basis that I am not wearing a beard (see below).

 2) Beards. Let's not kid. These are not fashion 'accessories' (not sure that's the right term, as it is grown out of the body rather than slung on the arm like a handbag). The key word being 'grown'. Yes, it is pubic hair growing out of the face. Not vastly different to fungus, or, if I am saying what I really think, a vagina. Which is what I automatically think of when I see a beard. My days are becoming increasingly harrowing as it seems no one is without one nowadays. I am surrounded by vag faces.

3) People who sign their emails/texts with little salutations like 'love and light', bringing to mind bearded (again: yuck, especially if it's a woman) vegans who embraced flaxseed long before Banting and think that leather handbags are a sin against humanity (I, meanwhile, think that pleather handbags are the sin against humanity). In what I consider the height of irony, Leya's playgroup teacher recently sent me a mail saying "Your child has been kicked out of playgroup until you remember to bring her registration forms, as I have been asking you to do since before she joined us. Love and Light, Sarah". I suppose I should be grateful she didn't add kisses. That would send the passive aggression into stratrospheric heights. Yes, I know I am a shocking mother. Never have a change of clothes. Never have wipes. Never have clean nappies unless they're still in my boot from the last big shop I did. Consider my knuckles duly rapped.

4) Millennial speak. Ironically, I have picked up some of this from my magazine. The other day I found myself saying to the head of a strategic consulting agency, "Yes, I understand if that time is a bit awk" for you. But seriously. I hate it: obvs (What, it takes too much energy to get the 'iously' out your mouth? Ditto for defs and totes.); also, "I know, right?" (too which I acerbically reply: if you know, have the courage of your own convictions and don't look for affirmation) and any bit of digitalia that's made it's way into colloquial speech (wtf might be acceptable when you're texting, as might a hashtag, but they have no place in the real world.)

5) People who call other people babe, especially if they are fellow women. Please. We are not in Las Vegas, and you are not a lounge singer wearing a toupee and Elvis pants.

The ugly truth about beautiful people

Working at a magazine, I know that the jobs that seem the most glamorous are, in fact, far from it.

Exhibit A: In my first year of work, I had to help out on a cover shoot with a well known DJ. I like to throw out the words 'cover shoot' because they make me sound important; admittedly, not in an I-fight-ebola kind of way, but you have to admit that "I am working on a shoot today" sounds way more exciting than "I have to get finished with the year-end financials" conjuring, as it does, images of slim and beautiful people dining on dainty canapés as they swan before a camera.

Sadly, I learned the hard way that this was not the truth. I spent five hours climbing the stairs of the Westcliff Hotel on a 32-degree day, dressed in synthetics, followed by a further two hours crouched awkwardly on the side of an infinity pool, balancing a light-deflecting device and sweating while said DJ sat in the water flicking her hair around and making a face like a surprised, lovelorn meerkat.

This experience really should have knocked the stars from my eyes. But it was only when chatting to the girls in the fashion department earlier this week that I realised how truly, truly unglamorous the world of beauty really is.

Now, I will admit to being hopelessly shallow. I might publicly voice the opinion that models are vapid and uninteresting, but only because I'm really jealous of them and would swap my double-bum for their intellect any day. And I know that what they do isn't important, and I know that there are greater talents in life than being able to smile or look whimsical or even change the way people think about eyebrows. But the reality is that I'm a sucker for fashion pages. Until I learnt these ugly truths:

1) Models smell. Yes. Apparently, they believe that their cheekbones double as anti-perspirant. Either that, or they think that, being so pretty, people will forgive them if a waft of fried onions enters the room at the same time as they do. Hygiene does not top their list of priorities, presumably because they're expecting the stylists to take care of all their nasties for them. Unfortunately this can result in some awkward situations - like the time a model, chosen for a shoot specifically for her long hair, had a bad case of lice.

PS apparently the men are the smelliest. And, while I always friend it hard to take a man seriously if he's fish-lipped and pouting, the idea that he's making the photographer gag while sending a smouldering stare is just laughable. Apparently, most stylists keep wipes on hand because carrying a portable shower isn't an option.

2) They have all kinds of horrid things happen to them because of clothes that aren't washed. Industry rumour has it that, one season, there was a dress that was in particularly high demand with stylists. Trouble was that the dress had a built in bodysuit, and because there was never time to wash it before it went on to the next assignment, all the girls that wore had to visit their gynaes shortly after. Eeew.

3) Stylists have  myriad unconventional uses for panty-liners. Sweaty underarms? No prob. Simply pop a pantyliner underneath that pit and it will be dry in no time. No sweat = no underarm stains on borrowed garments. Ingenious, really.

Hmm. I'm no longer quite so in awe.

Pondering the pronoun

Do any other moms get tripped up over what to call themselves when they're talking to their kids?

I know that 'mommy' is the standard name - and it's simple enough when you're saying "Mommy wants you to leave the room." But what about when things get more complicated, like "Mommy wants you to leave the room because __ on the toilet and it's nicer for her when you're not sitting on her lap." How do you fill in that blank? Saying 'she's' on the toilet feels like we're taking the third person thing too far and we really are discussing someone who has the unfortunate name of Mommy, but saying 'I'm on the toilet' is on of those grammatically awkward sentences akin to saying "We has fun when we go out" or "He have a dream of becoming a pilot". Cringe.

Similarly, what's the rule when the child's other parent enters the picture? Leya loves hiding games, so often James will walk into her room and say "Hmm - I wonder where Leya and Lisa could be?" Again, it sounds all wrong, and I worry that it plants a seed that will have Leya acting like an eye-rolling, precocious teenager who calls her mother by her first name before her fifth birthday - or like a lentil-and-hemp-eating hippie who eschews titles like mom and dad because they destroy the equality that is inherent in each of us as one of The Creator's beautiful beings.

On the other hand, I completely know why he does this. Saying to Leya "Should we tickle Daddy" or - worse still - "let's ask daddy if he's ready for supper. Daddy, are you ready?" feels strangely porny, like I'm some kind of Lolita.

Anyone feel the same way?

Why I hate Huffington Post Parents

I can't pretend that I have ever been made of tough stuff. I used to cry at matric dances (even when I was just the 'plus one'), more bereft than the actual classmates who were about to leave the school that the their bonds of friendship were soon to be torn asunder. All it takes is the opening bars of 'Spirit of the Great Heart' to set me weeping about the glory and tragedy of living in Africa, the wonder of family, the sad death of Jock of the Bushveld (all unrelated. But still).

Since becoming a parent, things have escalated and now, it really is a case of every teardrop being a waterfall. At least seven times a day, I wonder at the marvel of actually making it alive through a solid 24 hours when their are cells waiting to mutate, germs waiting to attack, reckless drivers lurking, acts of G-d waiting to take place...

Knowing that I have to protect Leya from each of these eventualities is just such a vast task. It's overwhelming. The very fact of her is overwhelming...the fact that every day she continues to grow, to become, to astound me with her vitality and smartness and sheer force of life.

And every day I am struck afresh by how very, very, very fortunate and blessed I am. When I was pregnant, we were told that there was a chance she might have Down's Syndrome, and I guess because of that, I just feel like I can never quite grasp the completeness - I want to say perfection, but hesitate because of the implication that I may have loved her less if she were in any way less than she is - of her. Whenever I see a child with Down's, I can't stop staring at them. I wonder what it's like to be their mother - to experience the anticipation of counting your child's fingers and toes, staring at the seashell ears - the very clichés that are used to describe the wonder of every new baby. And I think that it doesn't actually matter whether your child has a sandal gap in their toes or weak muscle tone or heart defects; the love you feel must be even more fierce, simply because the battles your child has to fight are harder.

And that's why I hate the Huffington Post Parents blog. I signed up for it in that moment of connectedness that you experience as a brand new parent; that feeling of finally understanding why we're here, that feeling of sharing the greatest secret that's actually known to all humanity: how wonderful it is to love so utterly, so all consumingly. And because of that subscription, every morning I read stories about parents whose hearts are rent by the love they have for their 'imperfect' children. Today's was a plea from a mother whose son's facial bones have fused due to a rare disorder - she begged other parents to reassure their children that her son is just a little boy, just like every single one of them.

For some reason the picture of this little boy flashed through my mind when I was lying with Leya before she fell asleep tonight. Above the picture, his mother had written: "See? How can that face, covered in Twinkies, be at all frightening?" And I was reminded once more of how motherhood flays your heart.

I've just taught Leya how to say prayers, so every night we say "thank you G-d for everything we have" - and what I'm really saying thank you is for the massive privilege of being this precious person's guide through life. And I'm saying thank you for sparing me the heartache of having to work extra hard to protect her, because every mother's sadness really is a reminder that 'there but for the grace of G-d go I'.

Oh, the glamour

So, I'm back at the magazine. For obvious reasons, I cannot outright name the magazine, but I will say that it features a lot about sex. In fact, the very first assignment I was given on my first day back at the office was about foreplay.

Now, for the twenty-somethings who read this magazine and whose lives are peppered with casual 'hook-ups' (a word I would never use in my own life, but which comes in handy when I'm writing for the mag), sex stuff probably flows from their lips like - I don't know - flavoured condom gel or whatever the latest sexessory (see what I did there? Sex + accessory) is.

But not I. Given my chronic sleeplessness and general state of doughiness, bedroom shenanigans have fallen from my list of priorities and I am therefore no expert on foreplay, unless you consider this to include asking my husband to pass me my book before I fall asleep.

Hence, some research had to be done. Gingerly I typed the words 'foreplay new techniques' into my search bar, hoping that I will never have to take my laptop in to be serviced (Can there really be new techniques? Surely with this you kind of have to make the most of what you've got. Even Apple couldn't innovate foreplay?).

At this stage, I was blushing so furiously it felt like my face was trying to detach itself from my head. I tried to bolster myself with memories of the last sex story I wrote. This one was on a device called the butterfly, a gigantic piece of plastic that you step into like a pair of panties and then let it do its thing. Again, while researching this I thought about why anyone would want to expend so much energy, and if it wouldn't just be easier to have a read and go to sleep, and I had a bit of a wonder about where you would store such an awkwardly shaped item so that your helper/kids didn't find it. But apparently I am alone in such musings, to judge by the number of bloggers who have dedicated their free time to trying out sex toys in the name of the public good. These blogs have names like Ilovevibrators!.com (note the exclamation mark!), and the authors issue warnings like "I had to try this one at my parents house and it made a lot of noise". Which baffled me slightly - surely you never HAVE to try a vibrator? Is there really a life and death situation where you HAVE to step into a panty-shaped harness to have a butterfly-shaped thing massage your bits? What, exactly, is the 'or else' here?

But back to the present. I must, at this stage, mention that I share the office with only one other person, an intern called Peter who is so shy he never raises his voice above a whisper. He is easily embarrassed, too. So I can't begin to imagine what went through his mind when the website I downloaded in the name of research piped up, in a husky Spanish voice: "Have you been looking for your g-spot?" It was a voice at once tender and seductive, and yet almost perturbed and maternal, as if it was deeply (ahem) concerned about your ongoing quest for the missing item and  eager to lend a hand (ahem ahem) to help you find it.

As it turns out, Peter is not one for looking for G-spots, which made the situation somehow worse. As I coughed and spluttered in my humiliation, I could only think: ah, the glamour of working in magazines.

My life with the Gestapo

I know all about secret police and the wily, psycho means they employ to have their way with you. I know how they flit from charming smiles one minute to spit-flecked, eye-bulging rage the next; trying to cajole you into giving them what they want, and taking it by brute force if that doesn't work - all the while pushing your buttons, pushing, pushing, pushing. I know this from watching movies starring people with Russian accents, but also because I live with someone who appears to have attended their training school. And, through her methods, she's managed to reduce me to a quivering wreck of my former self, submissive and willing to give in to even the most outlandish demands.

That person is, of course, Leya. Secret police trick number one: the sleeplessness. This needs no further explanation, suffice to say that two years on, I have yet to experience a full eight hours. I no longer believe that sleep training causes psychological damage that will only emerge when the child is a needy adolescent and frankly, if it does, I couldn't care. It's probably no more than they deserve after inflicting all those hours of bouncing on a gym ball in the middle of the night.

Secret police trick number two: Having successfully scrambled my brain, she tries to catch me out. "Where's Samantha?" she asks accusingly. "At home," I answer. "Where's Samantha?" she asks again, a mere second later. The words "At home" have not yet left my mouth when again she roars, "Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha?" If I had another answer to give, believe me, I would. But the reality is that my sister is sitting at her house probably being submitted to a similar torture by her own kids, and it just doesn't seem worth it to make up a lie about her going trekking in the Andes with a pack of alpaca.

Secret police trick number three: the mind games. "Mommy, I want tea." Of course, I've learnt by now that any thinly veiled 'request' is actually a command that must be obeyed within three seconds, else there will be severe repercussion (read: she will unleash her wailing siren, a sound that makes Banshees and harpies sound like nightingales). Naturally, I hop to it; my fervid actions accompanied by a soundtrack of "I want tea I want tea I want tea." Eventually, the tea is placed in her hands. She looks at it with scorn and disgust. "I don't want tea," she states coldly, and tosses the bottle away.

One day, I swear to myself, I will rise again. I will shake off the wretched thing I have become and stand, once more, as a human of worth. I will wait until she is a teenager, and then I will embarrass her non-stop. I will post love notes on her Facebook page, or ask publicly if she remembered to use her rash cream. Hell, it won't actually be as hard as that at all. All I will have to do is walk next to her in public and she will cringe. My time is coming.

Why freelancing is exactly like being single

When I was 14, one of my friends turned to me in French class and said, "Lisa, I'm so depressed. No guys like me because no guys ever ask me out."

Note the lack of discernment there - it's not as if she was lusting after the class hottie and waiting for him to ask for her number. She just wanted someone, anyone, to take notice of her.

That's exactly how I feel, as I sit behind my laptop today. I just want someone, anyone, to ask me to write for them. Of course I would be doing a dance of joy if that someone happened to be the editor of Vanity Fair or Intelligent Life, but quite honestly, I would go back to being SA's foremost taxidermy writer if it meant a cheque at the end of the month. (Yes, I used to be in hot demand amongst South Africa's taxidermists. As I always say, at one stage I had written so many stories about what makes a great mount that, if you passed me a warthog carcass, I would have been able to salt, stuff and mount it myself, with no danger of hairslip. Sadly, my months at a women's magazine means that this talent has fallen away somewhat - although I can now write endlessly about what to do when he doesn't phone.)

Speaking of which...having sent out gazillions of article pitches in the past month, I have that same "why isn't he phoning" feeling that used to settle in after the first date - except now, the 'he' I'm waiting for is an editor.

Something else familiar from my dating days: that feeling of fury and resentment when the phone beeps - but instead of being 'him', it is one of your friends. In this case, my little lift of excitement crashes every time I get an email - and, far from being an editor saying that I, and only I, can provide the insight, wit and originality their publication craves, it's Groupon. Offering a saving on travelling urine cups for women. (Because we all need one).

Sigh. Into the writing wilderness I go...

Feeling the pressure

I know that everyone else in the world loves a massage, but I am unconvinced. This was the thought that came floating into my mind when I was having one on Sunday, and after that, I couldn't stop thinking about it, which kind of negated the point of the exercise, especially since after that I couldn't help focusing on all the things I didn't like. At the end of the hour, I felt hysterically anxious about it all. These were the things that upset me.

1) Having a stranger touch me while I'm naked. Now, I have read that in the US there are people who get paid (a handsome sum, apparently) to snuggle with you. I find this a repugnant notion - someone who may or may not have Simba chip breath coming to rub their chest hair on your back, as if you are a loving couple. I don't think massages are really all that different. The way the therapist tenderly pats you on your back while you are still wearing a towel, like you are a child getting out of a bath and they care about you deeply, when meanwhile they probably find you a bit off-putting (with the spots you missed while shaving and your cellulite valleys).

2) That near lesbian experience. I am talking about the way you have to lie with your arms at your sides, palms up, which becomes awkward when the therapist moves into certain positions. The effort to avoid touching her is most unrelaxing, especially as I then start thinking - does she notice that I am trying not to touch her? Does she think that is weird? It is weird. I am weird. But no I am not weird - no one wants to have an incidental lesbian experience, especially with someone wearing polyester.

3) The pressure to wear good underwear and groom. This is especially tricky for me. It shouldn't be difficult to go to the shops and pick out some knickers, I know, but I have tried three times in the past year and on each occasion have been so put off my stride by the neon hubcaps that that shops are trying to fob off as bras these days that I have walked out empty handed (has anyone else ever been tempted to try these on as a yalmulka, by the way?)

4) The touching in bad places. You know how we all have things that we can't stand. one of my friends feels ill if someone chews fabric near her (admittedly, she's safe most of the time); another cannot stand the sight of cottonwool. For me, it's the thought of someone touching the piece of skin that joins the underside of your toes to your foot. I call it my no-zone, and just thinking about it now is making me curl my toes. So when my therapist literally tucked her fingers around it the other day, I nearly passed out.

5) The whale music. Who on earth decided that the sound of dolphins' stomachs rumbling would be the perfect aural accompaniment to a back rub? I don't think that you should never have to listen to this sound, but when you are trying to relax those eerie moans, like the tortured souls of tree spirits that have moved on, sets teeth on edge. And makes one think of tie-dye and dreamcatchers and vegans, all of which are bad thoughts.

6) The strangeness of it all. A few years ago, James and I were having a spa treatment together when the therapist told us it was time for our Jacuzzi. With a naughty smile and a wink, she left us with a bottle of JC Le Roux (everyone's favourite!) and some brown bananas, to ponder the painting of the shyly smiling Thai girl pulling down one side of her bikini that had been thoughtfully hung up on the wall opposite (just in case we had missed the sexy ambience). There was no way I was getting into this stew of bodily fluids - even if they had considerately given James a paper G-string to wear (black, as it's the colour of seduction). On another occasion, we were both horrified when our therapist gently plopped a hot stone down our bums. All I could think of was the other hot stone that she had just placed in my palm, and the other, non-hand places it had been. (More horrifying still was the fact that, when we told other couples who had also been to this particular spa, none of them had had the same experience. Is there something about me and James that hints that we have peculiar anal fetishes?) Then there are the body exfoliations and the terrible, terrible experience of being wrapped in plastic, which never ever fails to make me feel like I am one of Dexter's victims. As a result, I always lie there thinking of all the bad deeds I have ever done, which is something bound to leave you feeling sad and guilty rather than lovely and relaxed.

Why is yoga so damn hard

So, yesterday I went back to yoga after more than a year. Times have changed in the meantime. Or maybe it's just the studio I went to. At the first place I ever yog'd (the Haum of Yoga, which is amazing), people were very chilled (even before the meditation session). Yes, there were a few aggressive hippies, out to prove that they were more relaxed and vegan than anyone else - like the woman who responded to an ad for organic milk on the noticeboard by saying "yes, but it's probably been pasteurised". (And there I was, thinking that was a good thing).

At the second studio I went to, things were a lot more serious. I was the only person not wearing a headband or those weird wraparound pants usually worn by the people who do flamethrowing or play with those funny sticks on the beach. Also, I was the only person who didn't feel comfortable when a tiny piano was brought out and we all started mooing and chanting together.

Things are far more fashiony at my latest spot. No printed headbands here. And I don't think I fooled anyone into thinking that the tight racerback pyjama top I had worn to bed the night before in the interests of saving time (dressing - or indeed, doing anything - in the morning is slightly traumatic for me) was legit yoga gear. Not when they themselves were decked out in special high tech fabrics that basically move their legs for them.

I am hoping that it is these fabrics also suck their bodies into perfect proportions. If not, I have to face the fact that everyone else in class has a bum like a pert Jack Russell puppy. Mine, on the other hand, is like the depressed child of a Saint Bernard and a basset hound, needing to be rolled and unrolled along with my yoga mat.

Also, these superbummed individuals are far better at, well, everything than I am. As I am a naturally competitive person, this is not good, and can only lead to injury and self-loathing. For example: the teacher announced yesterday that we would be moving into the standing splits. This is not possible, I thought, until I noticed that everyone had changed positions and I now felt as if I was watching Swan Lake, getting the same view as the floor usually does. I, meanwhile, had moved my leg only as much as would be allowed as if I were wearing an Oxford Road mini skirt. "Now, we are going to transition into the dancer, moving up and back in one smooth movement," the teacher then announced. Not possible, I again thought. She may as well have told me to perform a  heart transplant with one hand whilst making a double cheese soufflé with the other. And yet, all around me,taut bodies were transitioning away.

I, obviously, stopped trying. With the result that while this graceful ballet went on around me, I stood shamed and walrus-like in the middle of the class. I am sure no one noticed, though.

Today, I ache. I'm not stiff - oh no, I've gone beyond that to feel bruised, as if tiny workmen have been hammering at my muscles all night. I am so sore that I feel I deserve at least a six pack. But no - as when you get a hangover but did not have the joy of getting drunk, there is none to be found.

Sigh.

Paranoia pays

I'm a bit like Haley Joel Osment's character in Sixth Sense, except that instead of seeing dead people, I see disease.

I have spent most of my life believing that the world is just one big medical disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes, this makes me look ridiculous. For example, back in first year, I ran up to the san and tearfully confided to the sister that I had shared a vigorous kiss the night before and might therefore need the morning after pill. Also, I'd had a drag on a cigarette and was worried about lung cancer as I was feeling a bit wheezy.

For the first six weeks of my pregnancy, James refused to listen to me talking about the baby I was certain was on the way, instead pointing out that the bulge which had appeared above my jeans was probably just cake. He may have been more receptive to my claims had I not been making them since the first time we smooched, even though I insisted on at least two forms of contraception at all times.

My phobia has not been helped by the Internet. Because I am able to hang out online with other - I will refrain from calling us hypochondriacs and instead use the term hypervigilant health people - I have turned casual incidents into all out crises. When Leya was just six months, a Google convinced me that her pronounced startle response was, in fact, a violent form of epilepsy that would leave her brain damaged within two months. Just last month, another online search had me gently warning my mother that I may not be much longer for this earth, as a skin irritation I had been experiencing was a sign of cancer. Of course, one phone call to my doctor set me straight - and set her laughing.

I'm coming to accept the fact that, if you look long enough on Google, everything - even a hang nail or dirty hair - can be a sign of cancer. But there are times when paranoia pays. For instance, last week I noticed our Jack Russell, Sherpa, had a suspicious looking sore. Other people would have thought, "hmm, now that really is a suspicious looking sore", but not I. I knew, with the certainty of one who knows that herpes lurks on rented snorkel masks and that while a sore throat might well be the first sign of the common cold, it is also the first sign of quincy, measles and HIV, that it was a tumour. And guess what? It was. You see? If you have everything you think is a tumour checked out, you will eventually save someone.

Now, seen through others' eyes, Sherpa is a particularly repugnant animal. Not only does he have a smell, he is given to inappropriate bouts of randiness with my father and 80-year-old neighbour. More worrying, there have been times when I've been kneeling to see to Leya and he has, Norman Bates-ishly, placed a paw on each of my hips. But that doesn't change the fact that he is my first born and you can't help the people you love.

So, thank you paranoia (sounds like an Alanis Morisette song, doesn't it). If it weren't for you, our noxious little fur kid would no longer be with us.

Things on my mind

1) I don't know if I should have cut a fringe. It completely looks as if a cat is sitting on my head. it catches me by surprise every time I see it in the mirror; it's as if I expect the small pouf resting on my forehead to get up and stretch. At the same time, I look like a surprised crowned guinea fowl. Or a Hitler propaganda poster as it really gives me the look of the shtetl dweller. Either way, I think we can conclude this is not a glamorous look.

2) I am confused as to why one of my eyebrows grows faster than the other. I consider the loss of my tweezers as a great misfortune, as I now have eyebrows growing down to my upper lip (oh wait, that's something else entirely. Different but equally unfortunate). My face therefore looks misshapen and vaguely Picasso like. Then again, this may be where that fringe comes into its own, creating a hiding place for the wayward eyebrow.

3) I am really not sure about Jared Leto. I have to agree with a colleague who feels that he is incredibly handsome, but at the same time looks as though he might be into really weird, dirty things. A night with him would probably involve a third person, or possibly a stuffed panda, is the way she put it. I on the other hand, although admittedly not in a position to cast aspersions on anyone else's hair, am baffled as to why he wore his shower hairstyle to the Golden Globes. When I had long hair I made sure no one ever saw me looking like that.

4) It is really upsetting when your mother ends a conversation thus: "...and I think my medication might be making me go blind. Have the most wonderful day, I love you, chat to you tomorrow."

5) I appear to have given birth to the rudest person in the world. Yesterday, Leya was surrounded by a semi-circle of adoring fans; women in their thirties whose biological clocks had become audible as soon as they caught sight of her. They clustered around her telling her how pretty she is, and asking where she got her skirt from, and asking why she had taken her pigtails out. And my daughter, all 16 months of her, looked back at them, smiled and said quite clearly: "Go away." This makes me feel really bad about my parenting skills.