Nighttime adventures

Does the title of this post conjure 50 shades of gray type images? Because it absolutely shouldn't. Oh, make no mistake - I get plenty of action at night. And it's all very vigorous - very vigorous MARCHING, that is.

Flying in the face of conventional wisdom (play classical music for your child, rock her gently, whisper soothingly to her), I have discovered that the only way to make Leya fall asleep is by swinging her wildly while quickstepping around the room and belting out a song. Any song will do, although she is particularly fond of 'The Grand Old Duke of York' - which is why I am begging if anyone knows whether that little ditty has a second verse? By the time I'm on round five of 'He marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again', I am quite delirious. Also, my quick, neat marching steps have morphed into a particularly ferocious aerobiocs class. There I go, hopping from foot to foot, trying out a couple of lunges and squats, even throwing in the odd gallop. I fully expect the wooden floors to give in at some point. Yet through it all, Leya clings to me patiently, with all the fortitude and forebearance of an understanding mon chichi. An unblinking mon chichi, I might add - one that refuses to close her eyes for even a second. It seems that the more tired I am, the more she wants to be jogged around her room. Perhaps she feels she is doing a public service - after all, 30 minutes of throwing a 5kg weight from side to side must surely be doing something to shift my post-preg bulk.

Of course, the Grand Old Duke of York gets a bit tired after minute 15 - which is why we have to throw some others into the mix. Do you realise how few song lyrics you actually know? Or that most of those that you are able to recall are inappropriate bedtime music for an infant. Hence my repertoire has evolved into a bizarre mix of the Christmas carols and hymns I learnt at nursery school, and Jewish songs like Hava Nagila (very festive, perfect for establishing a quick, fast rhythm). And yes, it might be spiritually confusing, but she is growing up in a mixed household after all - might as well start her young.

But at the risk of sounding like a nauseating mummy, I 'could (have) danced all night (another number I include in my nightly chorus, along with other favourites from musicals like 'How do you solve a problem like Maria' and 'the sun will come out tomorrow') just to see her face in the morning: that split second before she recognises me and then the smile bursts across her face, her tiny arms and legs pumping as if she just can't contain her excitement to see me. Not even my Jack Russells greet me with such enthusiasm. Which makes me think: if there is one thing more beautiful than a sleeping baby, it's one that's smiling just for you.
 

Don't you want a balloon

I have a thing about clowns. I hate them. But at the same time, I am sufficiently fascinated with them to spend those writer's block moments googling images of scary clowns. (Don't judge - other people Google themselves. This is at least unique).

And oh, the things I have found. Some clever man has taken advantage of the fact that I am not alone in my phobia, and offers a service where he dresses in his stripey pants and neck ruff and stalks the badly behaved children of clients. The idea, of course, is to scare the bejesus out of them and thus encourage more mild manners. I daresay this is effective - certainly, I would never give anyone lip ever again, probably because I would be locked, catatonic, in an institution somewhere. Picture it: there you are, a happy eight-year-old innocently brushing your Barbie's hair. You look up, and there's a giant clown peering at you from behind the bushes. A few days later, you spot the clown staring in through the window of your ballet class. And hours after that, he's lurking in the aisle where you want to buy your bubble gum. I have shivers just thinking about it.

Then again, some people apparently see clowns as an object of fantasy rather than fear. They must do, for down in Texas there is a man who has created an alter ego called Sugar Weasel. Give old Sugar a shout, and he'll put on his fright wig and come and be your plaything for the night. Just how full Sugar Weasel's diary is I am not sure. Personally, I do not see the erotic allure of being nuzzled by a red nose. Although maybe there is some truth in what people say about the size of a man's shoes.

 

What I love about Leya

This is a direct transcription of a BBM conversation between me and my sister, the mother of a ridiculously cute eight-month-old boy who refuses to go to sleep until she has sung "Twinkle twinkle little star" fifty times over:

Me: The gripewater dummy failed me. Fortunately I discovered that walking and rocking Leya for an hour, without putting her down, has the same effect.
Her: Ahhh - welcome to my sad and hideous world of walking and rocking. The worst.
Me (some time later): Just realised the walking/rocking must be for TWO hours. She actually refuses to sleep. I think she has nodded off and then I see her glaring out of her judgey pitbullian eyes and she starts grunting and hissing like an ancient Galapagos toroise, as if she can sense my intention to put her down and is warning me against it.
Her: Such a familiar description. Hideous flinty snake-like eyes of the newborn, full of f*ck you mommy.

Yes, one month into motherhood I am finding out that it's not easy. And that's even before Leya turns 13 and refuses to walk out in public with me because it is embarrassing to have parents, and decides that if I do force her to be seen in my company her best camouflage is the tattiest tracksuit she can find. I'm not even talking about my latest accessory: a small patch of crusty dried vom that lives permanently on my right shoulder (moms, you know what I'm talking about). Or the fact that I seem to permanently smell like a dairy that hasn't been properly cleaned. Or that I constantly hear a phantom baby crying - and I'm not talking about confusing hadedas for the sound of a cry, I mean that wherever I go, I can hear those high pitched screams. Also, the other night during my two o'clock feed, I swear I heard cheesy disco music - of the variety usually featured on e.tv's late night Friday programming - coming through the monitor. I'll say no more about the effects of sleep deprivation.

But oh my goodness, smelling like sour milk instead of Bulgari is a small price to pay for experiencing so much love. Today Leya gave me her first real smile - not one of those twitches of her lip that grandparents try to convince you is a little grin. No, this one made her little eyes crinkle and tiny dimples appeared on either side of her beautiful mouth. Ignoring the fact that the sun had yet to rise I raced through to our room to tell James, where she obligingly showed him her latest trick, too. It was heart melting.

Her other facial expressions are just as adorable. I love the way, when she is about to have a feed, she draws her head back and raises her eyebrows while giving her mouth a prissy purse, before looking up at me and flashing those dimples like an old lady at a gin-soaked bridge party saying "well, I don't mind if I do". And when the milk is not come fast enough and she head butts me in the manner of a furious and frustrated woodpecker, snuffling and snorting. And when she's lying in her cot, content and sated, her lips drawn into a half-smile and the tips of her tiny fingers touching, as if she's a diminutive Machiavelli plotting to take over the world.

Who needs sleep anyway?

Things I thought I'd never do

My darling Leya Rachel arrived on Wednesday, and within seconds I was transformed from a stomach-rubber deriding cynic into the worst cliche about motherhood. I spend endless minutes marvelling at her beauty when, in reality, she bears more than a passing resemblance to the lovechild of Queen Victoria and Winston Churchill. Or like a French bulldog. Same thing, I guess. I am stymied by emotions so strong I never believed them possible. And I have done a number of things I swore I would never do.

Like sniff her bum to find out if she's 'packing'. This is an action that has always repulsed me, but never more so than when James and I were on a tram in Amsterdam, watching a family interact with a particularly poxy looking child. One of them picked up the infant, inhaled long and deep at the seat of its pants, nodded and proclaimed "Shtunke". This is a particularly hideous word, I am sure you will agree - one that is not only onomatopeiaic, but also seems to convey a sense of smell. Clearly, the other family members did not were unpeturbed, however. The baby was passed from one to the next, each taking a whiff of the baby's bottom, solemnly nodding and valildating the verdict: "Ja, shtunke".

As mentioned, I have never understood why people do this. Parents' standard argument is that pooh is different when comes from your own child, but this has never held water with me: on the contrary, pooh is pooh, no matter its egress point. You wouldn't walk past the bathroom after your spouse has lost the battle against last night's vindaloo, gag, and then walk inside to get a better smell, just to confirm that your instincts were right and the air is, indeed, rancid. So why does it make a difference because it has exited an infant.

I found the case of the Dutch family all the more puzzling, because they had already established that something rotten was going on. Surely, having been warned, they would then try to protect themselves from such a phenomenon, instead of deliberately exposing themselves to it. It reminds me of those people who say "Wow, that tastes disgusting, you must try it."

Nevertheless, there I am, sniffing my own daughter's bottom and finding nothing wrong with the practice. Please don't judge.

 Speaking of getting up close and personal with my child's bodily secretions, I have just become acquainted with the Nose Frida. First, let's discuss the name of this product. Does it come with accessories like the Throat Margaret and Ear Hilda? Because it really does bring to mind a doughty matron wearing support hose and tan leather shoes with sensible heels. In this sense, one would think that the Nose Frida is a tiny fairy that lives inside the nostril and provides nasal relief - not, of course, a glamorous Tinkerbell type fairy but a practical, no-nonsense one who spreads tissues rather than glitter dust.
If only the Nose Frida were so innocuous. This product is actually a tube that one attaches to the baby's nostril; the other end is inserted inside your own mouth and you literally suck away at the contents of its nose. This reminds me of that joke: A man is bitten by a rattlesnake on his privates. His friend dashes off to find a medicine man who can provide advice, and is told that the only cure is for him to suck the poison out of the bite. He returns to the snake's victim and says, "Bad news, you're gonna die." The concept is so gross that when a friend first told me about it, I thought she was joking. In a world where we can grow new skin, how is it possible that there is not a more sophisticated solution for a baby's blocked nose?

And yet I am quite happy to suck away at my baby's snot if it means she'll be more comfortable. Only time will tell if I pick up more habits previously regarded as beyond the pale, but my guess is that, if I love her this much now, and would be prepared to do anything for her, it won't be long before I'm licking the leftover food off her face.

The countdown is on...

With around three weeks to go until my giant stomach magically metamorphoses into a tiny human, I can't help feeling a little whimsical. Bear with me - yes, I have held non-stop tirades about burgeoning bellies and boobs, but I am a sentimental creature at heart (many was the time when, invited to a matric dance where I knew absolutely no one except my date, I would stand weeping over the canapes, overcome by sadness that everyone was going their seperate ways). And so I find myself reminiscing over the various milestones of my bump:

1) The first time the baby moved so violently it made my clothes jump. To say that I was alarmed is an understatement. We were sitting on the couch at the time; all of a sudden, my shirt made a movement as if ten chihuahuas had been stuffed inside it and had gone to war. My husband - an unabashed Earth Father type - looked at me as if I had just replaced Einstein's theory of relativity with a far more accurate model, and started a vigorous bout of stomach rubbing. I, on the other hand, could not believe that parts of my body had developed St Vitus Dance, and started an equally vigorous beating on my stomach, trying to squash the baby back into place. I think this is why it clearly already loves its dad much more than its mother - my husband has only to place a gentle hand on my stomach and inevitably a tiny bum or leg goes swimming up towards it. He is the fetus whisperer.

2) Antenatal classes. Again, James proved himself the superdad while I proved that not all Jewish women are born with an innate 'Yiddishe mama' instinct. Take the baby bath incident, for example. Apparently, it was an enormous treat for us to watch a real live baby having its bath. At least, all other members of the class thought so, as their squeals of delight and rabid grabs for the poor infant's legs seemed to indicate. I, on the other hand, looked at the baby's wizened, prune-like face - it looked remarkably like the love child of the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland and my grandfather - and heard its cries, and felt as if I was watching a horror movie. Since my policy on horrors is: don't watch them, you're inviting evil into the home, I sensibly went to sit down and check Facebook statuses on my phone instead. James can now bath everything from prawns to baby elephants, while I start rocking backwards and forwards and making a strange keening sound when I see baby soap.

There was one time when James let the side down, though: we were watching a slideshow on what to expect from your newborn, and were shown a picture of the first dirty nappy. For the uninitiated, meconium (the first pooh) is a highly effective form of contraception. Picture a blend of crude oil, bovril and tar, and you're about 50% there. While everyone else made a polite grimace at the sight, James made an audible gagging sound and uttered a cry of 'sweet Jesus' before burying his head in my shoulder and whimpering softly for the rest of the lesson. The jury is still out on who, exactly, is going to be changing nappies in our family.

Still, even this did not dent his popularity in the same way as my introduction to the class pre-empted any chance of my forging friendships with the other expectant parents: As we went around the circle, expounding on our excitement about our hatchlings, I all of a sudden could not stop myself from blurting an admission of the fear that had overtaken me since my last scan, where I had finally caught a glimpse of my baby's face. Instead of looking sweetly cherubic, I couldn't help but notice that it was ferociously nashing its toothless gums together and tossing its head from side to side, looking for all the world like it was snarling and growling at me. It looked nothing like an innocent baby and more like a furious Rottweiler, or Hannibal Lector catching a wift of underdone fillet. Can you imagine how the thought of breastfeeding makes me feel? Thus, while all the other moms spoke happily about their due dates, I weepily confessed that I believe my child has plans to eat me alive.

3) The first time I woke myself snoring. I have never been a snorer. Many is the night when I have laid awake pondering the unfairness of being caught between my husband's pig-like oinkings and the slightly more gentle puffing of our Jack Russells. Alas, no longer do I have the moral highground. The first time I was aware of my new nocturnal habit was when I fell asleep in front of TV, and was startled awake by a sound like a hog being viciously slaughtered. "What? Who - me?" I asked in sleepy surprise. "Yes," said James gently. "I didn't want to tell you but you have been snoring for months now." Reluctant though I may have been to believe him, the proof is incontrovertible - just last weekend I actually kept myself awake with a repertoire of moos, chokes, snorkles, sighs and snuffles that would make the most experienced woodwind orchestra proud.

Of course, there have also been myriad life-changing moments that I will cherish forever. There was the thrill of watching my early scans, where a jelly baby - a real diminutive human being; but not just any human being, MY human being - turned somersaults and waved a tiny hand, showing delightful signs of outgoing friendluness right from the start. There was the joy of phoning my mom so that she could hear her grandchild's heartbeat, and listening to her tearing up as she became better acquainted with the newest member of her family. The look of awe on my husband's face as he watches my stomach grow and imagines the little person inside there. And most of all, the second we heard our child's heartbeat for the very first time - as he describes it, the moment when a vacuum we never knew existed suddenly became flooded with an incredibly powerful love.

So, Baby Witepski Cloete, here is to the next three weeks until your grand arrival. We can't wait to welcome you!

What's in a name - Part 2

Since yesterday's post, I have been thinking a lot about names.

Having been born with an Eastern European tonguetwister of a surname, I've always been fascinated by other people's nomenclatures. I absolutely love my unusual name - we're the only family in South Africa to have it, and in fact, even though I've done a search in the phone books of every town I've travelled to, I've never been able to find anyone else with it. I love that it speaks of an entire family history - it's taken directly from the town the family originally hailed from in what's now Belarus, and it travelled with my various ancestors as they traversed Europe, avoiding programs and Holocausts, until we landed here - a mining town on the southern tip of Africa that's as far from a snow-covered shtetl as one could get.

There's also a spiteful part of me that simply loves hearing people chewing on it like a piece of steak that's too big to fit in their mouths - even though it has a respectable ratio of vowels to consonants (until other surnames from the same region) and is essentially phonetic. It's especially fun to hear call centre agents wrestle with it. In this case, rather than helping them out by saying "just call me by my first name", I listen to them labour over all three syllables like a remedial six-year-old struggling to learn to read.

My great love of my surname is the reason why I didn't change it when I got married. Also, I felt a little peeved having to swap my distinctive name for one that is a dime a dozen in South Africa. I have tried, rather unsuccessfully, to double barrel it. The combination of Jewish and Afrikaans just doesn't sound right - it's like Abromowitz-Van Jaarsveld or Rosenberg-Labuschagne. Doesn't have quite the same ring as Norwood-Young, does it. The result that is that I sound like a new South Africa type law firm - we have the Jewish, we have the Afrikaans, we just need a Zulu partner. People don't even try hide their amusement - the other day, my doctor's receptionist, making an appointment, blatantly sniggered as she said, "Just listen to this patient's surname".

Which is why I love watching the end credits of movies, which present a real opportunity to find names freakish and fabulous. The Olympics was another grand occasion for me, for the same reason - hedre was an entire globe full of people with weird and wonderful tags. My personal favourite was a competitor in the hurdles, whose surname was Stumblova. Another athlete was called Smellie - how's that for unfortunate. And as for the swimmer, Rebecca Poon - enough said. Actually, maybe I have just one more thing to say. I have a friend called June, and if she were to marry Rebecca's brother, the results would be hilarious. Oh, and how could I forget the Chinese contendor Ding Ling who plays - guess what? Ping Pong.

What's in a name

I hate to be the Name Nazi, but I really think people should be more careful about what they call things. For example, I just saw a group buying special for a dental company called The Big Red Tooth.

My own personal preference would be to visit a dental practice without a snazzy name; I have no requirements beyond that the word 'Doctor' appear somewhere on a brass plaque. Dentists kind of sell themselves - when you need one, you'll go, so any kind of fancy branding or quirky naming is probably unnecessary.

But I feel Big Red Tooth is particularly unfortunate. It make me picture a giant, suppurating gum leaking gingivitis. Would I have root canal done there? Only if I wanted to walk out with my own big red spill of blood dribbling down my chin. Just a thought.