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.

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.