The thinks you can think

...Or rather, the thinks I think (although I am pretty sure that almost every other parent has had these thoughts run through their heads at some stage).

1. Thank heavens for Afrikaans.  I guess other countries have their own second languages but, really, what would we do without Die Taal? How would we complain about the kids while they're standing right in front of us, relate goss that's really not for little ones' ears, or talk about people they know? The only drawback is that one can get so into the habit you start using Afrikaans to talk about other adults around you, forgetting that they understand it, too.

2. I hope no one is looking at me. Back when James and I were firm-bodied and childless, we holidayed at a resort where we spent an afternoon laughing at a woman whose favourite pastime appeared to be throwing a stick at her son and watching him fetch it. "Why doesn't she just get a dog!" we chortled. Ah, there is no laughter so loud as that of the child-free. Fast forward ten years and there I was last Friday, in a restaurant nogal, throwing sticks while my daughter and nephew crawled on all fours, barking and panting as they raced to fetch them, then carrying them back to me in their mouths. Nonchalantly I rubbed their stomachs and scratched behind their ears, pretending all the while that there was no difference between them and the children seated quietly on their chairs, sipping milkshakes. And on that note...

3. I don't really like my dogs any more. Before you get all judgey and SPCA-ish, let me inform you that my dogs have never been well-liked. Just ask our neighbours, who mounted a 'Leave the suburb' campaign against us, prompted by their incessant barking (it ended in a particularly nasty email exchange during the festive season, with the final word going to James: "Just remember, Steven, people might complain about our dogs but everyone in the whole road actually hates you. Have a nice Christmas".) It seems that Sherpa, in particular, is engaged in a contest against himself to see how much he can irritate me: loudly scampering with his clattery claws on the wooden floors as he follows me to Leya's room when I am bringing her in from a nap drive, having just driven through three suburbs listening to 'Sophia's sleep song' on repeat. Puffing out liver-coloured clouds of foul air, and following me from room to room when I try to escape them, robbing each new spot of its oxygen. Licking Jessica's face shortly after he has routed her pooh nappies from the bin and feasted on them. Proving the futility of a home exercise programme by mounting me from behind when I try to do the plank (thanks, but no). Shedding so much fur that white hair is found everywhere, even in the folds of Jessie's several chins, where they remain stuck thanks to her prodigious drooling.

4. Will I ever be clean again. (Skip this part if you are easily grossed out). I can handle the vomit crust that permanently bedecks my left shoulder; have become accustomed to it, even. But Jessica really took things a bridge too far the other day when, while she was sitting on my lap, I heard a sound like a truck backfiring. We were in a book shop at the time - a quiet haven for literary types seeking classical music and the gentle rustle of pages to block out the world's bustle. Instead, they received a front row ticket to the aftermath of the poohcano: it took 15 minutes and a packet of wipes to clean up Jessie's liqui-pooh, all the while trying to shield the books from the spatters sparking off her windmilling feet. An ordeal, yes, but nothing in comparison to the walk to the car wearing a dress with a 15cm brown wet patch. And, just in case I thought no one would notice, Leya set me straight: "Mom, everyone can see you and they're all laughing," she assured me. For a three-year-old, she has a highly developed sense of schadenfreude.

5. What is that thing in the mirror. At my university residence, there was a mirror placed in the hallway where I would always give myself one last look before heading out for a night out at the Union. I was always amazed by the body swap that took place without my knowledge during the night, so that the girl who left with all her makeup in the right place came back with mascara on her upper lip and chewing gum in her hair (apparently, I find it impossible to be well-groomed and tipsy at the same time).

A similar metamorphosis has taken place during my adulthood: I started off with everything where it should be, but just the other day, my boobs brushed my belly button while I was brushing my teeth. That shouldn't happen to anyone. And speaking of belly buttons: mine looks like the epicentre of a volcanic explosion - thanks, stretch marks. And the actual stomach itself blobs about like those moving bits inside a lava lamp. Then there are the eyes, as haunted and staring as those of a war victim, thanks to the fact that all four of us (yes, even Jessie, who refuses to sleep unless she is on my chest) now camp out in one bed, and the exhaustion that ensues. Admittedly, I don't have it as badly as James, who regularly sleeps with his head on his bedside table because of Leya's star-fishing.

The Haves and the Have Nots

I could also have called this post 'thoughts parents have when talking to their non-parent friends'. And just a heads up: they're the kind of thoughts that may be expressed as delight at the vicarious titillation we get to enjoy through your exploits, yet deep inside they're really a boiling pot of envy. After all, when you're a parent, especially one to a new baby as I am, even a night that involves nothing more addictive than popcorn seems hopelessly glamorous.

This point was driven home to me when I was recently visited by a dear friend from the UK, whom I shall call Helga because it is close to her real name while being unattractive and inelegant. Because she is the exact opposite of these two qualities, it gives me great pleasure to think of her thus.

Now, I am already jealous of Helga because she lives in London and I have a weird thing about the UK. I know it's one of the most advanced societies in the world but I still picture residents in home-cabled cardies serving each other tea biscuits over melamine tables as they did in the war, an image I find quaintly endearing. Also, Helga's career is such that, while I have, in the name of work, been forced to phone gynaecologists and say "Hi there! I am writing an article on whether you should steam your vagina!" (and have to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of the inevitable giggling that ensues), Helga travels the world, interviewing presidents and staying in ice hotels.

My latest bout of jealousy was sparked by the fact that Helga is newly on the single scene and enjoying a good bout of debaucherous fun. I could not help but draw analogies between our lives:

1. Helga spent the night with an Austrian aristocrat, hopping from one techno club to the other, until the sun comes up. Now, I must state unequivocally that I would hate to listen to a minute of techno, let alone a whole night of it. But it's the idea of being awake at 4am for purposes other than breastfeeding that is undeniably alluring. Just think: she was out! Actually out the house! Wearing something that doesn't unzip or unbutton at the top. And if she did have to get her boobs out quickly, it sure as hell wasn't for someone who would later vomit on her.

Now, often people require some sort of stimulant to keep going for a night on the town. Again, I can't really identify. That said, there is a lot of snorting going on in my house - not of cocaine, but of the nose Frida. For those not in the know, the nose Frida is a tube you use to suck out your infant's snot. Yes, I actually said that. It's a hideous notion but since poor old Jessica has a loud honking snore you'd expect more from a hirsute truckdriver than a sweet four-month-old, de-snotting her is a necessary process. It's also (gloves off) one I have come to enjoy in the same shameful way one likes squeezing pimples - a challenge of the grotesque over the functional.

3. Helga smells of perfume. I, on the other hand, smell of spit. That's because Jessie is the moistest baby I know, coating my arms in little gloves of spit when I carry her, as I often do, on her tummy like a leopard. My skin is getting sensitive from her digestive enzymes breaking it down. I used to get furious with the dogs when I saw the little puddles dotting our floors, then I realised it was all due to Drooly Julie, as we call her.

Yup - it's glamour, glamour, glamour all the way in my house.

Rude realisations

The other day I was looking through my wardrobe, and noticed it contains a lot of white. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I purchased these items, as wearing white implies a) that you are about to star in an ad for tampons; or b) that you are about to have a during which you are certain not to encounter chocolate ice cream, grass stains or tomato sauce - neither of which apply to me. Clearly, the unsuitability of white as a sartorial choice is something is a lesson that I have yet to fully internalise. However, there are other small things that I have heeded, and these I will share with you:

1. When you have a toddler, you will end up eating a lot of chips. Anyone agree that a fat slap chip, drenched in so much vinegar that it stings your eyes, and salted to tongue-curling perfection is a thing of beauty? The same cannot, however, be said of the oven chips dusted with that weird seasoning served at kiddies' restaurants throughout the country. For a food that I actively dislike, I ingest a lot of this stuff - because Leya always orders it and it sits there, undelicious yet strangely irresistible. I end up cramming these things into my mouth with the same unconscious, repetitive movement as a player at the slot machines. Leya's chip obsession has also resulted in Realisation Number Two:

2. When you have a toddler, it's highly likely that your signature scent is tomato sauce. You now how magazines are always urging you to identify whether your fragrance preferences are chipre, woody, green or floral? Never once do they mention the distinctive tang of tomato sauce - for good reason. Everyone has their own views on the stuff, but mine are not favourable - and yet, if smells were soundtracks, this would be the tune my life is set to. Some people's homes are redolent with Jo Malone diffusers in tasteful combinations like bitter chocolate, lime and ginger, but mine smells like a takeaway packet that's been left to marinate in a hot car, thanks to my daughter's habit of wiping sauce-daubed hands and face on every surface.

3. There's really no pleasing them. 'Eggshells' is not the word. The other day, I watched while my sister spent several seconds artfully arranging a pizza on a plate. Bemused by the care she was taking to make the food look as if it hadn't been touch (much like you might spend hours in front of the mirror to create an 'I woke up looking like this' makeup look), I asked what she was doing. Trying to stave off her son's anger at the fact that his sister had taken a slice of pizza, was the answer - scuffed around as it was, he might not notice the missing slice, and his anger may be averted. Her luck had run out, though: when he sat down, it was the number of slices that infuriated him, but the fact that they were wet. Quickly, my sister soothingly pointed out that they weren't, in fact, wet, whereupon he bellowed in rage: THIS PIZZA IS NOT WET.

There's no winning. In which case, one may as well resign oneself to one's fate and get on with it - or wear the white dress and accept that you'll look like a Jackson Pollock later.

Second time around

A couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation between some first time new moms. "She's already on cow's milk," said one, in the same tone used to discuss which girls were having sex back in high school. The reaction to this news was pretty much the same, too: her friends' eyes widened, and there were murmurs of disbelief and censure. Clearly, some renegade mom out there had stepped out of line and introduced dairy - brace yourselves - before six months. Shock, horror.

Actually, I shouldn't judge. Back when Leya was a newborn, I was possibly the most tediously highly strung person on the planet. I once forbid my father from switching on his iPad while in the same room as Leya, for fear the microwaves would enter her tender fontanel and cause untold damage, and when he reasonably pointed out that we were sitting in a large room and he was nowhere near her, I let loose with a diatribe about how he obviously didn't care for his granddaughter.

A severe reaction, but at nothing compared to how I responded to strangers whom I couldn't lecture. The first time I took Leya to a shopping centre, I hugged the perimeter of the stores like a hyped up FBI agent about to break down a door so that I could avoid the selfish, air-polluting cell phone users. Should one dare to take a call whilst standing near me - or, heaven forbid, in a lift or other area where space constraints prevented me from conspicuously stepping away to put distance between us - I would glare at them with hatred and anger in my eyes until they got the message, loud and clear, that their behaviour was antisocial in the extreme and the only fate fit for them was to be exiled to a gulag.

At the time, my husband had been comparing notes on babies one and two with some friends who had just had their second. They jokingly called it the pot plant, because it seemed to survive on little more than oxygen and an occasional feeding. I was appalled - since I was spending up to three hours a day simply staring at my baby (not counting the time dedicated to actually caring for her with feeds, baths, nappy changes etc), such words seemed blasphemy. Surely, people who treated their babies in such a cavalier manner - and then joked about it - were only marginally better than actual abusers.

And then I had Jessica. Poor little Jess, whom I usually call Michael Caine because I cannot for the life of me remember her name, and because her resemblance to the British actor is startling (actually, at first I thought she looked more like Stephen Fry than either me or James...either way, the kid has star quality).

Jessica cries and there is no running to consult Baby Sense or shedding a tear myself because the thought of her experiencing discomfort for even a second is too much for me to bear. There is no Googling every possible reason she may be niggly (a good thing actually - poor Leya was dragged to the paediatric neurology centre because she had a pronounced startle response and my Googling left me convinced that she had a rare epileptic disorder).

Actually, it's hugely liberating not to be so immersed in making sure she's receiving exactly the right amount of stimulation. When I read 'What to expect - The toddler years' recommendation for dealing with bad behaviour, my inadequacies as parent became all too apparent. "Should your child make a habit of pouring liquids out, point out -kindly yet firmly - that there is a difference between spilling something (which is acceptable) and pouring, which is naughty)," the book advises. In the fantasy world of What to Expect, the fictional toddler listens to his mommy's reasonable explanation and says "Hmm, you have a point. I didn't think about the negative impact that my behaviour has on those around me. I'll stop immediately. I'm so sorry for any frustration and trouble I've caused." In my reality, Leya greets my attempts at discipline by chanting "pooh pooh fanny wee bum" and mooning me.

Similarly ridiculous advice was given in a manual on baby massage which I recently dug up (while Leya was taken to massage class, poor Jess sometimes gets a random pat on the leg. Still, I have good intentions...) "If your baby starts crying during massage, welcome her, saying 'tell me all about it," the book sagely advises. Please. At the sound of a baby crying, the only thing I am going to welcome is a stiff shot of vodka.

I really feel bad that circumstances don't allow me to spend all morning sniffing Jess's hair and going on nature walks in the garden with her. But, on the upside, she's spared a lot of the pressure Leya was subjected to (on one website's advice, I sat her down at three weeks with a shopping pamphlet. The website had promised she would enjoy looking at the pictures of margarine and toilet paper, so when she didn't respond, I was concerned she may be less intelligent than we had hoped).

And, at the end of the day, she's still going to hate us and find us embarrassing when she turns 13, no matter what we do or don't do.

The big questions

Lately I find myself thinking a lot about kids' TV. Not worthy thoughts, like am I turning my child into a zombie with the amount of TV I let her watch (I know the answer to this one. It's made clear by the dangle of dribble hanging from her agape mouth while she watches, and the fact that the only way I can get her attention during TV time is by randomly inserting the word 'chocolate' into any sentence directed at her). My musings don't even extend to worrying about whether her future feminist soul has been placed in jeopardy by the presence of only one girl dog in Paw Patrol, and Skye's stereotypically 'girly' (read: narcissistic, vain and shallow) behaviour.

No. Instead, I mull over the following:

1. Where are Max and Ruby's parents? This question obsesses me, to the point that it has become one of the Big Questions, like why are we here? What's going to happen to my children if the world's food supplies run out because of global warning? How can Monsanto be allowed to operate? And why do we even pretend that macon tastes anything like bacon?

In fact, the whole Max/Ruby scenario is troubling. The other day, Leya wisely observed that someone needs to tell Ruby that she's not the queen. So even my three-year-old finds her bossy and officious, although she might not pick up on the passive aggressive vibes that are contained in the tight little smiles Ruby flashes every time she flashes poor old Max an instruction. The sad thing is, I find that by the end of the day, I am like Ruby on steroids, growling out things like "of course we wear panties when we go out" through a rictus grimace that's supposed to show my child that yes, even though I'm a bugged that I've had to explain this rule 30 time, I'm still game for repeating myself another 60.

2. Why does Ryder have only four fingers (three fingers and a thumb). Ok, let's actually start at the beginning. Why is Ryder called Ryder? Would that name not be more appropriate if, I don't know, Paw Patrol was actually about a dog groomer who came the houses of lonely ladies and, um trimmed their pets? Second, why has a 14-year-old boy been left in charge of all those dogs? Is his some kind of Bruce Wayne story, with canines replacing bats? Surely that's the only way he would be able afford to keep all of those good pups in Iams? Why does he never change his clothes? And, again, where are his parents?

3. How did Dora go from being a spunky little mite, able to take on dragons simply by giving a dance and a clap, into a clearly highly-strung teenager with a penchant for pearls? One look tells you she will probably volunteer to be class mom and say things like "I found the best quinoa recipe for the kids' school lunch at Montessori - as vegans, it's so important for us to get enough protein". And how does she manage to look so tense and upset even as she sings about having fun? Also, why is she so hung up on helping? I like to think that I'm not a bad person, but the only time I ever offer to help is when I can see that the table has already been set or if the hostess is one of those people whose hair falls out if you cut the tomatoes in slices instead of dices, as she prefers to do them.

4. Why do British moms find Mr Bloom sexy? They really do. Are there not enough truly handsome men in England?

5. Did Jason Mason grow up to become Harry Styles?

6. WTF is actually happening in The Night Garden. I am not the only person who finds this programme unspeakably perturbing. I'm pretty sure that if someone were to translate "icka bicka backa swogga", it would turn out to be some kind of code urging our children into hideous subversive behaviour.

7. Why, oh why, do I always have some kind of theme song stuck in my head? These ponderances, for instance, have been set to th4e soundtrack of 'Ola ola ola, ola ola ola we're so very glad to see you'. Grr.

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.