...And this is why men shouldn't be medics

I have a thing about male medical practitioners, whether they're the family doctor or podiatrists. My dad thinks it's hilarious that even my vet is female, but my predilections have been influenced by such awkward incidents as the time my last male gynae asked me if I was going away in December. It was March. While I appreciated the attempt at small talk designed to put me at ease, the fact remained that, when you're the kind of person who exits rooms backwards so that your husband of four years cannot see your bum, you're never going to feel okay about being peeked at by a stranger.

There have been other uncomfortable instance along the way, like the time I went to interview a gastroenterologist about future medical developments. I was pregnant at the time, which turned out to work against me when he led our conversation onto the topic new treatments for hemorrhoids. "Looking at you now, being pregnant, I'd say you're probably suffering," he said cheerfully. I wasn't - but knowing that was the first thought that came into his head when he looked at me did nothing to assure me that my feelings of unattractiveness were all in my head.

I was again reminded of the importance of having a female-only medical team when I went to see the chiro this morning. My neck has been in spasm for ages, because I am so afraid of saying 'no' to either of my kids' requests to be carried that I frequently find myself lugging around 27kg of child (I know, I know - my sister is always looking at me pointedly and saying 'Who is flying this plane' when I give in to my kids, but I believe that to be a rhetorical question).

After months of either turning my entire body when I want to check my blind spot while overtaking in my car, or simply neglecting to do so and hoping for the best, I decided it was time to take things in hand. Hence today's visit - the only problem being that since my chiro is a guy, visiting him requires as much prep as going to a red carpet event or appearing on Clifton in a bikini. This created a Catch 22: on the one hand, my desire to sleep in waged war against the need to pluck my eyebrows and iron my hair but, mornings being what they are, I decided to act like normal people and just go to the appointment without embarking on a spa-style professional beauty journey first.

(Alright, confession time: I may have a tiny, slight, minute crush on my chiro. I understand that, as a married woman, this is highly inappropriate - also, he is the same age as Harry Styles. But then again, that may be part of his attractiveness. Either way, although eyebrow grooming was out of the question, I had carefully planned my outfit to hide the fact that there has been no Pilates in six months, as he suggested, and so was rather taken aback when he presented a nylon gingham garment with no back and asked me to put it on.)

So there I was, lying on my back as his face hovered above mine, wishing I could just relax into the moment when, instead, my mind was flooded with questions. Is there any way my oats could have given me garlic breath? Do I have any bears in the cave (a dirty nose, for the uninitiated)? Can he smell my shampoo and does this make him feel comforted, knowing that I tried to be clean for him? Or is he repulsed by my eyebrow stubble?

I think my paranoia in this regard stems from my own reluctance to touch people - that episode from Friends where Ross was reduced to massaging people with a wooden spoon springs to mind. In fact, for a while I contemplated becoming a yoga teacher, but then I considered having to handle other people's cellulite while I adjusted their poses, having to pretend I didn't mind that their sweat - which is, after all, just diluted urine - was getting all over me, and I knew this simply wasn't for me.

This is what I am thinking while my chiro is adjusting my neck. I am worried that he is finding the grapey texture of the mole on my neck (it had started out as little more than a freckle, but you know what happens to moles during pregnancy - it now looks like I have a little twin peering out from behind my ear) disturbing, and that he is yearning to wipe his hands on his pants after touching me (which is what I would do), and wondering if he is simply waiting for an opportune moment to do so, and trying to talk without exhaling in case I do indeed have garlic breath, which makes me sound weird...and then he starts to shake my head about. I imagined how I must look, with my head bobbing wildly about like one of those spring-loaded dogs on a dashboard, subjected to a drive through a mountain pass, my teeth chattering ever so slightly and the unbleached hairs of my moustache glinting as they briefly came into the sunny patch by his window, and then disappearing again, kind of like a strobe light.

I really hope my neck is better after that session - if it isn't, I will have to book an hour with my therapist before I see the chiro again, just to boost my self-esteem. She's female, of course.

The shame, the shame

You always hear moms discussing the things they miss most since they had their kids. Usually, it's the Saturday sleep-in, or the ability to go to a restaurant where there is a distinct lack of chicken nuggets on the menu. For me, it's my food dignity.

What is food dignity, you ask? It's being able to eat openly, rather than lying to your three-year-old, telling her you can hear your phone ringing, so that you can sneak into the kitchen to spoon some cookie butter into your mouth while she's patiently waiting in her bedroom, Doc McStuffins stethoscope at the ready, to give you a check up.

I know I am not the only person who feels bad about The Secret Eat. But note that guilt doesn't translate into a willingness to come clean. My sister has a charming story about how she forbade her husband from eating the last Tempo bar in the house, telling him it belonged to their son, just so that she could hide in her specially designated Secret Eating corner (in the scullery, hidden by the pantry door), scoffing it down in giant mouthfuls.

The Secret Eat is accompanied by the kind of loserish shame usually experienced only after you have truly let loose on a night of tequila and gay abandon. Let me assure you, there is nothing to make you feel proud about peering around guiltily to make sure that you haven't been followed,stealthily and silently reaching up into your contraband cupboard, shoving the food into your mouth with ferocity and velocity of a Banteur told they have a free pass to eat carbs, and then trying to saunter casually back, making sure there are no giveaway smears of food on your cheek. The worst sound in the world, as any secret eating mother will tell you, is not actually the 3am wake up cry. no, no. It's those little footsteps making their way into the kitchen, Followed by the sweet little voice asking, what are you eating.

Surely it wouldn't hurt to share, you might think. And that's where you would be wrong. Sharing, contrary to popular belief, is not caring. It sucks - and if more people were honest, they would admit it. Of course it doesn't hurt if someone just wants to use your pen, or if you're letting your sister wear your best dress to her friend's wedding. But come on - think about it. Sharing food means Less For You. Less. For. You. Fewer mouthfuls. In no one's world is that a good thing. Also, while we're being honest, those little toddler mouths are almost always studded with crumbs from the last morsel they cadged.

So this is what I mean by loss of food dignity. No one likes to become that whiny kid from school who, when asked for a NikNak at break, would say "But it's my only lunch". And yet, sad as I am to say it, that is precisely what I do when Leya asks me for a bite of whatever it is I'm eating. I tell myself that it is in the interests of her development, and that she has to learn about boundaries. How else can I save her from becoming a much hated dictator? After all, what is the difference between snatching the hero chip someone has specially been saving, or invading another country? Neither belongs to you, so it's all a matter of scale.

This brings me to the fact that constantly trying to provide a healthy role model for your child - allowing them to take countless bites of the carrot cake you have been looking forward to as a reward for making all your deadlines, cleaning up after you, being nice to telemarketers - is exhausting. Sometimes all I want to do is let me true self shine, swear at bad drivers, let the dirty dishes pile up and go to bed without brushing my teeth, But every action has a repercussion, so I will take the safer route, and continue to bury my stash out of reach and snatching moments to eat them when I can no longer contain myself. I might not feel good about it - but just think how much worse it would feel to see that beloved face fall when she hears the words No, you can't have any of my brownie. 

21st Century Life

There's so much that's great about living in the twenty-first century. I do understand this - it's just that, anachronism that I am, every time I watch Downton Abbey I have a yearnful longing to wear red lipstick and dress for dinner. Also, I have to admit that there are certain things about today's lifestyle that I just don't understand. Here they are:

1. Dating. NNow, as a married woman, this obviously doesn't affect me at all. And thank heavens for that - I simply would not cope. Just the other day, my husband told me about a girl who signed up for Tindr and, upon swiping whichever direction one swipes, received a 'hello' text from the guy in question. So far, so good, she thought, and putting her trepidation aside, sent a response. Just minutes later, she had another message in her inbox - this time, featuring a picture of the guy's nethers. Why, you might ask yourself, as I did. There is just so much wrong with this situation:
a. If I were a man and I wanted to impress a woman, I would start with a charming conversation, subtly weaving in comments about books I had read, amazing destinations I had visited, directors whose films I enjoyed and the exotic cuisines I was capable of whipping up. In case this was too much effort - or, in truth, the only novel and interesting thing about me was my golfing handicap, I would move on to
b. If I really, really, really had to take a short cut and send a visual enticement, it might be a pic of my gorgeous, long-lashed eyes. If the gods had shortchanged me in this department, I would send a picture of my strong, capable looking hands, or veiny forearms, In fact, i would probably send a picture of my knee or elbow - absolutely anything - before aiming the phone camera lower. Can we just reflect about this for a moment. Ladies, when was the last time you thought wistfully of the beauty of the penis? Exactly. Some things are kept under wraps for a reason.
c. How, exactly, does one take a dick pic? Do you have to keep adjusting the selfie setting on your pose and twisting into awkward poses until you get the right shot? Do you take a number of pics before you decide on which one captures your appendage in just the right light? Is lighting a consideration? Do you give thought to the background setting? In which case, is a bathroom too clinical, but a bedroom too suggestive for the first time dick pic? But where, then? Surely a kitchen is just a little much? If you take this kind of thing very seriously, is it worth calling on someone to lend you a hand?
d. What if you're breaching the laws of etiquette and checking your messages during a meeting? How do you answer "Um, nothing" when someone notices your lack of attention and asks what's up?
This brings to mind a conversation I had with one of my editors when I was invited to do a radio interview on the evolution of dating. Since I haven't been dated anyone since the time it was considered outre for a girl to send the first text, I called her to brainstorm. It was she, in fact, who first alerted me to the trend: "If a date goes well," she said, "you can expect to receive a dick pic within a couple of days." No! And: why? Surely, if a date goes well, you can expect an invitation for a second date? A bunch of flowers, even. But a picture of someone's genitals. Again: why?

2. Cutsefying language. Why does everything today have to be A Thing? Either The. Best. Thing. Ever. or something that will give you the feels (or, if it is particularly significant, all the feels - leaving none for anyone else. Which leaves them facing The Struggle Which Is Real). I think this reached its apogee when, in the wake of the shit show which was last year's dismissal of the financial minister - think tumbling Rand, the true worth of life savings eroded in minutes, an economy hovering at junk status, investors running, screaming towards more attractive destinations like, say, Burkina Faso - the newspapers started talking about the finmin scandal. Please. It was one thing when Bennnifer (Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez) made headlines back in the early 00's (or, if you want to turn my stomach, the noughties - another cutsification); that was actually clever. When Brangelina started popping up, originality had already been lost. But finmin? Is a 'clever' portmanteau really necessary at every turn? We're not chatting about someone's pet rabbit, but the person who has the potential to save us from economic ruin. Surely a little gravitas is in order. I mean, seriously?

3. Series. I love series. Love, love, love. I get caught in that trap where you're already tired but you think you'll just watch one episode, and then you think, just one more - it's only an hour - and the next thing, you're waking up at 5 wondering what in the world made you think you could last on just two hours of sleep. Exactly like when you are given a box of Ferrero Rochers that you sincerely think will last the week, but in fact don't make it past the first sitting. At the moment, I am watching Dexter. Now, I'm not sure which series we're on, and it's entirely possible that the plot was weak all along - serial killer with a heart of gold works to make society safe by dismembering all those who threaten it - but I am spotting some critical flaws in the dialogue. For instance, Dexter has fallen in love with a fellow serial killer and, while it's great that they share the same interests, there are some early relationship issues to navigate. Not the usual kind, like "what if she's vegan and we can't go to steakhouses on dates" or "should I stick to the three-day rule" (or apparently, "does my penis look its best in this dick pic) but the type that arise when your sister is a police lieutenant. In fact, one memorable voiceover has Dexter pondering thus: "Maybe I shouldn't date Hannah...and not just because she's a killer". Not forgetting, of course, the cop who starts dating a Russian stripper (who, incidentally, also has a heart of gold and gives him useful lessons in morality). We all know life gets complicated at times but could this be. The. Most. Tangled. Romantic Web. Ever? I mean, seriously?

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.