Personal Assistance

Today, my brother and I were talking about my post on de-cluttering and his advice to just "keep everything", when I told him what I really needed was someone to come into my home, go through my closets, and organise/ ditch everything. Like they sometimes do on Oprah, but without the pressure of having to look good on TV while a million trillion people watch you. They have those organisers in New York, but not here.

Today I hired someone to debug my computer, which it turned out had 763 infections on it. I also got a builder to come over and give me a quote on what it would take to get rid of our yukky indoor garden. It then occurred to me: if I could hire someone to do everything for me, I would. And perhaps I have. After all, look at how I got pregnant. Didn't exactly do that on my own, did I?

Actually, there are some things I just can't delegate, like Julian. I've met with three nannies, and don't really like any of them because I want to do everything myself. I am also not good at delegating housework; we do have a housecleaner who comes twice a week, but I insist on doing half the washing myself. On the other hand, I wish I could hire someone to sort out aforementioned junk piles; alphabetise my growing collection of celebrity articles (which I keep thinking I will need to refer to for work, but never actually do); play with my dog (I don't want a mere dog walker - I want someone to play frisbee with her and generally be her Fairy Dog-Mother, like Sarah, who "borrows" her occasionally); sort out my taxes (I don't mean an accountant - I mean someone who's willing to go through my crumpled, beaten-up receipts and work out what they're for) and someone to return all my phone calls.

What I really need, I now realise, is a personal assistant. To think I once applied to be Michelle Pfeiffer's. But she was smart. Even she realised I couldn't cut it.

Big Boy Pram (20 weeks 1 day)

Maxi-Tasking

There are plenty of times I could be sleeping, like right now. Instead, when I am not blogging and not cleaning, I am watching the tennis. And when I'm not watching tennis, I am doing tasks I've avoided for over a decade. Something about motherhood has revved me up into action. I am doing more than merely multi-tasking; I'm maxi-multi-tasking. For some strange reason, here are the tasks I've been avoiding for ten years:

a) Joining up my superannuation funds. I don't know why, but every time an envelope has arrived in the mail for me pertaining to information about my super, I have shoved it away, unopened. Turns out I have a whopping $18,000 combined in super, and I am on the road to combining the various funds from different former jobs. And it took me about five minutes.

b) Getting my wedding DVD fixed. My wedding video guy put our wedding on DVD, and it didn't work. So he sent me another DVD. I said I would watch it. And I didn't. Every time I even thought of testing it, I felt sick to my stomach. It seemed like the tiniest thing to do; perhaps that's what weighed me down. For four years. The good news: today I finally tested it. The bad news: it still doesn't work.

c) Calling the bank about my account. I have an aversion to all things financial. (Unless you count spending money. I am good at that.) But yesterday I not only learned all about interest rates on my account, but I took actual steps to change this account for a better returnuring one.And I even know my bank balance.

I've tried to take this multi-tasking a step further, by cleaning out cupboards I haven't opened since the 90's. I even looked at my crazily expanding collection of magazine clippings on celebrity - they take up two file cabinets outside and one big closet inside, not to mention an additional closet at my mother's house - and considered ditching it. After all, I haven't referred to these clippings in years, and even though they would come in handy in theory, they are not organised enough for me to actually use them. I then asked my brother if I should ditch them. "Don't ask me," he said, "I never throw anything out. If in doubt, keep it!" I always thought it was, "If in doubt, chuck it out," but I guess not.

Apparently Julian, who is a Virgo, is going to grow up to be a neat-freak, if his astrological leanings are correct. I can only get the job started now, and hope he will finish it.

Nicknames

The other day, I went to the dentist, and he started talking about his children - Popeye, Butch, Snuffy, Spud.

No, these aren't rottweilers. These are actual children.

You'll be relieved to know that these kids have real normal names. From memory, they were Julie, Lisa, Victoria and Tim. But, the dentist was always a fan of nicknames, and started calling them these monikers when they were very young.
Popeye - because she breastfed with one eye closed, one open.
Butch - because she looked, well, butch. In fact, as a twentysomething, he describes her as, well, butch. Can you say self-fulfilling prophecy?
Snuffy - because she had respiratory problems, or something. Can you imagine? Lucky she didn't have one leg shorter than the other, because he might have called her Gimpy.
Spud - he doesn't remember why. I suspect he ran out of reasons but still felt compelled to use the nickname.

I was horrified to learn that these young adults - now in their 20s, are still known as Snuffy et al. Even though Snuffy is a lawyer, and needs to be taken seriously. Can you imagine the wedding invitations for Butch? No, me either.

When we named our son, we did it because we liked the nicknames we thought he'd have. Julian is usually shortened to "Jules." Which we thought adorable. Plus, his middle name is Jonah, so he could get called J.J. We didn't think that Julian could get shortened to anything horrible, or get teemed up with a nasty rhyming word. You have to think of these things, as parents. I seriously know a guy named Richard Head. No, I don't know what his parents were thinking.

Only, the other day it occurred to me that, when Julian is in the company of non-Jewish kids, he could get teased. As in, Go Away, Jew-lian. Or is that too Woody Allen of me? (In Annie Hall someone asked him, Didchoo eat? and Woody kept thinking that he was saying, 'Did Jew eat?' and stuff like that.)

I know other kids with nicknames. One pal of mine is called Miffy. I don't know why. Another is called Nomi, instead of her given name, Georgina. This is because she was at the hospital for an inordinate length of time, apparently, without a name. Her mother couldn't decide on one. So one visitor came in and said, "Poor Anonymous Nominata" which I think means One With No Name. (Well, that's how the story was told to me, but I can't see evidence of that meaning on Google.) Nominata became Nomi. Ta-da.

What Not To Read When You're Expecting Paranoia

It still amazes me how much information there is to know about babies; how no one tells it to you as a matter of course and how paranoid I feel when I stumble across something that I didn't know, and might not have done if I hadn't read it. Yesterday, a brief skimming of What To Expect The First Year taught me the following:

- Not to use nonstick cookware at high temperatures. This is because, according to the author "the fumes when they are overheated can be extremely toxic. There have been reports of birds dying from exposure to such fumes..."
Isn't it enough that I might just burn the food? Now I have to worry about toxic poisoning, too?

- Bath toys can gather mildew. The book recommends "to avoid mildew buildup on bath toys, dry with a towel or in the sun after use and store in a dry container."
I truly never realised that having a rubber duckie could be such a production.

- Magazines and babies don't mix. "Because of the high level of lead in printing inks...these reading materials should not be a refular part of your baby's diet." Dude, I write for magazines for a living. Sheesh.

And then I stopped reading.

In other news, I went on a supposedly quick expedition down the street today to pick up nappies and fruit. Only I bumped into a friend, Kate, and we gabbed about motherhood. And then I stumbled onto a second hand clothes store I'd never been to before, and found an adorable pair of Dries Van Noten shoes in my size. You'd think I wouldn't be adding to my clutter when I'm currently trying to clean it out, but I could not be stopped. They were my size. And they were $70, a relative bargain for shoes that looked like they'd been worn once, on a catwalk. Also, a four year old boy was in the store, and he inspired me to buy. He kept pointing out his favourite items of clothing to me. (Number one was a hot pink skirt - I'm not holding high hopes for this boy's heterosexuality, but I did tell him if he ever became a famous designer, he would have to give me some of his collection for free.)

And that's how a five minute errand turned into a 50 minute adventure.

Today's milestone: (I nearly forgot that I am writing this blog as a memoir of my son) Julian almost raised himself on his straight arms today. And his pram got converted from the baby bassinette thing to the stroller. Big boy!

Coming Clean

I've been on a cleaning frenzy of late. You'd think that I'd think of something better to do with my time when my baby goes to sleep at 7:30pm, and for the first time in two months, sleeps for four uninterrupted hours. But no, last night I was busy cleaning my study.

I think partly I need to make room for baby stuff: there's so much of it, and when you're in the moment, you think it's all critically essential. And it only lasts a little while. He has already outgrown his baby bath, his slings, his rocker bed and soon, his bassinette attachment on his pram. Not to mention all the clothing: given that he's in 1's now, he's gone through three sizes of clothes. (A little like me lately!)

And part of me thinks that he may be a little embarrassed to have parents who are such pack rats. It's bad enough that his parents are on the, ahem, older side: he probably doesn't want to have to deal with folks who keep every ticket stub of every concert they've ever been to, too. Even so, going through cupboards filled with junk, I found it hard to part with some items. In the to-go pile today are a facial steamer (bought during a bout of hayfever), a hammock (engagement present), some round boxy thing intended for serving Chinese h'or deuves and a Beavis and Butthead joke book. The stupid thing is, when I cleaned out the cupboards six months ago, I decided to keep all these items. But out they go now.

Also, I am redoing the bathroom, which has inspired in me a flurry of change. The only reason I am redoing the bathroom is because it's impractical to bathe a baby in. The bath is sunken and there are horrible sharp edges everywhere, courtesy of the slate that covers the floors and side of the bath. Plus, it's a really awful 80s design - and it was done in the 90s. Scary. Wooden panelled walls, grey slate floors, and a hub for plants alongside the bath. My brother-in-law, not one to mince words, called it the ugliest bathroom known to man or G-d".

So, I am redoing the bathroom out of absolute necessity, and kind of hating the process. I am not one who likes to pore over endless samples and finishes. I asked a friend, an interior designer, to come up with an idea, and present me with two options by way of baths, fixtures and finishes. I don't even like the stuff she's shown me, but I trust her taste, and because I'm not so good at envisioning the finished picture anyway, I'm going to go with it.

The real headache? Imagining builders in my house for roughly 4 weeks (or longer - we haven't been given an estimate yet). If I hadn't already shelled out money on the design, I'd probably continue what I'm currently doing: hopping with the baby in the bath myself every time I want to get him clean. What can I say? Sometimes, when you're having a spring-clean, change is cathartic. And other times, when you're renovating, it's just a pain in the ass.

Julian - 19 weeks 3 days

My Body Is Not My Temple

So there I was, feeling pretty good about myself and life in general, when I logged onto Christine's blog and learned that she has now dropped a dress size from her pre-pregnancy weight. Which meant that she could go shopping at Fred Segal.

Let's consider, by comparison, my scenario. Having gained about 55 pounds in pregnancy, I quickly lost about 40 in the first few weeks, and thought I was on a winner. That it didn't matter how many chocolate covered sultanas and toasted cheese sandwiches I ate, because breastfeeding, miraculously, had given me the metabolism of a supermodel.

And so I gained back ten pounds.

And still, I'm feeling pretty good about myself. This is because no one sees me; I don't go anywhere. Seriously. The longest expedition I have been on, since Julian was born 4.5 months ago, was a two and a half hour visit to the dentist. Once. I have not been out at night without Julian (ever), I don't go to restaurants with him (okay, once, to an outdoor cafe) and I don't socialise with women who also haven't given birth in the past few months. I didn't plan it this way; it just happened.

Only even these new mothers are starting to look, well, hot. They're fitting back into their old clothes, whereas I'm still choosing from my old wardrobe of maternity duds and new wardrobe of things newly bought for fat ladies. These women are going to pilates, and I am...not.

I'm not really sure, however, why my body decided to gain weight all of a sudden. Perhaps it's all the carbs and sugary foods I'm eating to stave off the effects of sleep deprivation. Also, I think, my body has just had enough.

You see, my body has never been my temple. At best, it's been a nice home in the suburbs. Lately, it's kind of a derelict apartment in a rough neighbourhood. It's been through the ringer: 12 general anaesthetics involving major surgery (1 x wisdom teeth out, 7 x reconstruction of leg and related operations following a tuk-tuk accident in Thailand, 4 x fertility related operations), and that doesn't include going under for IVF egg retrieval or the fact that I had an emergency c-section when I gave birth. All in all, I've spent close to six months of my life in hospital as a patient; even more if you count the several months following the car accident that I was an out-patient. The last thing my body wants to do, I suspect, is go on the South Beach Diet.

Or maybe that's just my excuse. Cos eventually I'm going to have to haul ass and get outta the house. Right now, it's easy to breastfeed and watch TV (how excited am I that Lost and Desperate Housewives start here soon?), but soon there will be activities to do. Toddler swimming lessons. Gymboroo. (The Aussie version of Gymboree. Because of Kangaroo. Roo. Geddit?) And soon after that, the myriad of sport stuff that little boys do.

Bring it on. My body may not be ready, but the rest of me would like to be able to look in the mirror without quickly turning away.

Nanny Superdivas

Today I continued my search for a nanny. Here's the thing: I'll be back at work in April, and even though I work from home, am part-time and my husband is here, it would be good to have another pair of hands in the house so that I'm not too stressed. Because I know I'll be the one doing everything and then will try to cram in my work at midnight every night, or something.

I did find one older lady who was willing to work for me, but she reeked of perfume (so much so that after holding Julian for about two minutes, David and I wanted to hose him down) and she had a bit of a shake in one of her arms. The shake could mean nothing, but it kind of worried me. I used to have a dentist who shook, too, and I'm not that willing to repeat the experience. People who shake just shouldn't choose certain professions: I'm thinking dentist, nanny and tattoo artist are high up on that list.

So, I've called some agencies, just because they do all the reference and police checks and weed out the no-hopers. I told them I wanted someone for two half days, from 12 - 6pm, and they've each told me that that's not enough hours to get someone. Okay, so I've since learned that nannies would prefer either one long day (10 hours) or 2 longer days (7 hours each), and I'm prepared to do that.

Then, I was on the phone to an agency, when she listed what her nannies look for. "Flexible hours, good pay...being the sole carer."

"What does that mean?" I asked. "I'll be home the entire time," I said.

"Well, there's no way you'll get a nanny then," replied the agency.

Huh? Don't nannies prefer it when someone's at home to occasionally relieve them? Apparently not.

"I've worked in this business for four years," said the woman at the agency, "And nannies want to be at home alone. They don't want anyone looking over their shoulder telling them how to run things."

Go figure. Nannies - the new superdivas.

Signs of Intelligent Life

Today Julian was invited to his first social outing, unless you include family dinners: his neighbour Cooper's 1st birthday party. This was a grand affair, complete with face painter, entertainer and cake made by a certain catering maestro: tiers of pale blue cupcakes with the word "ONE" sticking atop them in sugar icing. I always judge how good an event is by the food provided, and this was no exception - although I did have to fight a lot of pesky toddlers for the chocolate crackles and hundred-and-thousands. After an hour, I'd had enough (it had nothing to do with the magnificent party; there's only so much you can say to a bunch of under-3's), and tried to use the baby as an excuse:

"Um, Julian is starting to get cranky so we better leave before he cracks it."

At which point the hostess peered into the pram to gaze at my smiling, gurgling baby.

I've also heard this recurring comment when I say that my baby doesn't sleep: "Oh, it's a sign of intelligence."

Now, that's the kind of comment designed solely to make you feel better. It's like telling people when it rains on their wedding, "It's a sign of good luck." And, it does make me feel better, even though I know you never hear the reverse. You never hear parents tell others, "Oh, my baby is an angel. She sleeps for six hours during the day and then sleeps right through the night," only to receive the retort, "She must be dumb as a box, then."

So, the intelligence comment, on closer analysis, doesn't make me feel that much better. Even though my son is, quite clearly, a genius.

On a happy and sad note, an old schoolfriend of mine, Charis, gave birth to her daughter Ella one week ago, in New York. Born ten weeks early, Ella is doing well at the NICU unit of her NY hospital. Sadly, Ella's identical twin sister Petra did not live. I am so happy that Charis finally has her beautiful daughter in the world, but so sad about her loss, too.

Where Julian goes, Ali follows (19 weeks)

Ugly Presents

My last post about ugly-assed baby clothes was such a success* that I've been wracking my brain thinking about other nasty looking things we've received since Julian was born. Only, truthfully, it takes a certain effort to buy something truly awful for a baby these days; all stores pretty much have good taste baby clothes and accoutrements, so you really have to search high and low for something terrible.

Of course, there are a few people in our midst who seem to have done this, anyway. Two older granny-types have sent us these horrible crochet jackets. One is aqua, and it's the kind of scratchy that seemed like punishment when you were a kid. The other is a cape, as if it magically transforms your baby into...a dorky baby superhero.

Speaking of superheroes, little Julian has demonstrated some super-powers of late. Having learned to roll over in the last two days or so, he won't lie down to sleep in his cot. Instead, he'll inch his way over to the bars and put an entire thigh through it, so it looks like his leg will break if you don't rescue him. (Sometimes, he does the same trick with his arm.) It's hard to know how to stop him from doing this. His sleeping sack didn't do the trick, so right now he's wedged in these sausage cushion things that keep a sleeping baby in place. Way to make your kid feel like they're in a safety jacket, huh?

Anyway, back to ugly presents. I wish I had gotten more, if only so I could make fun of them now. But, I didn't. I could, however, go on and on about the presents we got for our engagement and wedding, but that's a whole other post.

I do, however, have a tragic postscript about the hideous size six girl's pinafore given as a present to my 4 month old male baby. Like all hideous presents, they go straight to one place...my mother. She seems to want these things. I don't ask her what she does with them, I just know that they go to the same place that the pastel blue and yellow plant stand we got for our engagement went to, if that's what that was. (We couldn't really figure it out.)

PapaDog had asked me for a photo of this awful outfit, presumably so that he could a) laugh at it and b) show it to his own daughter when she grows up, to make her grateful that he didn't ruin her entirely. So, I asked my mother for it back, which is when she said...

..."I sent it to your cousin in America."

Me: "But, you like that side of the family."

Her: "I know, but I thought it was a very nice outfit."

Me: "You couldn't have. And at the very least, you knew I thought it hideous, so why would you want to give it away?"

Her: "Well, I also gave him a very nice gift of money."

Me: "Wouldn't that have been enough? It's like buying someone a really delicious chocolate cake and then decorating it with anchovy flavoured chips. It's really an addition that you totally don't want."

*read by at least three of you!

Prince Julian

There's a very kindly relative of David's who, every now and then, insists on giving us a bag filled with clothes for Julian. God knows where she's picked up these things; these are some ugly-assed duds. And, highly inappropriate for a 4 month old boy, or so I suggested when she gave me a size six girl's pinafore that looked like it was once worn by a demented Oompa-Loompa. These clothes are either ugly, or itchy, or made of the cheapest fabric you could imagine, but when I point out that perhaps these aren't right for Julian at the moment and would be better placed with a needy family, I get comments like, "He doesn't always have to be dressed like a prince, does he?"

Um, no, but he doesn't need to be dressed like a six year old who will one day start the world's biggest fansite for Barry Manilow, either. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The Advice-Giver

I have found myself in the unusual position, lately, of giving baby advice. It's not entirely unsolicited - I have various pregnant girls whom I know coming over to check out my set-up and ask me what to do. Bizarre, really, given that I'm flying by the seat of my pants anyway. Here's what I tell 'em:

a) Get the nursery ready in advance. I didn't, because us Jews are a superstitious lot who don't believe you do all that stuff until you're in hospital, post-delivery. What that means is that you come home to a house full of boxes carrying equipment you don't know how to use. And you're just about ready to kill your partner because he damn well should have known that you'd want the cot assembled with fresh sheets put on it.

b) Buy some Bepanthen ointment. It's the best thing to get rid of nappy rash; my single best chemist buy.

c) The first day back from hospital is hell. You've got a new baby you don't quite know what you're supposed to do with, and you need sleep, despite having been in hospital. All the people who you thought would be on hand to help? They're not helping quite as much as you thought. Meanwhile, the dog is acting ten times worse than you expected and your husband is ten times as helpless as you anticipated. If you're breastfeeding, you're hungry, and there doesn't seem to be much to eat. Don't worry, it really does get better.

d) Get a long changing table if you're tall. Your back does enough work shlepping a baby around all day. Also, buy one with containers on the side to store stuff in. I like the Stokke, despite the fact that it's expensive and will never, ever be used as a bookshelf or to "store one's hi-fi system" (do we even call them that anymore?)

e) Do everything you can before the baby arrives. Here's a list of things I didn't do: renovate the bathroom (because I didn't want to be pregnant and deal with builders); get a pest control service to treat the house for spiders (because I didn't want to be pregnant and deal with the fumes); do a CPR for infants course (because it didn't occur to me); do a baby massage course (because I thought I would have time to do that afterwards); do a settling course (because I didn't think I'd need it, ha!); read up on baby books (I thought, stupidly, there would be enough time to do that leisurely in hospital, perhaps between the epidural and emergency c-section?) and train the dog (because I thought, somehow, the dog would train herself). I had/ have to do everything post-baby, and it's a thousand times more hassle.

f) If you can possibly avoid it, don't commit to an exact day that you plan to return to work. Things change.

I'm not going to give my friends advice, however, on what they should be doing in terms of their approach or philosophy. They'll get enough of that without my two cents' worth. That's not to say that I don't have opinions on whether a baby should be picked up/ left to cry; breastfed or bottlefed; kept to a structured routine; going with the flow - but I'm not going to share. You've got to learn that crap all on your own.

Moments Not Captured

Things I wish I could capture on film but haven't managed to as yet:

- The way Julian's face makes a perfect circle if you're looking at it a certain way.
- The pink blush of his cheeks first thing in the morning.
- The way he can conduct an entire conversation in "birdy" language, chirping like a little bird the whole way.
- The way his eyes smile before even his mouth does.
- The excitement he has over the discovery of something new.
- The pleasure he has when his daddy does something to amuse him.
- The way he snuggles so closely into your shoulder, even if he's not tired.
- The way he reaches out to touch me and explore my face, love clearly etched on his.
- The new air he has given this house, so uplifting it's tangible.

Jules and his daddy - 18 weeks 2 days

Julian - 18 weeks 2 days

Life imitates art (18 weeks, 1 day)

Our Foolish Parents

Julian - 18 weeks 1 day

The brilliant thing about having a baby is that once you suspected your parents did everything wrong. Now you know it’s true. You: read eight books by proven pediatric experts on the topic of sleep and infants alone. They: flew by the seat of their pants. Here’s a case in point. Despite signs of improvement a couple of days back, Julian is still a bad sleeper. I have consulted all the experts, shlepped him to doctors, and am now instilling settling methods that are painstakingly methodical in their execution. Now, my mother tells me that when I didn’t sleep, around age 2, she took me to the doctor "because I wanted to kill you". (Thanks, mum!) I should preface this by saying that while I didn’t sleep, I could do all sorts of other shit. I could read! I was two! My brother was teaching me mathematics! And so the doctor decided that “her brain is too active” and thereby prescribed valium. And my parents happily gave it to me, until two days later, when they happened to chance upon a newspaper article which said that valium was bad for babies. So they decided they better stop. Funny, that.

Here's another case in point: before supplementing my baby with formula, I did loads of research to find out what was in formula. Which brand was better. How babies reacted to different brands. Which brand hospitals used. I tried two types. But, when my mother's breastmilk dried up after feeding my then two month old brother, she decided to "borrow" some formula from a friend...who had a six month old. Brother was sick as a dog, had to live on water drained from boiled rice for a month. Go figure.

PS This post was inspired by Tertia's post, saying her mother fed her evaporated milk when she was a baby.

Julian - 18 weeks

More Sleep

I am too scared to say anything lest I jinx it...ah, what the hell. Last night Julian only woke twice during the night. For most mothers, this would be no biggie. In fact, my friend Karen has a son exactly the same age as Julian, and two months ago she remarked, "I was very disappointed because Noah woke up twice during the night." It's all in the eye of the beholder, I guess: I was very happy with a twice-a-night awakening.

There is, however, a small chance that Julian woke up a third time, and I just can't remember it. This seems to happen to me more and more as the nights turn into a blur. I guess that doesn't matter, anyway. My brother sent me some article where research shows that it's not how much sleep you actually get per night that's key, it's how much sleep you think you've gotten. It shows that if you think you've gotten enough sleep, you feel great, and if you think you've gotten too little sleep, you're f***ed. (I don't know why I feel like I have to censor my blog, but there you have it.) So, last night I felt like I got enough sleep (all five hours in two broken sessions!) and it's true, I do feel great.

Let's see what tonight holds...

Oh, and he's an irrelevant aside: today my pug, Ali, ran out the front door when I'd forgotten the front gate was open. This is a problem because she a) has no road sense and b) has been known to run directly in the path of garbage trucks in a willingness to take them on. So, David and I are doing everything to lure her back inside verbally (with pugs, "come" just doesn't cut it), saying things like, "turkey!" "cheese!" "bagel!" (this dog listens to no commands but knows 125 different words for food) - all to no avail. Well, Ali also loves my mother - known to her grandchildren as "Nanna Minnie" - so I finally called out, "Nanna Minnie's inside," and she came racing in. There was one drawback to this strategy: she spent the next two hours barking in a pissed-off fashion because Nanna Minnie wasn't actually inside, after all.

Ch-ch-ch-Changes, part 2

Things that need to change before baby Julian turns 2:

- My TV viewing. Can I be a good role model if my favourite TV show is a toss up between The Biggest Loser (fatties - the slimmest of whom is actually the same weight as me, post baby :( - vie to lose weight; if a contestant is ousted, their refrigerator light is turned off); America's Next Top Model (can't work out who it's more fun to watch - freakishly skinny and bitchy models vying for top spot, or judge claiming to be the world's first supermodel (did she never hear of Twiggy?), the freakishly plastic surgery-ised Janice Dickinson?) or Wife Swap (ridiculously juxtaposed families swap wives for a couple of weeks. The Southern Belle whose husband works 60 hours a day AND does all the housework solo so she can tan and eat breakfast in bed at 3pm must trade places with the dairy farmer lass who gets up at 4:30 am and then looks after her 6 kids). I mean, it's not like I even watch the quality reality TV shows any more. (Well, I do too. Which brings me to another point: how is Julian going to learn not to sit in front of the TV for 3 hours a day if that's what I'm currently doing?)

- David's inability to pick up his boxer shorts. I don't know how I got myself into a situation where I am working, looking after a baby and picking up after my husband, who isn't currently working (perhaps I should do Wife Swap?), but I keep asking his mother who taught him to do this. Her response: "David did was very good at doing chores when he was at home." I don't believe it for a second. Anyway, I'm not going to have one of those sons who acts like a prince and waits for the little woman to do everything for him. No way.

- My exercise regime. Given that I'm 38, I'm already going to be an "older mum". I figure I have to step it up a notch and be the "hottest mum" too. Although that creates a whole other set of problems. Ah, who cares. I'd still rather be the "hottest mum".

- The family's eating habits. It's amazing how long we survived on Thai takeaway food. It's not like I can't cook, but between living in New York and LA for 7 years (where it was de rigeur to have nothing but champagne and caviar in one's fridge), working a night job (social columnist, not stripper) and being a tad lazy, there aren't many meals that get home cooked in this joint. Clearly, that will have to change.

Oh, there's a lot more to this list than just four things. But it's a start.

Ch-ch-ch-Changes

I know motherhood has changed me, because sitting in my living-room now is a very ugly, yet ironically very expensive, recliner chair. Something I swore I'd never own. But it turns out that I needed a comfortable chair to breastfeed on and baby comes first. Here's to a lifetime of hideous yet essential purchases ahead!

Both of my mother's groups took place today, so I met with 9 other girls and their babies. Once, someone told me it was good to join a mother's group because no matter what you were going through, someone was going through something worse, so they always made you feel better about yourself. I realised that I am that person for most people. All the other babies are younger than mine, and most are sleeping through the night. A couple of them are waking once per night. They all looked at me with a certain horror on hearing about our six-times-per-night usual. And yet, I knew deep down they were a little pleased about it all; it made their lot that much easier to bear.

Guess what? The joke's on them. I feel sorry for everyone else because no one has a baby as cute as mine!

As a continuation of my Underachiever post the other day, here's this tale of (someone else's) success. I just read in the newspaper today about a guy I went to school with, a guy who managed to start up a little website for people seeking jobs/ employers seeking employees about seven years ago. And now the company is going to be floated and should give this guy a handy $100 million in change, or something.

I know you're thinking: but what does this have to do with you? Turns out that five years ago, I was one of the co-founders of an internet website myself, an online magazine for women. We even had offices in the same building as the aforementioned employment website. And some similar shareholders. And I made...not a cent. Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Edited to add: I guess I haven't changed that much after all. After living with the new recliner chair for, oh, eight hours, I've decided it must go back to the Planet of Hideous Furniture. Immediately.

Being Mummy

I am completely and utterly in love. Do all new mothers feel this way? It didn't even decrease - not even a tad - when last night Julian decided to wake at 3am for the third time that evening, refusing to be settled again until 5am. I always knew I'd love being a mummy, but it was an abstract concept. Being Julian's mummy is so, so much better. He's such a rewarding boy, the way he smiles with his whole face, every feature turning up with pleasure. He has such a good sense of humour, and is quick to chuckle at the smallest joke or tuneless song. He is good-natured, barely crying (unless it's the middle of the night!). He is social, charming people whom he's never met. I can't begin to describe what it feels like to see his face every morning. It is joy of the purest kind.

Today's stats

Julian - 17 weeks 2 days

A visit to the health care centre today showed that:
Julian's weight is nearly 18 pounds / 8.135 kilos.
Julian's height is 68 cm/ 26.5 inches. (Hard to trust those figures because it would seem he's grown in an inordinate amount in four weeks, compared to the note that he'd shrunk at the measurement check before!)

The reason I'm writing this down is that my friend Anne tells me that her mother kept a very precise record of every single one of her stats, as a baby, resulting in the comprehensive baby book ever (her mother kept it right down to her meeting her husband, etc). As opposed to my mother, who claims not to remember when I did a single thing, except to say, "You did everything more or less on time." Hmmmph. By her answer, you'd think I had the most ordinary birth, as opposed to the real story: I was born roughly two months premature (she doesn't know exactly), small (no weight recorded!), with not much chance of making it. Apparently I started reading really early, but I only know this by hearsay and vague guesstimates - my mother never recorded anything.

Ditto David's mum. We know nothing about his babyhood - there's not even a photo of him before 2 years of age - except that he was very late to get his first tooth: 15 months.

Hopefully, Julian will one day sift through this blog and know everything he did, and when he did it. For the record, at today's health care centre check, they noted that he lifts his head well when on his stomach but doesn't come close to lifting himself up on his arms, which a lot of 4 month olds can do. In his own time, I say!

Underachiever

Now, don't get me wrong, I love having a baby. I have happily put career aspirations, holiday plans and my general life completely aside to see this little boy fulfilled in every way. But, nevertheless, I can't help wondering whether I should have been doing more with my life in the lead-up to having my son - i.e. the four years of trying to conceive him during which time I was solely focused on getting pregnant.

I think it's because today I stumbled across a book review of a guy I went to school with. A bloody good review, as it turns out. We had more or less the same career path: we went to the same high school, studied arts and law at university afterwards, started writing for newspapers. Only he wrote a book during roughly the same period that I was doing fertility treatments and IVF.

Another high school friend of mine had an even more similar career path to mine. We both were the stars of our high school English Literature class, and after school, we both went on to the same university, again to study arts/ law. A year apart, we both went to UCLA in California, each to study writing (he did fiction writing, I did screenwriting). We both wrote for newspapers back home. Only he moved to LA and became a famous screenwriter - he's just written and directed a movie starring Demi Moore, and here I am, writing an itsy bitsy column for the local newspaper. Now, I'm not suggesting I could have achieved either of the feats that these men have; they clearly had a drive that I have not yet exhibited, not to mention the talent. But still. And even though my four years of trying to conceive ended up to be very productive indeed - I have a baby to show for it - I still wonder what I could have achieved additionally if I'd been less depressed, more driven, during that time.

Right now, I'm reading (yes, reading!) a book called Truth & Beauty: A Friendship by Ann Patchett. Ann writes about the road to becoming a writer, and what her goal was by way of page production per day. (I think she said 6.) It has just occurred to me that in the past twenty years, I have more or less committed at least 500 words per day to paper, all of which have pretty much ended up published. And yet I still don't have a book of my own to show for it. Go figure.*

In unrelated baby news, I called up a woman today who's an expert on babies and sleeping; she comes into your home for a four hour session and makes suggestions on what you should be doing. But when I gave her my history on the phone, she said, "It won't be easy...we'll see if we can help you..." which didn't exactly inspire me with a vote of confidence. Is it just me, or does she sound broken before she's begun? Plus, she mentioned something about starting my 4 month old on solids, and I'm just not that comfortable with the notion.

Hmmm. I've just interrupted this broadcast to sneak a peak at my beautiful, sleeping - yes, sleeping! - baby. He is the most divine thing I have ever seen. To paraphrase author Jay McInerney in one of his book dedications, I would have dreamt him up myself but my imagination is not that rich. He's about a billion times better than a well-reviewed book/ screenplay, no doubt about it.

*However, if you want to read several lengthy tomes on celebrity marriages and splits, then I'm your gal.

Small Steps

The milestones these days aren't big things, like when a baby takes his first step, or utters his first word. Rather, they're tiny little footsteps of progress forward, so small that if you don't record them, you miss them altogether. From one day to the next, you can see small changes: the way he can pull a leg of a toy with precision, instead of grasping at the whole thing; the inch further he can roll over; the amount of time he's willing to be awake and alert, watching everything around him. Slowly, day by day, I watch my little baby grow into a person, taking everything in and absorbing it. His smiles are more nuanced; he doesn't just smile at his favourite picture on the wall, or person who walks in the room. Instead, it's as if he is sharing a private joke with you, and the smile is more about interaction. Today, in the bath, he did the sweetest thing: lying against my stomach, he looked up at me and then lifted his arm to stroke my cheek. I don't know if it was a deliberate caress; it certainly seemed that way. And my heart did a big somersault.

My father-in-law says I should hit this sleeping business on the head, lest I start getting cranky and it rubs off on Julian. I know that I'd do better on more sleep, but I can't imagine ever getting cranky with my beautiful, perfect son. People I know put up with so much worse - premature babies in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, delicate babies who will always find it hard to reach their full potential because of their rough start in life. I have none of these problems; mine is not even a problem by comparison. What I have is a baby who happily, joyously, gratefully falls within the boundaries of normal. I thank God every day for that gift. It is the best one I could have asked for in this lifetime.

When The Going Gets Tough

Call me crazy, but I accepted my first post-baby freelance magazine article yesterday. Here's the thing: I can't get more than four hours of broken sleep per night and I think I'm going to be able to write an 8 page article??? Yep, I am officially mad, and completely unable to say "no".

In other Woe-Is-Me news, David did his back in about four days ago and has been completely unable to help me out. In fact, now I not only have to look after the baby 24/7, but I also have to walk the dog several times a day and look after my husband, too. Last night, if the baby wasn't waking me up, my husband was, asking me to fetch his painkillers. I know he's in a great deal of pain, but I honestly looked at him tonight - as he headed off to the guest room for a 12 hour sleep, drugged up on Panadeine Forte and Valium - and wished I could swap places with him.

Julian turns 17 weeks old in about 8 hours, which officially marks the fifth week that he has not been sleeping properly. He now wakes up, oh, 6 times per night. Last night, when he just wouldn't go down at all, I semi-solved the problem by taking him to bed with me. Not a good thing to do, really, because a) I have nightmares all night, fuelled by the fact that I am subconsciously scared he'll suffocate in the bed and b) David is a smoker, so co-sleeping in a bed that David has slept in - even if he isn't actually in it at the time - is a major risk factor for SIDS. Wish I had a solution. In fact, if anyone has a solution, please post your comment below. I suspect he is waking for comfort - I've ruled out medical issues and he sure doesn't seem to be hungry - but I don't know how to stop him from doing it, or how to get him back to sleep without breastfeeding.

Other Parents

Julian - 16 weeks 3 days

Now that I'm a mother myself, I can't help looking at everyone I know in a different light - i.e. what kind of parents are they? Not to judge whether they're good or bad (okay, maybe just a little) but rather to investigate different approaches. It sheds new light on everything. I can see now that my husband had a totally different upbringing to me, ever since I've watched his mother with her grandson. She's a wonderful lady, and very loving, yet she admits she's uncomfortable with babies, and often seems at a loss as what to do with mine. (Telling him "No!" once when he was crying. Also, her approach to his hourly waking at night? "Just shut the door so you don't hear him!")

I now realise what a sacrifice my sister made when she decided to forgo a career in order to have children and raise them herself. Or, what it meant when my other sister - a professor who's head of psychology at a well-regarded hospital here - took her babies to work every day with her so she wouldn't have to leave them behind. My brother must have done something incredibly right - his kids have (so far) turned out brilliantly. I watch my own mother with Julian, and realise that she must have endlessly smothered me with kisses and love and laughter, always ready to sing to me or play games with me. (I also vividly remember her building a "cave" out of chairs and a table with my nephew when he was little, playing a game of Tarzan with him.)

Another friend of mine is eight months' pregnant, and already says that she knows she's going to be a rigid mother. What she means by this is that she knows it'll suit her to have her baby in a strict routine, as she likes things in order. (My thoughts when I read that email: Good luck, honey!)

Of course, this game gets shaken to its core when the babies are no longer babies. It's fascinating to watch my siblings as they deal with their own children (ages 11 - 23) and the myriad of challenges they face. The gifted son who's brilliant at art but isn't suited to the confines of school. The beautiful daughter who thinks she isn't. As they get older, the problems don't get simpler: will they marry inside their faith? Will they learn to become good providers? Will they know how to make themselves happy? It seems like it doesn't end. And the role of parenting never gets easier.

Congratulations Me!

As mothers, we tend to beat ourselves up a bit much. We think we're a bad mother because we're not breastfeeding easily. Or because we're not stimulating our baby during his waking hours with every new gadget on the market. Or because our baby is wearing the easy-to-snap kind of outfit instead of the fit-for-a-prince one.

Well, today I'm not going to even entertain thoughts that I'm a bad mother; instead, I'm going to congratulate myself on being a good one. Here are the things I am proud of:

- Breastfeeding. I found it soooo hard at the beginning. My milk came in late, my baby didn't latch on, I expressed milk for 7 weeks. And then when I resumed breastfeeding, it was painful, I didn't think I had enough, and my baby preferred the bottle. But I stuck it out, attending a breastfeeding clinic and seeing my lactation consultant a number of times. Now, at 16 weeks, I feel like I've finally done it. It was a long road, and feels like a real achievement now that I've made it.

- Soothing. It's been so hard to put Julian to sleep. But, I've been reading book after book about settling techniques, and while I'm not sure I've got the hang of it, I'm proud at the way I've persisted with it, because I can slowly see the results.

- Remaining calm at all times. Before I had a baby, I imagined there would be times I'd lose it. My mother tells a story about how she had to physically leave the house when I was a baby because she was scared she'd hurt me. (Nice, mum!) Well, I'm happy to say I've never, ever felt anything close to that. I've never lost my temper in the middle of my baby's long screaming fit, and I've never felt anything but patience and overwhelming love.

- Prioritising. I didn't know if I could be selfless enough to be a mother. To put my baby first, no matter what. I imagined that I'd be the type of mother who'd eventually itch to go back to work, because I'd be bored. But guess what? Turns out I am the selfless type - at least when it comes to my son.

All in all, I'm happy with where I stand at 16 weeks into this game. I've made mistakes, but they're the usual learning curve kinda mistakes, and I don't feel like any of them reflect too badly on my mothering skills. I am better at this than I thought I would be, and I am much, much happier doing this than I could ever have imagined. I know there will be challenges that lie ahead, but all I can say right now, from this perspective is: bring them on!

Remembering 2004

Julian - 16 weeks 1 day

Last year started out in the best way ever: on December 31st, 2003, I had a scheduled phone appointment with my IVF clinic to find out the results of our Frozen Embryo Transfer. I suspected I was pregnant already - my period was 5 days overdue, I had taken to hourly naps during the day, I was starving all the time - but on the infertility rollercoaster, you just never do know. But I was pregnant, and even suspected a twin pregnancy - my beta level was that high.

Well, it was a twin pregnancy that didn't quite work out, but I managed to carry a singleton to term, and then some, which was just dandy by me. So, 2004 ended up being a completely joyous year, filled with fulfilled wishes after so many years of heartbreak.

But, what a way it ended. I'm talking about the Tsunami Tragedy in South East Asia, at this date of writing responsible for 140,000 people dead (although that number is set to go further, when more "missing" people aren't found, and when disease and poor conditions in the Third World Countries start taking their toll, too). My mind can't really fathom the destruction of entire villages, where large communities have been entirely wiped out. Or the plight of the survivors, who have to live off an unsustainable land and have lost what little they had. All I can really focus on are the individual stories - which I'm sad to say, the media being what it is, are mostly about tourists - of both survival and death. Of the little 6 month old girl whose father held onto her tightly, thought she was saved, and then discovered he was holding only her clothes. (Could I hold on tight enough to my son? Surely I could, I think to myself, because the alternative is too much to bear.) Or the mother who, struggling in water with her 5 and 2 year old sons, knew she could only save one of them, so she took her older child's hand off her, despite his pleas. (Could I do that? I don't think I could. She did the smart thing, it turns out, since both children survived. But what if they hadn't? I don't mean to judge her, but how could she make that choice?)

2004 started out with my spirits soaring. And it ends on a much sadder note, with my heart truly going out to those who are not here to celebrate.

PS If you're looking to donate money, this - Oxfam seems like a good way to do it. Or, you could go to Doctors Without Borders. Just a suggestion.