He has your ears!

Julian (Feb 28)

Since everyone told David at the beginning that Julian looked exactly like him, he hasn't believed anyone since who claims that Julian looks like me. In fact, almost no one has said Julian looks like David in the past three months; even those former David-champions have crossed over to my side.

David doesn't believe a word of it.

So, when someone we know said to me, "He looks like you through and through, there's not a bit of David in him," David just smiled. "You don't think so, do you?" I challenged. "It's a nice theory," he responded.

Today, however, I made him look at a photo of me as a baby. A photo that, admittedly, looked nothing like Julian a few months back. But now that Julian is nearly six months, the resemblance is clear. He's not a mini-me, but there's a lot of me in him. (Thank goodness - I started to worry that the IVF program had mixed my egg up.) "Yeah, he looks more like you," David grudgingly said, "Although he has my ears. Definitely. And my eyebrows."

I agreed. After all, the poor sod - telling a father that his son has his ears is like telling the person you set up on a blind date that the person they're about to meet has "a great personality". It's the thing you tell them when you want to avoid telling them the truth. So yes, honey, he really does have your ears. And your eyebrows. If you insist.

We are family (Julian, Rachelle, Ali - 5.5 months)

Who he is

There's a baby in one of my playgroups, four days older than Julian, who sleeps 4-5 hours during the day and 12 hours at night, unbroken. Compare this to Jules: he sleeps about 90 minutes total in the day (up to 3 hours if he's really exhausted) and wakes up in excess of 5 times during the night (after which I lose count). Is it something I did?

Maybe I'm not copping up to enough blame, but I really don't think so. I think I'm more informed about sleep patterns - I've read about a million books on the subject - than almost any other parent I know. It's something that really makes me believe in nature over nurture. There might be ways I can gently teach Julian to do otherwise, but I also think he's born with his own distinct personality and idiosyncracies. And while I can change what he does, it's much harder to change who he is.

I often look at the little seeds of Julian's personality and wonder what kind of person he'll become, and what things he'll be good at. Here are my predictions: he'll be very sociable. He'll be quick with a laugh and smile. He'll be strong. He'll have good hand and feet coordination (unlike his mother). He'll prefer a bath to a shower (unlike his father). He'll be calm and easygoing but he'll always let you know when he doesn't like something. He'll be a night owl. He'll like to sleep in. He'll love food. I'm not sure about books. He'll like them, but maybe not as much as his mother does. He won't be the quiet type; he'll have a lot on his mind, and a lot to say. He'll be a thinker and a talker.

Time will tell.

When Julian's Grown Up

Quickest way to feel old in ten seconds: meet your niece's boyfriend who is a teacher at the university you went to. This is the niece whose nappy you changed (okay, maybe only once), who is actually young enough to be your daughter. Having said that, thumbs up to Sam, I liked him a lot. It makes me hope that Julian comes across that nicely when he's older. (Don't get me wrong - Sam could be a psycho when you dig below the surface, but superficially, he's very, very nice.) At tonight's big extended-family dinner, Sam saw that I was struggling with Julian's pram and helped me with it; was the only person to hear me - twice! - when I asked someone else to pass the food; and was good-natured enough to take a ribbing when I dealt one out. I like all those things in a man. Or boy. To think of my niece going out with a man is just too damn scary.

In fact, my elder nieces and nephew have all chosen very nice boyfriends/ girlfriend to spend their time with. I wonder how I can teach Julian this; possibly, I'm not the best teacher. This is not to say I didn't land a good husband, but the runners-up were all abysmal. Did I mention the Jew who was a practising Wiccan - possibly the only Jewish Witch the world has ever known? He was just someone I went on one date with, but even so - as soon as I heard the words "synagogue" and "I occasionally manifest into the animal I spiritually am, which is an owl" in the same sentence, I should have simply run when he suggested dinner and a movie.

The Blame Game

Apparently there's a new book out called Perfect Madness by Judith Warner, and no, it's not an account of the many years I spent trying to lose even a pound on The Israeli Army Diet, in which you ate two days apples, two days chicken, and I'm not sure of the rest - I usually gave up after one day apples. No, from what I can tell, this is a book about mothering today, and how it's so hard, and how we're so crap at it, and how political and economic forces are mainly to blame for this. Or something.

I just think we've always been crap at this. Or else, we wouldn't be in therapy/ on the phone to our girlfriends, blaming our mothers for everything. I look at how hard I am trying to be a good mother. Take the upcoming journey into the world of solid foods. I have bought two books on the subject but, at night, I wake up in a cold sweat wondering if the pumpkin puree should be soupy or just sloppy. (Sloppy, it turns out - it should stick on a spoon, more or less, says my health care centre.) I have done detailed research on high chairs. And I still feel scared, as if I'm about to sit some exam on solid food that will determine whether I'm a fit mother or not.

The truth is, I worry if I am going to be able to cut it, as a pumpkin puree-er. But I don't really worry if I'm a good mother. That will come later, I suspect, when my son comes home telling me he wants to pierce some bodily part that they haven't yet discovered can be pierced. Ah, the things to look forward to...

Almost sitting up (5 months 12 days)

Witch Doctoring

Yesterday we took Julian to the chiropractor because we are desperate, people. When we told David's dad, he said, "Did you put a bone under his pillow as well?" Actually, we take chiropractic rather seriously, and when Dr. Simon felt Julian, he claimed there were "hot spots" around his kidneys and adrenal glands. Turning to me, he asked, "Are you drinking enough water?" Gulp, no. "Are you having any caffeine?" Um, does copious amounts of chocolate throughout the day to keep me awake count? Turns out I have to have a diet of nettle tea, walnuts and no chocolate, and so far I'm on day two of this. Dr. Simon also said we shouldn't watch TV because that's firing up Julian too much, but this seemed too drastic a remedy. I'd rather take the sleepless nights.

Sporting identical haircuts - 5 months 9 days

More Gruel?

I'm starting to read up on the world of solid food because we'll be embarking on this exciting new adventure in just two weeks and four days - or, when Julian turns six months. A lot of people say you can start them early, but in my mind - what's the rush? Having him drink an exclusive diet of breast milk (and occasional formula) is so easy. Preparing different foods every day seems like a nightmare.

Plus, I've just been browsing through Annabel Karmel's book on baby food. She is this English expert that a lot of people swear by. Everything seemed okay (even if you needed something called a mouli, which I don't have) until I got to her "meal planner". It basically outlined different meals that you served both your child and your family, three different cooked meals a day for each subset, with desserts as well. Basically, you're whipping up ten different things per day.

Earth to Annabel: the reason I haven't started solids yet is because I can't even imagine whipping up one.

Am I really going to be able to turn into some cordon bleu chef for babies overnight? Will my husband finally expect a hot meal on the table? Time - or hungry mouths - will tell.

PS Let me know what high chair you've liked best. My friend Twizzle has already recommended the Fisher Price Healthy Care Chair. Most of the stores I've been to recommend the Peg Perego Prima Pappa, but they get bad reviews on places like Amazon and Epinions.

[Other] Mothers Know Best

I think my mother secretly thinks she is Julian's real mother. Or at least she claims to know what's best for him. Today we went to visit her, and Julian was giggling on the floor.

"He loves to watch the trees," she says, pointing to the window outside. He loves trees."

Um, maybe. But I suspect he was just checking out the house.

When they went for a walk, then stopped to sit under a tree, my mother claims he woke up "because a flock of birds were flying overhead. He is a very light sleeper."

Um, maybe. But I suspect he woke up because the stroller wasn't moving any more.

My mother will also insists that she knows when he's tired/ hungry/ cold/ hot/ wet. And she will overrule whatever I say. "I think he's tired, mum," I'll say. "No, he's very, very hungry," she insists. So then we feed him and he rejects the breast/ bottle and is exhausted from the effort, and she'll then say, "Now he's tired."

Thank you, mum, for loving my son as much as if he were your very own.

Cartoon Caricature

We had one of those episodes today that seems to be taken straight out of The Simpsons: when out with the baby and pug in the dog park, a chain-smoking lady - think Aunt Selma - came over to Julian and said (in cracked voice), "Oh, he's beautiful"...as she was virtually blowing cigarette smoke into the pram. And then Julian coughed. Some people!

Florence, Nicky and Julian (5 months 5 days)

No Sleep, Continued

Every time I learn to adjust to something, it changes. I've finally given up on getting Julian to sleep like a normal baby. Now I just take him to bed with me, where he sleeps in his sleeping bag and where I sleep with a dressing gown on, so there's no chance of him getting smothered. (Oh yeah, like that's really comfortable. And I'm not even going into how my back feels in the mornings.) And that was fine...for about three days. I actually got sleep. Last night, however, I did it and every time Julian woke up, I fed him. Then, every time I attempted to move my arm to get more comfortable, he woke up and cried again. The world's lightest sleeper ever.

So we're back where we started: in the no-sleep zone.

Today's stats

Wherever the baby goes, Ali follows...(5 months 3 days)

A visit to the health care centre today yielded the following results at 5 months, 3 days:
Weight: 9.025 kg (19.8 pounds)
Height: 70 cm (27.3 inches)
Head circumference: 43.5 cm

Which makes Julian at the very top off the chart in height, weight (well, a bit off the chart in weight, but who's counting?) but with an only average size head.
So, contrary to two visits ago, which revealed a short, fat and boof-headed baby, we now apparently have a tall, proportionately heavy and normal-headed baby.

I don't trust those measurement things at all. The way he was bouncing around when the scale and tape measure was pulled out, it's all tarot card reading, if you ask me.

Oh, and here's a photo of Julian and Ali. Every time she comes close, he has developed a defence mechanism of fluttering his eyes open and closed - presumably because he knows she's about to slobber on him.

Mother's Groups

I now have four different mother's groups. This is roughly like having four mothers-in-law. One is delightful, but any more starts to feel burdensome. Problem is, I just can't seem to let any of them go. Each serve a different purpose: one of them has kids closest to Julian's age, another has mothers closest to my age. One of them is a group of women who are "my type" (translation: they've read a bit of Albert Camus but are not so lofty that they won't discuss The Amazing Race), except they've all known each other since high school (so sometimes I feel a bit left out). Another consists of women who don't know each other as well - yet I have less in common with them (translation: they don't watch The Amazing Race). In a couple of them, Julian is the oldest baby, which is not really the best case scenario, because everyone is looking to you for advice. And the reason you go to mother's groups in the first place is because you want to get advice, not give it.

Mother's groups are like creches. They're hard to get into, and you can't just leave them and then knock on their door, asking for re-entry, a few months down the track. So, this week I look at my calendar and I have a full dance card. It's a bit tiring, but what the hell? There's no better reason to be a party animal.

I Miss My Friends

Gina and Julian (5 months old)

One of my closest friends, Gina, blew into town the other day from her overseas home, where she lives her life as a fabulously successful career woman and adored mother of two. Since I've known her (for close to 15 years), Gina has lived in four different countries and, in that time, I've lived in three different cities. Yet we've still retained an incredibly close friendship.

I had about 6 hours to spend with Gina, and I was counting down the sleeps/ hours. Our time together didn't disappoint: she got to meet Julian, for starters, and cooed over how happy he is. We went out to dinner together (Rachelle's first night out alone since having her baby!), to a new Italian restaurant, where the chef whipped up a magnificent peach tartin for dessert - from scratch, it took 25 minutes - which Gina said alone was worth coming to visit for. We drank wine and talked and caught up and even shopped briefly and stopped for a cappuccino the next day...it was all you could have asked for in an encounter with an old friend.

I hope Julian has a friend like Gina someday. Someone who loves him unconditionally. Who never has a cross word for him. Who values who he is as much as he does them. Who is a touchstone for everything he does so, that, when he's at a crossroads, he can look to them for advice and guidance.

I miss all my dear, dear friends scattered across the globe: Judy and Anne in New York; Shari in Los Angeles; Rae Dawn in God Knows Where right now, Gina, and all those who know they have a place in my heart but aren't here with me now. Today is also my friend Adam Port's birthday; he died five years ago, and he would have been 40 today. Happy birthday, friend.

The Other Side

Julian and mummy (21 weeks 5 days)

I've almost forgotten how to be infertile. Not entirely. I still know some things. When I went to see my fertility specialist for a check-up this week, I knew enough not to take my son there, because there's nothing worse for infertile patients than dealing with little babies at, all places, your IVF clinic. When my struggling-with-fertility friend phoned me this week and asked where I'd been, I knew enough to say "with friends" instead of "with my mother's group". I try not to make phone calls when they can hear a cooing baby in the background. No point rubbing it in. And, when my IVF pals want to see me, I at least offer to see them without a chubby baby in tow.

But, I know I'm not always so sensitive. When I speak to my infertile friends, it's all I can do to stop myself from saying, "I just know it's going to work out for you."

How stupid. Because of course I don't know, and of course they know that I don't know. But I want it so badly to happen for them that it seems it must be true.

The other thing I say: "When you become a mother, the silver lining of infertility is that nothing will seem too bad, or too hard. The stuff that other mothers complain about? It'll be a piece of cake." This is true for me but, again, it might not be for them. There may never be a "when" for them; they might never be mothers.

Am I wrong to want to say these things? Have I just forgotten how much these sentiments hurt, however well-intended? Or, do I see things differently now that I'm on The Other Side?

A Great Night

Bath boy (21 weeks 4 days)

What constituted "a great night" ten years ago
Looking fantastic in a newly-bought Vivienne Tam outfit. Going to some cool new bar in SoHo and meeting Leonardo DiCaprio. Flirting. Drinking six margaritas and not having a hangover the next morning.

What constitued "a great night" three months ago
Julian almost sleeps through the night. The bed stays dry all through the night (his, not mine), my engorged breasts don't wake me and I wake up feeling like I've caught some zzz's.

What constitutes "a great night" now
Julian sleeps long enough for me to watch a one-hour TV show like Desperate Housewives completely uninterrupted. I manage to catch more than 15 minutes sleep before 1am. Somewhere before 6am, I'm pretty sure I might have scored an extra three hours of cat-napping. Ali the pug doesn't jump on the bed at 5:30 am, at which point I have to shoot her with the water pistol. When I wake up, I discover we haven't yet run out of the new Special K cereal with peaches and apricots.

My, how times change.

The Road Most Travelled

Sometimes I think about how much we lead a child by example, and whether they turn out the way they do because they follow that example of want to do the exact opposite.

Some of my own father's lessons to me included mistakes he'd made that he didn't want me to repeat. "Don't be too trusting," he told me. Not a very positive lesson, perhaps, but it turns out that I have been too trusting in the past, and it's come back to bite me on the ass.

My mother always taught me to be self-sufficient and financially independent, and in a different era, would have made a great CEO. As it is, she spends a lot of time house-keeping: she cooks, she cleans, she cooks again. I think that's why I didn't learn to cook until I was 34; I just didn't want to rewrite history. On the other hand, I listened to her when she sang the praises of independence, but maybe that's because - within her housewifely walls - she was an independent thinker, at least.

This week has been a difficult one in lessons learned, and I wonder how I can impart those lessons to my son. I want him, one day, to learn what I've learned, without having to travel the murky waters I did. Or is that simply impossible? Can all lessons be theoretical? Or do some have to be necessarily practical? Will he, too, have to follow the path worn down by me, trip and stumble a bit along the way, and emerge with several bruises and a few bad cuts - just to learn the exact same lesson I have?

Progress

All Dressed Up and No Place To Go (21 weeks 3 days)

I left Julian for the longest time ever today - three and a half hours, to go to a doctor's appointment. Neither mummy nor baby cried: progress!

That's A Good Job

Today our new nanny started. I think she had it pretty good. I breastfed him several times; joined her for a walk with the baby and dog; and let her read magazines during his three naps. She was here from 9:15 am - 3:15 am, and probably spent a total of 60 minutes alone time with our little man. Not bad, at $17 an hour plus agency and travel fees.

We also had a childproofing organisation come over, and decided that the most dangerous thing in our house is...wait for it...our ugly-ass bathtub! Now I have no qualms about renovating! Hooray, for Extraneous Justifications!

Blogging

I've been speaking to my friends lately about why we keep our blogs. We've all decided that we basically write them for our children, for when they're old enough to read, and not too young to understand it.

I want to chronicle Julian's milestones and achievements, because one day, he'll be curious about them. My mother didn't record anything of my progress. When I ask her when I first walked/ talked/ got teeth, she replies, "Oh, you did everything more or less when you were supposed to." Translation: she can't remember shit.

I'm also hoping to give Julian an insight into the long journey that brought him to me. The feeling of how much he was anticipated; how much he is loved now. I know I'm going to make mistakes as a parent (I think mistake #3429 was made today) and I want him to see the bigger picture.

I want him to have an understanding of who he is, and where he comes from. I want him to see his parents as human and understand why they did things, even when they did the wrong things. I want him to have an idea of what took place these early years, which he won't remember. I want him to know what's important to me, to us, just in case we don't articulate as well by the time he becomes a teenager and I'm struggling to teach him all the lessons I'd like to impart.

I want him to love me as much as I love him. Is that even possible?

The Restaurant

Today we - drumroll, please - had our first proper restaurant outing with Julian in tow. At lunchtime, Julian and his parents set out to a noisy Italian restaurant - so noisy, in fact, that Julian burst out crying once we were indoors. This immediately made me feel guilty; clearly, I have sheltered the little bean so much that by five months, entering a public and busy space has completely filled him with terror. But, after a few minutes, he was smiling away, greeting his (many) fans with a smile. We even got to eat. And the bonus was, when he started crying at long last again, it was so noisy that no one even noticed.

My Old Life

Whenever you watch those cheesy made-for-TV movies (no, I don't watch them, it's just what I've heard), the born-again stripper/ one-time bomb-builder/ formerly abused wife has always built a new life for themselves until they get a phone call/ visit which catapults them back into their old life.

Well, that happened to me yesterday. I got the phone call when I was smack bang in the middle of my mother's group.

"Hi, Rachelle. Will you be attending the Fashion Festival next month?"

I can't believe that, just a year ago, I was at the fashion festival in full force. And the four years before that. This is how it went: a week before the fashion festival, I would buy lots of expensive designer clothes so I could look my very best. I would get my hair cut/ legs waxed. And then I would collect all my invitations to various shows, and attend them all, a gruelling schedule from 10am - 10pm, not including after-parties and long invite-only lunches. I would teeter from one end of the city to another in sky-high heels (band-aids at the ready in my handbag), reapplying makeup in 5-star hotel bathrooms, and subsisting only on a diet of h'or deuves designed for models. By the end of the week, I would have lost 10 pounds and would actually fit into the clothes I had bought at the beginning of the week (but only for another month). I actually thought this was hard work.

Cut to now. I can't imagine anything worse, starting with the punishing wardrobe. I don't care how cute those Prada heels are; I don't want any more in my closet, not even to look at. (Which is what I did when those satin Pradas came out with the Lucite heels. I looked at them for ages until I finally gave them an outing...to the shoemaker's, to tighten the strap. He stained the oh-so-fragile satin fabric with his glue, and that was the end of that.) My goal these days is not to look fabulous; it's to not frighten little children with my all-black wardrobe. (I think it hides some of my pregnancy weight, but who am I kidding?)

And to think I would get those tickets to a designer's fashion show, and kick and scream (well, politely whimper, then beg, then give up) if I wasn't seated in the front row. It was a moot point: I was always seated in the front row. Even if I did go (unlikely) in my oversized wardrobe, with a screaming infant in tow (Posh Spice's favourite accessory!), my best seat would be the one near the exit/ toilet/ big enough for a stroller to sit behind it.

I can't really believe that was my life, just a year ago. (I was pregnant at the last fashion festival, but not showing yet.) The point of it all is not to gloat about how fantastic I once was, or how shallow. It's merely to say that once a baby comes along, everything changes, from the tiniest detail to the biggest.

Good Intentions

Julian - 20 weeks 5 days

Every time I have an argument with my husband, I vow that it will be the last time, because I don't want my son to be raised in a household with raised voices. Or, every time I watch a loooong block of television, I vow I won't do that again - at least not when he's awake (it doesn't count if he's asleep). I want him to be an active, interested kid - not a reactive one who only knows how to push buttons on a remote.

But, good intentions easily get swept away, especially when there's a long list of things you want to do but don't actually do. Like, go to synagogue on the Sabbath, so that your child can have the same sense of Jewish identity that you do. (Hey, it would be a start if we could even keep kosher at home.) Read the newspaper every day (the entertainment sections don't count). Eat more healthily at home. Look at yourself in the mirror once in awhile so immediate family members don't get such a shock.

I also had a mother's group at my house today, and briefly my house was filled with vibrant, interesting women and their babies. In this particular group, most of the women have known each other since high school, and for a brief moment I envied them their shorthand: the casual way they can poke fun at one another, the fact that they speak on the phone every day, the notion that they go on holidays together. Had I not miscarried in 2001, I too would have shared this pregnancy with a bunch of my friends, instead of sharing it with girls who are more than half a decade younger. Then I remind myself that I'm bloody lucky to be here at all. With motherhood, there's always something to complain about if you search hard enough; the key is to search harder (or, more often, less hard) for something to rejoice in.

Memories

One thing I find myself thinking about, as a new mother, is: If I were to disappear tomorrow - poof! - what kind of recollection of me would my son have? I mean, I don't even remember my early years of kindergarten. Those years I spent with my own mother, supposedly riding around on supermarket trolleys or tucked into her arms while she sang me a lullaby? Nada. Apart from one or two brief memory flashes, I don't remember anything from before I started pre-school.

So, my question again: what would Julian know of me? How could he possibly know the amount of times in a day he makes me laugh out loud, a deep, rich belly laugh? Would he remember reaching up to me, like he does so much these days, softly touching my face, as if learning about each bump and wrinkle through his fingertips? Would he recognise the smell of my skin if he caught a whiff of it again, unperfumed, these days, because I am breastfeeding? Would some deep part of him retain the memory of our shared moments, the times we look deeply into each other's eyes, smiling with our whole faces?

It makes me sad that he probably would remember none of it; that all his memories would be formed from what other people told him about me, rather than what he experienced first-hand. And even if he did remember, perhaps he still wouldn't comprehend: there's no way to explain the love that consumes me, that keeps me writing about him, pushing through the haze of sleep deprivation and tiredness so that I can record yet another moment with my son that I couldn't bear to forget.

Takeaway

It took me every ounce of self-control not to respond when my husband, arriving home from an excursion to pick up takeout for dinner, said, "I've bought you nothing you actually asked for."

"Oh, you mean like on my birthdays?" I wanted to reply.

Sleep and Nannies, continued

Sleep shouldn't be so hard for a baby who's nearly five months. But, here is what happens when we try to put Julian to sleep: we do the whole bedtime routine thing (as the books say), darken the room (they say that, too) and everything goes just dandy...until an hour later, when he's up again. This is the point that I try to settle (pat, pat, pat, play music, pat some more), then give up (damn those settling techniques!) and breastfeed. All goes well, even though my leg goes to sleep with a baby weighing 19 pounds resting on it. I do, however, get some solid TV viewing done in this time, so it does not seem a total loss. After an hour of him breastfeeding and perhaps subliminally taking in too much of a crappy reality TV show, he seems fast asleep. The dog has wedged herself under his head - a furry pillow, if you will - and still he does not stir. So we put him in his bed. Five minutes later, the crying begins. Does he want to know who made it to the pitstop on The Amazing Race? Is he missing his flea-bitten pillow? We'll never know. It's back to the drawing board. This happens, oh, six times a night. Feel sorry for us yet?

I have, however, found a nanny to ease the burden during the day. Her name is Clara, and she is from the Czech Republic. She also has a pierced tongue, and worked as a secretary in her mother's pediatrics office. That's about the sum total of what I know about her; it's amazing how you can hire someone to look after your child, but not really know the faintest thing about them. The agency suggested I ask questions like, "Your best friend phones to say she's broken up with her boyfriend and needs to see you at once. What do you do?" But the right answer seemed too obvious. Or, there were other questions like, "The baby has drunk a litre of poison and has also managed to burn his arm. Who do you call for help?" But, I just can't go there. I worry enough when someone bounces Julian vigorously on their knee.

Others Know Best

I still can't believe how many people give me unsolicited advice on raising my child. And, the same people will repeat their advice over and over, as if somehow motherhood has made my comprehension slip several notches. People, I heard you the first time!

Case in point: my housecleaner. Who, according to her job description last time I checked, was meant to clean the house.* She doesn't do that all too well, it turns out. What she does do well, however, is give advice. "When Dominic was young," she begins - and, incidentally, I still have not completely worked out who Dominic is, her son or her grandson - "We gave him soup with veggies. And he slept through the night."

Me: Thanks, but I'll be waiting until Julian is 6 months old before starting on solids.

She: We gave Dominic solids at 3 months.

Me: Yes, well, nowadays they say it's better to wait because of gut maturation and possible allergies.

She: Dominic never had any allergies.

Me: [thinking] Hey, lady, I rode my bike in traffic without a helmet when I was a kid, and that didn't hurt me either, but I'm not suggesting anyone do it now.
Yes, but you can be more prone to allergies the earlier you're started on solids.

She: Dominic had solids at 3 months and has no allergies. And he slept through the night.

Me: Well, just to be safe, I'm going to go with the recommendations of The World Health Organization.

You see, I try to bring in the big guns whenever possible, and the WHO usually cuts it. The other day, my mother urged me to give my son some water.

Me: He really doesn't need any water. He gets all he needs in breastmilk.

She: But it's so hot. We always used to give the children water.

Me: Yes, mum, but you also gave me valium, do you remember that?

She: I think he needs a bit of water.

Me: If you don't believe me, ring the Maternal Health Centre.

She: Okay, what's the number?

Yes, folks, she actually rang. Here I am, a 38 year old woman, and my mummy is ringing the Maternal Health Centre where she is not a patient, to verify that I got my facts straight.

Funny, I did. So now she argues with me about other things.

She: He needs more fresh air! Open some windows in your house!
She: He's still not sleeping at night? Maybe your breast milk isn't strong enough? (Okay, mum, I'll just add some valium to the mix.)
She: Maybe he should be on solids already? (see below)

*That sounds snobby, but really, it would be nice if my house would get cleaned and also if it got cleaned without the running commentary, just once. What's bad is that my housecleaner also cleans my mother's house, and they gang up against me with shared information.

PS I just watched a bit of The Amazing Race, and on it there's some guy with teeny weeny scraps of hair coming out of the front of his head, which have hearned him the nickname of Hellboy. Cut to him saying, "I'm really eccentric." Sorry, anyone who has to point out that they're eccentric simply isn't.

PPS Some of you may have read the New York Times article on blogging. What annoys me is that in the body of the article, the word "who's" is used instead of "whose"; one woman has already pointed out in her blog that her name is "Alice Bradley" not "Alice Brady", as she was referred to in the article, while another said she was misquoted. New York Times, what is the world coming to?

Happy boy - 20 weeks 3 days

Lesson number one

I learned an important lesson when my midwife came to visit the other day. When Julian was on the change table, she asked if he had anything to play with. Yes, he has his mobile, I explained, but we'd had to put it out of his reach because he was so strong at pulling at it that we were scared he would break it.

"But he gets so much enjoyment out of it. Isn't it worth taking the risk?" she said.

It wasn't that I was scared about the toy itself - I couldn't care less about a broken toy. I was worried that the toy would break, then splinter, then one of those splinters would fly into Julian's eye and hurt him.

I was being silly.

Since then, I have left him play with his toy. He seems like he's about to bend it in two, but he also gurgles with delight whenever he plays with it.

Also, she asked me if I was letting him play on his gymini alone, and I said yes, but this was true only by default: it was the only time in the day I was leaving him alone so I could have some breakfast. She said it was important so he learned independence. Suddenly, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world.

So, lesson number one: don't be so worried about your child's well-being that you're stopping him from enjoying something or learning a new skill. D'oh!

PS Lesson number two. Don't let your child freeze his butt off. Dad resettled Julian twice last night in a two hour period. When he got up for the third time in three hours, mummy came to the rescue, only to discover her baby was as cold as an iceblock. "Didn't you check to see whether he was wet/ hot/ cold?" mummy asked daddy accusingly. Mummy is now having visions of baby having contracted pneumonia, per a story told to her at the health care centre, but is trying, as per lesson one, not to be so overprotective and concerned the whole time.