Happy birthday, Nana Minnie!

This photo was taken on my Nana Minnie's birthday!

Back to work

I am officially back at work. My first fashion column appeared in the newspaper today, and will now appear weekly. It's just a light little thing on various topics pertaining to fashion. This week's entry is about dirty wardrobe secrets - those things you stash in your closet - whether they're ugly or unusable - that you can't bear to get rid off (because they're either comfortable or you've paid too much for them). I won't be so indulgent to reprint the whole thing, but here's an excerpt:

My worst purchase was also one of my most beloved items: a pair of Prada heels. These weren’t just any heels. I salivated over these shoes in Vogue magazine for weeks, a nosebleed-high pair of Lucite-and-satin wedge sandals. Purple lucite and grey satin, you ask? It’s true: no two fabrics have ever been combined so impractically to form a pair of shoes. And when I say “shoes”, I use the term loosely. You didn’t walk in these suckers; you stood in them. Getting from point A to B wasn’t the point. It was if the cobblers at Prada had said, “No one’s going to use these shoes for anything much, so let’s support the foot with a teeny weeny strap of satin and make the heel as high as we possibly can without needing a construction permit.”

So now - egads! - I have a deadline to reach every week. Makes me feel almost like a grown-up again.

Those were the days

I've just returned home from visiting my friend Roz and her week old baby daughter, Tallulah. As I peered down at this sleeping (!) eeny, weeny baby, it occurred to me: I no longer have a baby. I don't know what group he falls into - he's not officially a "crawler", certainly not a "toddler" and probably an "older infant" - but he's not that tiny, little newborn thing that doesn't yet smile and gazes at you through half-open eyes. I've forgotten those days already. I couldn't wait to put them behind me, yet now that they're gone - just like everyone said! - I miss them.

Julian is a fully-fledged little boy. We share jokes together - he thinks it's hilarious when I try to eat his hands, using a line from The Simpsons episode where Homer thinks he's dying after eating sushi: "Poison, poison, poison, poison, TASTY FISH!!!" - and we communicate at length using gestures, expressions and guesswork. I can read Julian's moods, which aren't that varied: he's either happy (nearly all the time), angry (when I'm trying to put saline drops up his nose or cut his nails) or grizzly (when it's sleep-time). We spend long chunks of time exploring each other - me, marvelling at his little toes or fat thighs; him, reaching up to stroke my cheek or touch a strand of my hair. We play together, go for walks, read books. He loves my singing - the first human being ever to do so! (note to mum: get son checked for tone-deafness) and my cooking, too.

He has likes and dislikes. He loves splashing in the bath, massages, sleeping with his Miffy bunny rabbit, being zipped into his sleeping bag and patting Ali the dog. He hates the saline and fingernail thing, and parsnip is probably up there on his "dislikes" list, too.

Today he saw TV for the first time in months, and there was a children's program on. For a few seconds, he was transfixed by the bright colours, the high-pitched voices, the music.

All this confirms it for me: he is so not a baby anymore.

Doctors

You'd never know I have a cold! (7.5 months)

Julian's had a cold now for about a week, or roughly from the time I substituted one of his breastfeeds with a bottle. Can you spell g-u-i-l-t-y m-o-t-h-e-r? Sadly, the time has come to wean, not necessarily because I want to, but because I've been told that I have to get my thyroid and hormones under control, and won't be able to do so while breastfeeding.

It's sad seeing Julian with a cold: his endlessly snotty nose, his raspy little cough, his slightly declining interest in food. And it's not like I can't empathise: he gave me his cold on about day 2, so now I'm battling a sore throat, too. I try to do everything I can to relieve him: I've put a vaporiser in his room, created a steam bath with the shower, rubbed a eucalyptus decongestant mix on his clothes, poured saline drops in his nose. Sometimes, I admit, it makes me smile to see him so - I don't want him to be miserable, but he does look ever-so-cute when his little wet hairs stick up from his head, giving me a groggy this-is-terrible-mum! look.

I took him to the doctor's, but I've decided that I don't trust the medical profession right now. Julian and I share the same doctor at our clinic; I have been going there lately to try and treat my Hashimoto's Disease*, an underactive thyroid disorder that requires me to take 100mg of thoraxine each day. I only got diagnosed 5 weeks ago, and I had to do a follow-up blood test last week to see if the medication had restored my thyroid levels to normal range. For instance, a normal reading of TSH is between .5 and 4, but my reading is 44.5. A normal reading of Anti-Thyroid Peroxidase, a type of thyroid antibody, is less than 35. Mine is in excess of 1000.

When I phoned our doctor for the latest blood test results, I discovered he was away, and was put through to his replacement. This guy read my results out, and told me they were still at the same levels. He then prescribed me an additional 50mg Thoraxine per day.

I'd been taking the extra medication for 5 days when I took Julian to the clinic recently, to make sure he didn't have a chest or ear infection. Certain discussions I'd had with the replacement doctor had been bugging me, stirring in my head. Why hadn't he realised I was already on thoraxine when I told him - surely that would be incidated in my blood test resultS? Why were my levels still so high after a month on medication? How come he didn't have the results for the cholesterol and sugars tests I'd also done that day? It then occurred to me that he'd read me the wrong results. He'd punched my name into a computer, got my original results, and prescribed me new medication on that basis.

Sure enough, when I got to the clinic and confronted him, I'd found out that's what had happened. So that's why I'd been feeling dizzy, light-headed and sweaty for several days. One thing's for sure: next time I'm told I have to do something medically for Julian, I'm going to research it and question it until I'm sure I have the right advice. After all, this isn't the first time I've been steered wrongly by the medical profession. They've done me some huge favours - I wouldn't have Julian without IVF - but they are not infallible, either.

* Speaking of medical stuff-ups, you'd think I would have been diagnosed with Hashimoto's Disease long before last month, given that I presented with nearly all of the symptoms, including low basal temperature, sensitivity to cold, poor metabolism, thinning hair and - here's the biggie - infertility and miscarriage.

Love Lessons

Lately, I've been thinking about what lessons I'd like to teach my son in terms of the way he treats women/ partners and what he looks for in a relationship. Perhaps these things will also come from his dad. You can stop that sarcastic laughter now, mother.

1. Don't presume anyone else is going to clean/ cook for you. Learn how to do them on your own, and become really good at them. It's a turn-off to go back to the cruddy apartment of a guy you like, and a turn-on if they can whip up a really good [insert favourite Italian dish here] for you.

2. Despite what you see in Hollywood, girls don't like brooding, angst-ridden men. See the world with a sense of humour; laughing at yourself and trying situations will take you far.

3. Remember birthdays and celebrate occasions with a real sense of festivity.

4. It is not anti-feminist to be well-mannered and chivalrous. Door-opening is still appreciated by many women. When you're invited to someone else's home for dinner, help to serve/ clear the dishes. A hand-written thank you note sent the next day would be nice, but that's probably a little too much to expect.

5. Don't interrupt your beloved's stories; let them embellish their tales in public.

6. Choose happiness.

7. Don't put your relationships behind everything else. When you reach the end of your days, you won't care how many hours you logged in overtime at work. Unless you plan to discover the cure for cancer. In which case, this Jewish mother says: forget the girl, she's not worth the tsuris!

Other People's Kids

Having a baby of my own has increased my tolerance of other people's children, but only just. Yesterday in the park, a friend of mine's son hovered around Julian's pram to play with his toys. Vigorously. I mean, I didn't think it was possible to take an eye out with his soft-toy pram beetle, but I was nearly proven wrong. I sat there and smiled (through gritted teeth) until Julian put his hand on the beetle, and the kid smacked him away, saying, "No!" "It's his toy," I hissed back, before realising that adults probably shouldn't get into political warfare games with three year olds.

Another friend of mine has a five year old, who was also at the park. She was a chatty thing, and it was great fun engaging her in conversation so that I could find out what secret things are going on in my friend's household. "Mummy bought me two school uniforms," the little girl said, "Only the store made a mistake and she only paid for one." Gotcha!

Babysitters

One day, in the very distant future, there may come a time when David and I want to go to dinner, followed by a movie. This dinner will not be consumed at 5:30 am, and there will be no kids' menu at the restaurant. The movie will star Bruce Willis and lots of people will get shot. In short, these will be no places to take kids, unless you live in New York City, in which said Bruce Willis movie is probably rated PG and kids under three eat foie gras at the latest Keith McNally restaurant, anyway.

What I'm trying to say is that one day I will need a babysitter.

This fills me with horror, because I had babysitters. And I was a babysitter. And neither were good experiences.

Let's start with the kind of women my parents hired to look after me when I was a tot. These women were, oh, ninety years old, and had hearing aids, and they did their knitting while I watched Young Talent Time on TV. Sometimes, I'd implore them to play Monopoly with me, but they would have none of that. So, this is what I'd do when my parents were out, for fun: I'd clean up the kitchen. From top to bottom. I'd even mop the floors. Can you imagine how boring my babysitters must have been for me to consider this entertainment?

And let's not forget: I was a babysitter myself. And while I thought myself quite the competent girl as a young teenager, I don't remember doing anything much except for checking out the parents' pantry and watching a lot of videos. God knows what I would've done in a fire, or some other kind of emergency. Once, I babysat my niece, who was about 2, and her brother, who was about 8, at the time. My niece woke up crying and she was inconsolable. Nothing I could do would stop her. So, I did what any reasonable person getting paid $15 per hour would've done: I woke up her brother and made him calm her. And he did. His school were putting on the play Fiddler on the Roof, and he sung the entire repertoire of songs to her, from beginning to end. Twice. That included Sunrise, Sunset, of course.

Hmmm. Turns out I'm not so anxious to eat big people's food or see a Bruce Willis action flick, anyway.

Cracking the code

Big eyes - seven months, 8 days

There's an underground mothers' network, and I'm forever trying to learn their password. Today I bumped into one of them, who told me about a toddler playgroup in my area - "but you need your name on the list, and they're all booked out for this year". Earlier in the week, I was invited by another mother to a baby-friendly cafe - it was actually part of a big baby store - where playmats were on the ground, covered by toys galore. How come all these women know about these destinations, and I don't?

These mums also know who has discounts off formula or Scandinavian high chairs; they know secret ways of getting their kids onto waiting lists that have been in place before your baby was even conceived. They have a cache of unlisted phone numbers: competent babysitters, loving nannies, house-cleaners who puree pumpkin when the ironing is done. How did they find out this stuff? Who tells them where to get teeny weeny baby tupperware that will fit four slices of squashed banana, no more? I don't know how I'm going to crack the code, but I'm working on it.

Laughing

Balance

I don't do anything half-heartedly. When I started trying to get my writing published, I entered UK Vogue magazine's international talent contest, because I wanted to aim globally (Hey, I got an honorable mention). When I got married, I not only tried on three thousand dresses and visited with twenty florists, but I wrote 250 articles on weddings, too. When I decided I wanted a pug, I bought seven books on the breed, interviewed breeders, stopped pug-owners in the street and joined online pug forums. So why should I be any different when it comes to having a baby?

Balance. I don't have it. Other people do. I think the point of having a baby is that they get incorporated into your life, which you live, more or less, as before. Sure, it might be like a bomb went off, but your life still goes on.

Not mine. Everything in my world has changed; a lot of things have come to a standstill. I have put the bulk of my work on hold, I have stopped seeing movies, going shopping, meeting friends for coffee, travelling. I am barely reading books. My days revolve around playgroups, baby shopping and deciding whether to puree pumpkin or apples for Julian's lunch. Today, I tried to imagine a time when I might - shock, horror! - go out for dinner and get a babysitter. I couldn't imagine it.

Something has to change, I know. But for now, I like being the President of Planet Babyland. Population: 3.

Ah, more fodder for therapy.

The Wave

Seven months, five days

Today, I popped out to run a Julian-errand - is there any other kind? - that had me going to a store in an obscure side-street. Ignoring my mother's warning of old - "never leave the house without lipstick, you don't know who you'll run into" - I went on said errand makeup-less and style-less.

That's when I bumped into an editor of one of the magazines I write for, looking fabulous, sipping her latte. I mean, the woman lives in an entirely different state! And here she is in my city! On the weekend! In an obscure side-street. The woman has some nerve.

"I'm going baby shopping," I told her, rushing into the kiddie store, but not before she looked at me from head to toe - taking in my drawstring pants and shawl - and saying, "Oh, are you pregnant?"

Bitch. And the sad thing is, she was trying to be nice.

Ah well, the day was not lost. Julian learned how to wave today. Or, at least he did it twice when it was done to him. If he had been with me when I'd bumped into the editor, I might've taught him to flip the bird, instead.

Time Out

Today, I gave new meaning to the term "multi-tasking."

I had 90 minutes off. By "off", I mean that I had put the baby to sleep, and he was in the hands of my husband until he woke up again. By "off", I mean that "I must have been off my rocker to do so much in an hour and a half." Here's a rundown:

1:20pm Leave house. (But not before changing Julian's nappy, making sure dishwasher was unloaded and washing was on.)

1:25pm Arrive at nearby clothes store, determined to buy one outfit for oversized body that I look good in. Try on one thing I actually like, until saleswoman said, "No, that's not right for you." This insult makes me trust the saleswoman. Then saleswoman brings me five hideous outfits, each of which I veto, until she finally says, "So, I guess no floral patterns, huh?" Decide I will never go shopping again.

1:35pm Drive to other part of town, 15 minutes away. Use driving time economically; decide to use hands-free device on cellphone to call friends. Get distracted and take a wrong turn.

1:50pm Arrive at snobby and exquisite baby store, where I have to exchange pair of too-small denim jeans given as present to Julian. Choose a fetching sky blue courdroy shirt and olive cardigan instead. Julian's wardrobe is much nicer than either mine or my husband's. And he is fat (Julian, not my husband). Why do they make cool clothes for fat babies and none for fat mothers? Just a thought.

2:00pm Drive two minutes down the street because I have no time to walk. Nearly crash into parked car. Experience road rage with myself.

2:02pm Go to toystore to buy new toys for Julian because everything he has is for 3 months old and I am scared he will have developmental delays because he doesn't have Fisher Price stacking blocks. Purchase two items, both of which ensure loads of visual and tactile stimulation. One toy is a series of soft trucks, and wonder if I should be raising him in less sexist manner, buying him Barbies instead. Also spend too long deciding whether he needs a fourth suction cup toy for his high chair because his other three suck. Decide against it. Feel proud for exercising (rare) restraint. Have to learn to do same with chocolate.

2:10pm Go to bakery and buy biscotti for mother's group in afternoon. Debate whether other (skinny) mothers are not looking fat because they have vetoed floral patterns and biscotti. Decide to sabotage their good looks and buy the goodies, anyway.

2:15pm Go across the road to buy chicken pie for David's lunch. Even though said pie looks edible, it is a reminder of how different I am to my husband: there are about thirty million things I would eat for lunch before opting for a chicken pie.

2:18pm Drive to part of town back near where I live.

2:25pm Go to fruit store to buy zucchini and avocado for Julian. He currently eats neither of these things but I am trying to expand his menu. Feel guilty for forcing bland green veggies on him so also pick up peaches and a pear.

2:30pm Stand futilely in line at fishmonger's before realising I will not be served any time this century. Walk out. Feel guilty relief that I will not be cooking crispy skin ocean trout with lemon salsa for dinner.

2:35pm Go to pharmacy to return baby bum cream for Julian, and buy vaporiser and various healing products since Julian seemed so congested the night before. Get complicated instructions on how to use rather easy vaporiser. Know deep down that I will not use said vaporiser, because it involves water and electricity and being on while my child is sleeping, and all those things seem more hazardous than just giving him some baby medication.

2:40 pm Go to post office to buy stamp for letter. Post it. Phone husband to tell him to pre-heat the oven so he can warm up his pie. He doesn't understand what I mean when I say, "Put it on full force fan," so instead I have to say, "Turn the knob one dial to the left."

2:45 Arrive home. Greeted by awake baby (been awake 7 minutes - good timing!), excitable dog, hungry husband who thinks he's done a lot in my absence (yeah, baby was asleep for all but 12 minutes).

And then, my husband asks, "Did you have a nice break with your time off?"

I still don't sleep much! (Last night I was up between 2 - 7am. Ha ha!)

I am reading a book at the moment called The Glass Castle. It's a memoir by Jeannette Walls, who's now a journalist, about what it was like growing up dirt poor with two ill-equipped parents. As a mother, it's hard to imagine anyone raising their children this way: the father would spend his money on booze, the mother disregarded her teacher's degree for the most part to paint (and not earn an income for her family), and the kids were left without food for days at a time, forced to scavenge in rubbish bins. Most of the time, their beds were cardboard boxes, and they fought with each other to see who would sleep with the dogs (because that would be warmer). It's just unfathomable to me.

And yet, here's the kicker: from what I can tell, the author grew up to be a kind, funny, articulate, smart, well-balanced human being, anyway! Does this mean we can pretty much screw up everything at the beginning and still hope for the best?

Happy baby

This photo is several days older than Julian; today marks his seven month birthday. Happy birthday, baby!

Don't Say That!

Last week, I heard the worst words a new mother could possibly hear. My editor phoned me, and we discussed a fashion column that I would be writing for him. Then he said:
"I'd like to get a photo of you in the studio. Full-length, in a variety of different fashionable outfits."

Let me reiterate, folks. Photo. Full-length. Fashionable. Outfits.

Now, let me paint a visual for you: Fourteen gained pounds since giving birth. Nothing fits, let alone anything fashionable. Full-length? Only if you want readers writing in and asking when baby #2 is due.

I told my editor this in the most polite way I could think of, without sounding like a diva. "Listen, if you want anyone actually reading my column and thinking that I may know what I'm talking about when it comes to fashion, you don't want them to see a photo of me. Especially wearing the non-fashionable outfits I could actually fit into."

Surprisingly, he agreed. I'll have to go into the studio for a photo eventually, but by that time, I should be a newer, svelter me.

One can only hope.

Religion

What you talkin' about?

A good friend of mine in the States recently sent me a book entitled, How To Get More Out Of Being Jewish Even If You Think Keeping Kosher Is Stupid." That's part of the title, anyway. What caught my eye was Chapter 7: Hebrew School Was Worthless and Boring. I can't even imagine how many young people think this way because of me; you see, I taught Hebrew School for about six months, because it was the best paid job I could get. Never mind that I knew nothing about my subject; I used to think it was okay to pass time by getting kids to colour in drawings of Noah's Ark. The other day, I had to call up my mother to find out what the story of Purim was all about; I had bought my bosses some hamantaschen biscuits, and I was scared they were going to quiz me. (I had a rough idea, but knew there were some inaccuracies.) So teaching Hebrew School was not my forte.

But I digress. Chapter 7 was all about how to instill in children a sense of Jewish identity. Things like "children should be shown that Judaism is relevant and valuable" and "children should be taught about Jewish spirituality in meaningful ways". Now, I love being Jewish, and I want to pass on a strong sense of Jewish identity to Julian. I definitely want him to perpetuate the religion; as the child of a Holocaust survivor, whose grandparents all died in the Holocaust, I feel it would be a travesty if the religion was to stop with me. But, until having Julian, I'd never really given much thought as to how I'd pass on those values.

Julian will be going to a Jewish school, but is that enough? I don't believe so. I know that my sense of identity didn't come from what I learned academically. Rather, it was the way my parents observed the Jewish holidays, complete with a revised kitchen and different food for Passover, or the building of a Sukkah during Sukkot. It was the way my parents lived their lives as Jews, observing the rules of Kashrut in their kitchen. It was a thousand different things, done in tiny little ways, every day.

My peers, I've noticed, are lazier. We think that if our parents hold a Friday night sabbath dinner at their houses, all we have to do is attend. If we go to synagogues a couple of times a year, it's enough. Or even more than enough - because how many of our pals don't go at all?

I've realised that if I'm serious about raising Julian as a Jewish man, I've got to be more committed. I feel like I'm able to give him a sense of pride in terms of being Jewish, but the harder part will be following through at home. I'll probably never be that observant, but I can definitely make more of an effort than I do now.

It's important, I know. Many of my friends in the US are one generation more removed from the old country than me. Their parents share the same attitude as most of my friends and, as such, their kids don't care much about being Jewish. Time and again, I'd meet a Jewish guy in the States who told me that I was the first Jewish girl he'd dated; that all Jewish girls were JAPS. I don't want to get to the point where my son feels this way about his own people, where he subscribes to a stereotype and sees himself as a Jew in name only. I've got to do more, for his sake. And, maybe, for both of us.

There's a bigger picture here, I realise. What values are important enough to us to want to pass on to our children? At what cost to ourselves? And do we expect them to learn by osmosis, or will we really work at it?

Two days shy of seven months

Teething Problems

The Gingerbread Men people got back to me quickly, apologising for any offensive jokes and saying they will revisit their packaging.

Who says I can't change the world?

Julian is teething, with all the classic symptoms: red cheeks, ear-pulling, funny poos, rashy cheeks, irritability and wakefulness at night. He has woken about 6 - 8 times the past two nights. The only symptom he doesn't have? Surprise, surprise: that would be food refusal.

Nearly seven months

Bad Joke

In this era of SMSing and emails and horrible punctuation, I'm really worried about the effect it will have on Julian. Some parents want their babies to grow up and be Prime Minister; I'd just like mine to be able to spell.

So, you can imagine my horror when I purchased a gingerbread kid today, a product aimed at kids. On the back of it were five jokes. Three out of five had bad grammar (e.g. Why did the mouse cross the road? It was stuck to the elephants bottom! Clearly, this should read "elephant's".) and one of them was politically incorrect/ offensive. (What do little people ride in? Mini vans!) Maybe I take these things a tad too personally, but I've emailed the company to tell them I was appalled by their packaging. No doubt they'll write me off as a nutso. Like those parents who used to complain about Enid Blyton's Noddy and Big Ears, even though I'm not that sick.

Cooking Class

I need to do a crash course in cooking. Boiling pumpkin and sweet potato isn't very complicated, but it has occurred to me that, in five short months' time, Julian will be demanding real food. Quiches and stir-fries and stroganoffs and all the things which I absolutely do not know how to make.

Some background: I didn't know how to cook for many, many years. It was a source of pride for me. When I lived in New York, I had champagne in the fridge, a banana on the bench, and that was it. If I wanted to eat, I ordered in sushi, or, more frequently dined out.

When I married, it seemed a tad embarrassing that I couldn't cook. After all, I was 33. I made a mean Tiramisu, and had once made a fabulous cholent, but both attempts at playing chef had ulterior motives: it was always to impress a guy. It seemed like I should finally know how to whip up something in the kitchen, if only because we were always being invited to dinner parties, and I wanted to reciprocate.

So, I learned with gusto. I found a fabulous teacher and did a trillion of her classes: in Italian, Thai, Vietnamese and Moroccan cuisines. I can now make my own gnocci and pesto, both from scratch; a complicated Vietnamese soup or a lamb tagine.

I still don't know how to stir-fry vegetables, though.

As a result, I've been trying to teach myself some easy, healthy recipes the last couple of weeks. My husband applauded my crispy skin ocean trout served with lemon and caper salsa, and its accompanying salad with honey-mustard dressing. My tuna pasta got two thumbs up, as did my roasted yellow pepper soup.

Then I got cocky, and last night I invented a pasta recipe in my head, using smoked fish and capers and rocket. Apparently I used too much of everything and my husband toyed with it on his plate before saying, "It's not that I hate this, but...I'm not enjoying it at all."

So it's back to the drawing board for me...

Back to Work

I did a spot of work yesterday; I interviewed an interior designer about his house for a magazine. Normally, this would be an easy task for me: I'd go to his house, ask a few questions, and leave before the hour was out. This time, however, something dire happened. My eyes started to get very, very heavy after ten minutes. I realised that as nice as this guy was and as cool as his pad was, if I had 60 minutes spare to do anything, I'd rather be doing it in front of Oprah on the couch.

So this is what happens after you have a baby: your focus deteriorates, your brainpower lessens, you feel too damn tired to do anything.

Who cares? Julian slept six hours straight last night!

Today, we also got a Childproofing agency come over to make our house safe. Concertina-like wedges were installed into the door cracks, so little fingers can't be caught there and chopped off. Rubber corners were put onto sharp tabletops; a medicine cabinet was installed out of reach. It was quite a contrast from visiting the interior designer's abode yesterday. His pad was filled with Eames chairs and Florence Knoll furniture, while my living room's main feature is now a play pen, cleverly worked into the bay window space. I will never get a Knoll couch, or at least, not while I have a pug (who malts), a baby (who vomits) and lactating boobs (milk is hard to get off, believe it or not).

Who cares? Julian might sleep six hours straight again tonight!