Dialogue

There are times when I literally get a shock when Julian talks in baby gibberish - "ca ca mama ga" - and I realise he cannot speak English yet. (Or at least, not a version of English I can understand.) This is because it often seems like we're having intricate, involved conversations for hours on end. For instance:

7 am. Julian cries. Or, as I hear it, he cries out, "Mum, I'm awake and YOU'RE NOT HERE."
7:05 am. Breastfeed in bed. Julian tugs at my skin, plays with my nipple like it's a transistor radio, and if I'm awake, I poke at his hand and we have a laugh. We share silly smiles, as if I'm saying, "Darling, I'm too tired for jokes, but did you hear the one about the chicken who crossed the road?" And Julian replies, "Too tired to smile, mum, but I'm smiling anyway."
7:30 am. Julian says that he'd like to get up, now, please, and have his nappy changed. Or, he thrashes about on the bed until I lift him up.

And so on. He communicates so much to me, like, "I think Ali would really like to taste my breakfast Cheerios" (dropping them to the floor as he flashes me a knowing grin) or "Why do you have to dress me up now when I have so many other things to do?" (as he rolls on the change table) He laughs at most of my jokes, even the not funny ones, and he already gives me that "Gee you're embarrassing, mum" look as I break out into a mad flash of dancing when I put The Patridge Family CD on.

And then, after all this interaction, he ga gas at me, and I get a fright. Because it really seems like he's been talking for months, now.

Oh, and today, Julian told me he wasn't feeling well. Communicated very effectively as he projectile vomited onto himself and his high chair before bursting into tears. Well done, son!

The Nappy Changing Routine

Julian and his toys - 10 and a half months

As Julian gets skinnier, Ali gets fatter: his latest trick is leaning out over his high chair and handing her his food: Cheerios, toast with cream cheese - whatever he can get his hand on and drop to the ground. We've had people stop us and tell us how "big" our dog is, so Ali is now on a strict exercise regime. Not hard, when she spends all her time trying to play/ fight with his toys.

This morning, it struck me how breakfast-time is like a scene out of a cliched sitcom. Food gets splashed everywhere - usually on me. Julian rips his bib off. Every time you hand him something, he throws it to the ground. He hates his face being wiped. I'm sure I've seen this scene in umpteen movies: Baby Boom, Three Men and a Baby, etc. I somehow thought that I'd find a way around all these things. A better way of doing breakfast. It doesn't exist.

And changing nappies? Now that's a challenge. Mainly because Julian refuses to lie flat, and would prefer to demolish all the creams in the side-tray of his change table. Changing nappies involves the introduction of (at least) three toys as a distraction. That gets me to the nappy off and cream on stage. Then, there's a complicated routine of song-singing. Today, Incy Wincy (or is it Eency Weency?) spider bought me enough time to put on a new nappy; Row, Row, Row Your Boat and a strange song from David's childhood, What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor? got me through to the putting-back-the-clothes-on stage. Every nappy change, I'm required to be more inventive than the time before. You'd think someone would have invented something to deal with this problem. Not yet.

Ten and a half months - and skinny!

Stats

A visit to the health care centre today revealed that Julian has actually stayed at the same weight since over two months ago, when he was last weighed - probably due to the two times he has been sick. On the other hand, he has shot up a few centimetres, so he now weighs in at around 22 pounds and is 76.2 cm tall - on the 90th percentile for both height and weight at his age.

A knowing smile

Ten months, ten days

Music

Yes, mummy loves The Partridge Family album, too.

For months now, Julian has been subjected to, I mean listening to, David's taste in music. Most of the music is stuff I like too, but now I've heard it so many times that I almost dread hearing Tom Waits' voice. Today, I first put on Paul Weller, but realised that it's not the kind of music that translates to a ten month old. I'm sure Julian wouldn't get Lloyd Cole's references to Eva Marie Saint, either. And them I remembered - David Cassidy! The Partridge Family's Greatest Hits! As soon as the first song came on - "Come On, Get Happy" - Julian bounced up and down and up and down; in that instant, he showed more musical aptitude than Danny Partridge ever had. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.


My fish book!

Gifts

We’re all born with our own set of hidden gifts, whether they’re subtle of obvious. My mother, for instance, speaks a slew of languages: English, Czech, German, French, Italian, Yiddish, Hungarian. My friend Craig remembers the first line of any book he’s read, and he reads a lot. My sister can draw a perfect rendition of anything.

Today I read about a 6 year old boy in Britain who is learning Hebrew so he can read the bible in its original form. (He has also successfully studied Mandarin and a few other languages.) At age 1, he could apparently count and recite the alphabet.

There are skills you work at - becoming a champion tennis player, acing a test - and there are those you inherit. In the latter category, I can see one that Julian has in spades: the ability to make himself - and others - happy.

It seems like a simple thing, at first. He smiles, and others follow. He’s always been happy, and I have generally taken it for granted. But lately I have really appreciated what it means to be this way. Today, for instance, at the doctor’s - he has caught the same flu I’m battling - he managed to charm most of the patients in the waiting room, despite a runny nose and cough. We’ll be driving in the car, and I’ll notice the passengers in another vehicle waving at us - and I see he is showing them his gummiest smile. The other day, in a clothing store, a four year old girl ran up to us and held his hand. She stayed, hugging him, for the longest time, eventually performing several rousing renditions of Old MacDonald and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star for him.

In these moments, he gives back tenfold. For every smile he receives, he beams widely in return. For every loving gesture, he offers a warm coo. Perhaps all babies are this way. But I like to think that this is his gift, and one that he must use wisely when he is an adult. He sees opportunities for happiness, and does not let them go. When you are with him, you feel funnier and more loving than you ever thought possible, because you see yourself reflected through his vision.

Lately, I've been feeling I could learn a thing or two from him.

My mummy's ill and I don't like it! (ten months today)

Sore throat, fever, no voice, aches and pains. And that's just me.

On the other hand, Julian is "speaking" pretty well now - we're sure that "Agam!" is a call for Ali the dog.

Signing out. I'm too sick to be funny or insightful or even rambling.

The Boy Knows Good Shoes

Julian knows good shoes

My friend K. breezed into town today. I don't know anyone else like K.; she is someone I met when I interviewed her over a decade ago, when she was famous for modelling and acting. These days, she is still famous, but lives in Los Angeles and does a thousand different accomplished things. Having a visit from her is like seeing Auntie Mame, if Auntie Mame was six foot tall and young with va-va-voom proportions.

K. walzed in with her LV luggage, blonde mane flying behind her, wearing a white Russian lynch coat and hot pink cowboy boots, and my son just didn't know where to look. (He pretty soon zeroed in on her boobs and her boots, which is the perfect combination for a guy, if you ask me.) She came lugging presents, too: Moet & Chandon champagne, some red frilly racy underpants for moi, some toys for Julian, and the cutest darn leggings you ever did see for him, too.

All was fine until Julian decided to do a backwards flip onto the hard slate ground, knocking his head. He was a-okay, but I figured even if he had a bump, it would make for a good story. "And then there was the time that I got out of the supermodel's clutches and..."

Life Goes On

In my big boy overalls - nearly 10 months

Now that Julian remains traumatised by the bath - he kicks and screams every time we try to lower him into it, thanks to The Cold Bath Incident Of 2005 - I have unmitigated proof that it is possible to screw your kids up even by the best intentions. I mean, you'd think he would've forgotten The Cold Bath by now. You'd think that enjoying (because once he's in, he's fine) five or so successive warm baths since would've given him a positive bath association again.

No siree. So, Guilty Mum has now purchased a Baby Einstein , water-themed DVD in the hopes that Julian can see all these splashy-splashy scenes and cultivate a new love for the water. Hmmm, wonder if Baby Einstein makes a going-back-to-work-for-mummies DVD, too?

Yes, I'm returning to work on Monday. I'll be writing my newspaper column again - flying solo for the next three weeks until my colleague returns from holidays to share duties with me - which will mean lots of going out at night. In fact, I have five events I have to go to at night next week. That's five events which will force me to get out of elasticised tracksuit pants; five events that might - shudder! - see some lipstick on my mouth. Of course, that's also five events that I get to have red wine at, and five events that I get to have conversations not-pertaining-to-breastfeeding at, so all is not lost. Speaking of "lost", my work means that I go to a party in honor of two Lost cast members, Evangeline Lilly (here's an unlikely fact sourced in some research about the actress: she lived in a grass hut in The Phillipines while working for the Peace Corps.) and Dominic Monaghan, next week. On the downside, I won't get to watch the season premieres of 24 and Rock Star.

And life goes on.

The Real World

London gets bombed: sometimes, when you're wrapped up in the sanctity of your mummy-baby universe, it's as if the rest of the world comes to a halt. And then something happens that makes you peer outside your cocoon, sometimes with a jarring shock.

These are weird times to be raising babies in. My own son was born on September 11, a date I previously remembered with sadness and tears. When he was born on that date, it felt good - reassuring, life-affirming - to associate that date with such a positive memory, too. It makes sense, in a yin and yang kind of way. Cycles of life, and all that.

Still, the bombings in London brings me suddenly to my senses, and I think of the challenges that lie ahead. How do I raise Julian to feel safe in a world that is often unsafe? How can he feel protected when I can not always protect him? How can I teach him about the goodness of people when there is so much evidence of the contrary, as well?

Everyone is somebody's kid

My appetite's back; tonight I ate like I'd just been trekking. (nearly 10 months)

In the past, forward steps were taken very, very slowly. Months passed, and the changes were so small it was hard to realise they'd happened, unless you thought carefully about it. Now, there are no steps - just leaps and bounds. Every day, different things happen, and more goals are reached. A week ago, he started truly commando crawling, slowly; now he shuffles along at breathtaking speed. Yesterday, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. And then there was the combination of letters that sounded strangely like words: no longer just mamma and dadda, but "yum" and "apple", too. He even said them at the right moments. Did he know what he was doing? Time will tell.

In O magazine, I just read somebody's account of parenthood which summed it up so well for me. A TV personality, whose son is roughly the same age as Julian, said, "I'm surprised at the difference between having kids and not having any. [My wife] says she now sees everyone as somebody's kid. When I look at [my son], I think, I could kill someone for him. In fact, I could do it almost every day. When I see people walking down the street, it's like, Somebody is crazy about this person in a way that hurts his heart."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Boys

So, yesterday at a kiddie store, Julian was fixated with a doll-dummy that was sitting in the child carseat. We were with my mother, who proclaimed, "I think he's ready for dolls," as if this is somehow a milestone that every young boy reaches.

Now, I think of myself as an emancipated, non-sexist woman. Sure, my [non-existent] daughter can play with trucks, my son can play with Barbies! But I don't know if I'm really putting it into practice. When it came to buying bath toys, I had a choice of spacecrafts, animals and...trucks. Guess which one I chose? (Hint: it goes "vroom-vroom", and it doesn't have aliens on it.) Julian's books are largely about animals, and yes, I've bought him some cars. I have a friend who loves the colour pink so much, she's had to buy a few pink tees for her baby son. But my own son is firmly in blues and greys.

I didn't realise I was doing it, until my mother brought up the doll thing. So, wanting to prove myself as a free-thinker, I took my son to buy a doll this morning. Still, some habits die hard: I wasn't going to buy him a Cabbage Patch Girly Thing In A Dress - there was a little boy baby doll which looked like just the right thing. At the counter, I asked the saleslady, "Do many mothers buy dolls for their sons?" Yes, she told me, and added, "He looks like he's a very caring boy - look how gentle he is with the doll." And he was, gently fingering its eyelids and mouth.

Of course, boys being boys, three minutes later, he was trying to pull the arms off it.

Technicolour

One week shy of ten months!

I thought I'd been doing a really good job of figuring out how to use Picasa the last couple of days, adding all kinds of fancy light and colour tricks to my photos. Then I spoke to a girlfriend today who said, "I can really tell that Julian has been eating pumpkin lately." "Huh?" I replied. "I saw the photo of him with his little orange nose," she explained.

So, here is my son today, no special effects added.

Really bad food

Every day, twice a day, I am seized with a tiny bit of panic as I ask myself the same question: "What the hell am I going to feed my child? Those familiar with my idiosyncracies already know that I spent three decades in a state of non-cooking, and when I say non-cooking, I really do mean that I didn't know how to boil rice/ scramble an egg/ fry onions. By the age of 31, I had only ever cooked one proper dish (excluding cakes and occasional desserts), a Hungarian cholent, and that was because I was trying to impress a bloke, big-time.

I since learned how to cook, but it was strictly dinner-party cooking: labour-intensive meals that were planned, utilising exotic ingredients. When Julian started on solids, I was nervous, even though people assured me that making pumpkin mush was nothing.

They were right. But now, we're on to the bigger stuff. In the last couple of months, Julian has eaten lamb and barley stew, spaghetti bolognese, pumpkin risotto, peach semolina, chicken soup, chickpea soup (okay, a disaster), Jerusalem artichoke soup and roasted yellow pepper soup. I am pleased to say I made all of these, and that he has never had canned food (unless you count the baked beans he rejected). I know I don't have to do this; I do know he would fare perfectly well on commercial stuff. But, I figure I have to get into the routine of family cooking one day - it may as well be now.

For the last week, Julian has lost his appetite, so I haven't had to cook at all; everything he's sampled has come from the freezer. Now, his appetite is starting to return - and since he's almost ten months, his menu will need expanding, too. The thought terrifies me. Yet what keeps me going is a long-buried memory I have of my own childhood, when I slept overnight at my best friend D's house - I was 7 or so at the time - and was forced to eat her mother's cooking for dinner. It was beyond terrible; I still remember trying to be creative with every single forkful as I attempted to hide it on my plate. "I'm a very small eater," I remember saying.*

I'm sure I'll fail Julian in many ways, but I don't want to be the mother among all his friends who cooks really bad food.

* No doubt I was fussy: for years I refused to have anything red on my plate, and my mother insists I passed away by eighth year subsisting on the same thing for dinner every night - two bites of lamb chop, a plate of lettuce and eight kernels of sweet corn. My, how times have changed.

Nearly ten months old and getting over a virus!

Talking

I subscribe to babycenter.com who send me occasional bulletins talking about what milestones babies who are Julian's age are reaching. Today's said:

"Tune in to your baby's babble in the coming weeks, and you just might recognize a word or two. Babies typically say their first words (often "mama" or "dada") sometime between 8 and 15 months."

Hey, he's been saying those words for about three months! But I thought it was just babble! Although, as David pointed out today, "Don't you think it's too coincidental that every time he wants you, he calls out 'mama', and every time I feed him, he says 'dada'?"

Yes, you're right honey, it is. So, officially, my baby is a genius.

And here's more evidence: sneaking a peak forward to what babycenter says about 10 months old, they claim: "He's also developing a mind of his own, which you may run up against when you try to put him in his car seat or stroller."

He-llo? He's been doing that for about six weeks! (And I thought that his high chair was somehow faulty and hurt his back.)

But he's still sick. And losing a bit of weight. It's true that he had a few pounds to spare, and now that he weighs in at around 23 pounds (we think), he's not exactly wasting away. Still, I miss those extra-chubby cheeks. (Now they're just plain chubby.)

In other milestone news, Julian played peek-a-boo himself yesterday. He's been getting the game for awhile, but yesterday he hid behind the curtain himself, over and over, in a peek-a-boo game.

I don't look sick, do I? Nine months, three weeks

This is much better than the cold bath they made me take when I was sick!