16-11-2005
Baby is celebrating his first two
weeks. Isn't this marvelous? We can no longer even recall our previous
drab lives. This also means that our honeymoon period is over and
Daddy and Mummy and their mummy and daddy and all their friends who can read and
write a civilized language will have to turn their attention to a most vexing task: to choose a name for
Baby. Oh, we don't mean Leo Pedro Iolo.
That was the easy part. We mean his proper name in Chinese.
Let us explain.
Chinese names are like American Indian names. They represent the aspirations,
talents and general qualities of the parent. If the Chinese were hunters, we too would have names like Sitting Bull, Crazy horse. Instead, we have the understated
"Intelligent Fortitude" (my best man) and "Brilliant Literature" (my best
friend), the subtle "Loyal to the Ancient Line of Chinese Emperors" (my
cousin), the ironical "Quiet and Decorous" (another good friend) and (sounds better in
both Spanish and Chinese) "Armonía de la Poesía" (Mummy). As
one can see, much rests on our choice if he is not to be a laughing stock for
the rest of his life.
We understand that the standard
practice is to avail oneself of the services of an erudite acquaintance who
would provide a small tasteful selection to suit the parents, grandparents,
precepts of the ancestors and so on. Unfortunately, so far, our literate friends
have been over-excited by the chances of seeing their choices immortalized in
our line. "Civil Liberties", "Uphold democracy" while noble
sentiments are perhaps a little obvious. ("No to the Iraq War" thankfully
does not parse in Chinese). The Catholic curate of the baby's father from his
days in Hong Kong provides a salutary tale. His parents named him "Fearless
Pastor". When the vanguard of the Great Proletariat Revolution arrived at
the remote hamlet he served, and the cadres read down the village roll, there
was only one obvious choice for 20 years hard labour.
We have two weeks. Chinese babies
are presented to the world at the end of their first month. It was be quite
disgraceful for poor Baby to still be anonymous by then.
17-11-2005
First, a small digression from
the usual increasingly eclectic fare. The diarists have received serious complaints that there
is a distinct lack of a Spanish perspective on these
pages. So here it is: a small toast to the uncle and aunty in Madrid from their
nephew. "Salud" y "chin chin" and a loud wail.
Alas, if only Baby could have a
bit of cava, roll over and fall asleep. Continuing our previous alcoholic
speculations, it has been reported to us that a close relative did try a small
glass of something special (just wine mind you, nothing stronger) while she was
breast-feeding. To her immense disappointment, her child ended up more alert and
awake than ever. Daddy remembers that when he was at school, evidence for
alcohol disruption of sleep was overwhelming but the exact neural mechanism was
unclear. Mummy says she doesn't care so long as no one in a white coat
comes near Baby.
Today was another exciting day
for Baby. The would-be highlight of the day - the arrival of the health visitor
- turned out to be an anti-climax. Daddy had imagined (whatever Mummy's ideas
were) that this would indeed be someone in a white coat and a clipboard going
through the house looking for contraband, dirty kitchens, undisposed nappies
etc. It turned out just to have been A Nice Person who said hello to Mummy. The
compensation for Baby was that he had the opportunity of being taken into town
by Mummy to have lunch with his other parent and be cooed over by strangers.
Baby Leo was well behaved and took it all in with wide eyes.
We naively thought that the small
excitement would exhaust him for the rest of the day and, hopefully, the night.
But he has being wanting fun and simulation all afternoon and all evening and
all night. I think it is probably bed time for all three of us now. When Mummy
and Daddy were young (last year), we could stay up half the night dancing and
misbehaving. Those were the days....
One thing Mummy has noticed in
Daddy is the rapid deterioration of his sense of smell. At various times over
the past two weeks, Mummy has asked Daddy whether there was a whiff of something
in the air but Daddy never smells anything. If pushed he will admit that the
house smells of, umm, baby: a rather nice smell. This is either due to terminal
neurological decline (from lack of sleep), olfactory collapse (from odorant
assault) or more probably the extreme efficacy of the most important item in our
possession: an unprepossessing non-descript plastic yellow bin specially
designed for baby nappies. Through some magic mechanism (Mummy, being technical,
was in charge of setting it up) involving spinning wheels, this somehow manages
to swallow up all Baby is capable of. If you knew Baby as well as we do, this
would impress you mightily. What a testament to background research, market
surveys, dedication, consideration and careful preparation! I think the Fairy
Godmother from Boston is taking care of Baby very well.
A final minor digression. As part
of baptism research (Google!), Daddy found out that the Three Fairy Godmothers
are illegitimate. According to Roman Catholic canon law (more Google), God
parents when numbering more than one, have to be of opposite gender. So the
Three Fairy Godmothers should be one Godmother, plus two accompanying "Christian
Witnesses"... As usual Father Richard had to ride in to save the day.
Apparently, the 1917 code of canon law contains special provisions for
fairies... I am not sure whether he was pulling our legs though, because he went
on to say "You do know that fairies aren't real do you?". What on earth did he
mean? And who is going to take Baby's teeth away when he grows up? All in all
very traumatic.
18-11-2005
First, an urgent message from a
correspondent on yesterday's entry: "Quick, clap your hands! He's just killed Tinkerbell!!!" (This is a verbatim quote. You know who you are!)
Baby was in fine fettle tonight.
Dinner was ready and we were just sitting down when he woke up. Two hours later
and three or four complete nappy and pajamas changes later (we have gone past
the bountiful provisions of our Boston Fairy Godmother onto Mummy's ancient
ancestral baby gowns), Mummy finally got to have her food: with Daddy in
attendance and trying to juggle a feeding baby at the same time. It is just
about possible, but only if Mummy feeds herself using a spoon. Baby is forcing
us all to regress to his level.
Now at last, Mummy and baby are
both asleep on the sofa. A beautifully serene picture. Daddy would love to take
a photo and capture the moment for posterity but if the shutter wakes up either,
all hell might break loose again. Being a coward, here he is typing at the
computer instead.
Several of our friends have
emailed wondering why the Chinese names lovingly chosen by their own parents for
their subtle elegance and refinement (in Cantonese) somehow failed to sound
sufficiently ridiculous (in English) to make the list I included two days ago.
Should they be insulted? (Or should their implicit lack of filial piety be
pointed out to their parents?)
We were both quite tired today
from last night. So I hope they will forgive our immediate irrational surge of
annoyance: who are they to complain about what we write. Read the top of this
page. This is The Baby Diary, not a blog to the promote the hang-ups of our
friends and relatives.
This nastiness of ours is, as I
am sure any half-decent psychiatrist would tell you, pure transference. It is
not that our friends and relatives have forgotten that the baby is the centre of
the universe (which he isn't) but rather that Daddy and Mummy must now realize
that their lives revolve around Baby's every want. How suddenly our perspectives
have to change, and how difficult it is to abandoned the unrealized little
selfishnesses we cherish. Mummy being a nicer person all around is probably
finding it easier to adjust.
Ah well. It had to happen. They
have awoken. Mummy just came in, saying "Remember the umbilical cord". Daddy had
nearly forgotten the great event of the day. Probably because he wasn't there.
It was when he came back from work in the evening, changing the baby's nappy in
his usual ultra-inefficient manner that Mummy sprung it on him. "Well. Have you
noticed it?". The only safe answer seemed a neutral mumbled half question: "Umm,
Dear?". "Where is his umbilical cord?", she asked. Daddy reared back in total
panic: It was gone and he had stuffed it down the nappy by mistake. He was done
for: these are grounds for justifiable spousal homicide. But no, thank goodness,
it had apparently fallen off naturally earlier in the morning. He was off the
hook for the moment. Would Daddy want to see it? Being a wimp, he passed. Mummy
is usually the squeamish one, and Daddy watches medical documentaries (let alone
mere ER) unblinkingly and unflinchingly. But there are limits.
We are still glad that Baby is
finally free of his umbilical cord. This is the latest evidence that Baby is
making his heady way away from total dependence on Mummy. Give it another 20
years or so. More importantly, this also presages tomorrow's great adventure.
Baby's first full immersive bath. Watch this space.
19-11-2005
One of the great joys of
parenthood is watching the baby begin to explore the world around him. At the
moment, Baby's world is still constrained by infant myopia and he is still not
yet coordinated enough to start reaching for all the interesting colourful,
shiny and very fragile objects around him. In fact, he has yet to fully
understand that his hands are part of his own body rather than unattached random
appendages flashing surrealistically into view. Most importantly, he has to
remember that Daddy is not a source of milk. We were all in bed today when he
had a sudden in-between-meals urge to feed (which we strictly discourage, unless
Mummy has a attack of soft-hearted tenderness). Unfortunately for Baby, he was
being held against Daddy (who was balancing a croissant on his nose, baby on one
arm and orange juice in the other hand). This provoke a scream of annoyance.
"Ah, Baby is rooting at your breast", said Mummy. "What a privilege!", with not
even the slightest hint of sarcasm. Yes. Daddies in general are quite useless.
Both Mummy and Daddy love to
"wind" Baby. Somehow, it is one of the most intimate experience one can share
with Baby. Usually, it is Mummy's privilege. Partly, because she is in charge,
partly because Daddy is foreign and incoherent in English at 2 a.m., and most
definitely because Daddy does not always give the right answers. The response to
"Did Baby burp?" is not the too honest "Does screaming count?".
Anyway, winding babies is fun
mainly for the one thing they do not mention in baby books. Babies get
incredibly drunk on milk. It is an amazing sight to see a fully sated baby. They
have red puffed up faces and they reel around giddily looking silly. The
occasional inebriated hiccups are a bonus. And it is not that Mummy or Daddy are
secretly pouring single malt whisky down his throat either. We have made our
enquiries. Other babies are apparently like that as well. If there are any
decent, sober, upright babies, can they please write in. Perhaps bottle feeding
is less likely to provoke such outrageous behaviour in one so young.
This is the one time when Baby'
face is full of unadulterated pleasure: Babies apparently don't smile until they
are six weeks old. Contrary to one's expectations, Baby has a look of steely
determination when he is feeding. Think starving piglet at the trough. So,
having an utterly content baby on one's shoulder with his head on the crook of
one's neck gazing with adoration at one's face is an incredible experience.
Especially if Mummy did all the hard work and Daddy is the one appropriating
Baby's misguided affections.
20-11-2005
There are nights when everything
goes perfectly. Baby is fed just before we go to sleep, wakes up once for
another session before slumbering blissfully through with his parents. It is
this prospect which keeps us going. Yesterday, or rather, this
morning, we were able to catch some sleep between the hours of seven and nine.
There are those that claim that medicine is an art not a scientific discipline
because there will be patients who don't respond whatever you try, and when they
finally recover, you never know which of the various desperate measures actually worked. If so, Baby tending is
pure black magic. We tried everything: different positions, fed him, changed
him, talked to him in three different languages, imprecations in four, and paced
all the rooms in our house deasil and widdershins. And if he could only tell us
why he finally fell into an exhausted sleep when he did (at two
minutes to seven), we might be able to repeat the magic formula at a less fraught hour tonight
and tomorrow.
If a teeny-weeny little note of
pessimism has crept into this entry, do not be put off. It is merely the lack of
sleep. We are actually very upbeat, Mummy more so than Daddy. Which is amazing
considering that she is supposed to be in the midst of post-natal depression and
has to shoulder all the feeding and most of the nappy changes at night. Whatever
magic potion Mummy is taking, Daddy wants some too.
Daddy is not hardy at all, and
had the temerity to fall asleep during the mid-wife's visit this morning. The
shame! (If only we could be bothered to care.) We were wild-eyed and disheveled but she was a
professional and had no doubt seen much worse. Daddy was feeling especially
lethargic and as he was cradling a sleeping Baby, thought this would be the
perfect excuse to lean back and let Mummy do all the hard work. Baby hasn't been
weighed since birth and we were keen to see what progress he was making. So
while Daddy reclined languidly, Mummy quickly stripped Baby off for the balance.
Of course, it was when Mummy popped out of the room and Daddy was completely
unprotected by the usual layers of nappy and clothes that Baby decided to wreak
havoc as payment for his lost night's sleep. It was as well that Daddy's
trousers needed changing anyway but it provided plenty of amusement for both
midwife and Mummy. Yes, despite discarding his impedimenta before mounting the
scales, Baby is making excellent progress. More than half a kilo after two weeks.
That was not the end of the story
though. The midwife found Baby's manly cough very alarming and bundled us off to
see the doctors. Our clinic is conveniently just 10 minutes away by push chair:
past the public house, prostitutes, drug dealers and pimply hooded youths trying
to skate board, and around the corner from the mosque. It was time Baby was
introduced to our multi-cultural neighbourhood. Needless to say, the nice doctor
said Baby's chest was perfectly clear. Ordinarily, it is frightfully
embarrassing (if typical) that symptoms clear up just as one is walking into
the surgery. But we have become quite shameless and brazen with our baby. He has
become our perfect Get Out Of Jail talisman, and we have no qualms about using
him to the full.
21-11-2005
Another fun filled night for
Mummy and Daddy who did not get any sleep until 5 a.m. Poor Mummy is get worried
not only about Baby but also about how Daddy is going to manage at work. Daddy
is rather less concerned, having had ample training in coping without sleep in
his youth. Junior doctors used to be told (in Daddy's day) that their then
ridiculously long working weeks were an essential part of their training:
presumably, by seeing how their sleep-impaired mistakes were killing their
patients, they would learn how not to kill even more patients if they ever found
themselves in similar situations. It appears that youthful dissipation can be at
least as effective as medical training.
What kept Baby up was his first
cold. Poor thing. We could hear him huffing and puffing in his sleep every time
we put him down in the Moses basket. After 10 minutes of this, he would feel fed
up (still in his sleep), start wailing at the top of his voice and wake up (in
that order). It was rather hilarious for us, as Baby normally winds up his cries
gradually, like an intermittent hand-wound air-raid siren. Yesterday night he
just opened his lungs, took a deep breath and let the whole world know how
intolerable it all was. And in the process reassured Mummy and Daddy no end.
Even amateurs like us know things can’t be that bad if he can still scream this
vigorously. If he can clear out his throat and lungs, all the better. Our poor
neighbours have no such consolation. On the advice of another nice doctor, we
are now propping baby up with pillows. He spends his day lounging on the sofa
like a medieval sultan, with a suitably appropriate look of mild amusement on
his face.
22-11-2005
Daddy was lazy last night and did
not get up once. Sorry, Mummy. It won’t happen again. But what a beautiful day
it is. The colours are more intense. The air feels fresher. The ground is more
bouncy. Baby smells, well, more like Baby. How very strange. Daddy doesn’t
remember feeling like this before. Mummy on the other hand is rather tired...
Poor Baby is still sniffling but
is definitely on the mend. He is keeping down his food again which is a good
sign, given what a greedy little guzzler he is. If Daddy and Mummy were ever to
feel the slightest bit down, we only have to start doing an impression of Baby
feeding (with all his desperate panting and little snorting noises) to end up in
fits of unseemingly giggles, often with Baby looking up disapprovingly. Gluttony
is a paternally-derived vice and we shall have to see what special powers Mummy
will endow him with. Isn’t this exciting? Another 6 to choose from.
Some random thoughts for today's
entry:
There has been much surprise from
Daddy’s side of the family at poor Baby’s cold. This is mostly due to the
extraordinary effectiveness of civic education campaigns in Hong Kong.
Bottle-fed babies are not the only ones to fall ill and, yes, Daddy does know
that in breast milk one can find immunoglobulin A, lactoferrin, lysozymes,
antibodies…
Baby is start to develop his
comic potential. Mummy thought, having seen Baby as soundly asleep as he ever
gets, that she might have just 5 or 10 minutes of peace and quiet to relax in
her bath. As one might have predicted, a carefully timed wailed got Mummy
hurrying out leaving a trail of puddles all the way down the stairs. Her
audience of one was too young to chortle, but give him a few weeks. Daddy was
scarcely any more sensible yesterday. He was persuaded to share his bath for the
first time. Initially, Baby was quite unsure but when he discovered the joys of
paddling in the warm water, he relaxed completely. So much so that poor Daddy
had to have a shower afterwards. We can't wait until he grows up a little and
Mummy can take him swimming.
A belated big Thank You to our
nice cousins from London. Having worked our way through Baby's entire wardrobe
in a day (now all sitting in our laundry basket), we are onto the presents from
the visit last week. Pretty as Baby's new clothes are, what impressed Daddy most
was how practical the positions of the poppers are for nappy changes. Oh dear.
With our rapidly declining sartorial standards, it seems unlikely that either of
us will be able to qualify as nannies in the more fashionable parts of London.