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30-11-2005
Mummy took
Baby to have his check-up today.
The good part
is that Baby has been growing fast and now weighs 10 lbs. To think that some
children are born at this weight. He is huge now.
The not so
good news is that, much as Mummy had feared and as seems obvious on the most
recent photos, Baby seems to have some sort of eczema. The midwife thinks it is
diet (Daddy's cooking) and the doctor suggests it is the environment (Mummy's
fabric softener). It might also be hormones, a reaction to the milk, the weather
or just a fiendish trick to keep Mummy and Daddy on their toes. We are not at
the panic stage . . . yet, but it might be an partial explanation for why he has
been so restless. Maybe he is itchy or perhaps we are grasping at straws. Let us
do our research, change everything and see what tomorrow brings.
Mummy's visit
to the baby clinic was a little adventure in itself. The Health Centre has
carefully arranged this in a separate part of the building so Mummy had little
idea of what to expect when she opened the door. Certainly not scenes from
bedlam: children of various ages running amok, babies at different stages of
undress screaming their heads off, hassled Mothers juggling their babies and in
pursuit of their older offspring, and midwives chasing after the lot. Mummy has
quite enough excitement in her life now but if she ever gets too bored, she
knows where to go.
It is the end
of the evening. Mummy is dead tired, Daddy is half asleep. But after being up
all night and all day, at least Baby is catching up on his nap. As a reward for
Mummy's hard work, we are going to indulge ourselves a little: Mr. Darcy and
Rich Fruit Cake. Thank goodness for the prescience of Daddy's Mummy who not only
filled our larder with deliciousness but stopped us from gorging ourselves at
the first opportunity. We have saved up the cake (carefully infused with just
the right amount of brandy, ahem, for medicinal purposes!) for precisely such an
occasion, and we think that nothing short of two slices each will revive us.
As for Mr.
Darcy, this is a special treat to make up for Mummy not being able to see the
big screen version. Not that Mummy considers Colin Firth to be any other than
the first choice in any situation one can imagine. Daddy, alas, fails to share
her appreciation. The disastrous proposal scene is proving to be the highlight
of the evening. Go for it, Lizzie! How curious it is, though, that Daddy did not
show this to Mummy before his efforts in the same department...
1-12-2005
Astonishingly,
someone wrote to the diarists asking why yesterday's entry did not appear before
midnight GMT! Firstly, we are delighted to have such a dedicated readership.
Secondly, how amusing to think that a parent's work ends at the stroke of
midnight. Thirdly, it is becoming very obvious that keeping a daily diary is a
considered task best conducted in a calm and tranquil environment where the
events of the day and their import can be reflected on etc. I.e. think Regency
desk, Tiffany lamp, leather bound vellum and quills. Mummy and Daddy, on the
other hand, lead an insane existence where surviving the next 10 minutes
undisturbed can be our number one priority. Sadly, these pages are always at the
bottom of our list of priorities.
Life in the UK
can be much harsher than in Hong Kong or Spain. The night before our wedding (in
Spain), Daddy and his friends were very amused to see a toddler being wheeled
down the high street at 15 minutes past midnight. We joked that if this happened
in the UK, the parents would be arrested for child abuse. Little did we know.
Daddy was
running up a hill yesterday night and passed three separate babies being wheeled
around. This was not the balmy evenings of a Spanish Summer but the cold
freezing fog (-4° C or 25° F) of the English Winter. Mummy and Daddy have long
observed with hilarity that skirt lengths on Friday nights in the UK are
inversely proportion to the temperature. (Tights are verboten.) Teenage immunity
to low temperatures can be explained by a combination of population genetics,
classical Darwinism and self-medication. Surely, none of these would apply to
new-born infants. No. The only explanation is that these hardy parents are keen
classicists. Isn’t it wonderful to see age-old Spartan traditions being brought
to life again? Nonetheless, if no one minds, Baby can stay nicely wrapped up
indoors for just a few more weeks yet.
2-12-2005
Before Baby was born, Daddy was fairly worried that both Mummy and Daddy would
have difficulty bonding with the newborn. Perhaps we are "hard-wired" to love
the familiar, like the mother of the Ugly Duckling. Daddy would only be able to
love little Chinese babies with stubby noses, and Mummy would only find Spanish
babies with beaky noses appealing. Our child would most likely be half way
in-between (beaky stub or stubby beak?). Besides, as Daddy told Mummy, all
newborn babies are dark, wrinkled and very ugly.
It was thus a
great miracle that Baby is so utterly lovable, to give his parents absolutely no
choice at all in this matter. (Daddy can forget about his fancy theories about
biological imperatives. That is so not what Kant is about.) Mummy still
carefully checks out all the other push-chairs she passes in the street. By the
most objective criteria, using her most critical judgment and bringing all her
artistic faculties and general good taste to bear on this matter, Baby is the
most handsome child around.
After much
back and forth with our very understanding parish priest, we have at last fixed
a date for Baby's baptism. It is going to be the 18th of December, in two weeks
time. Much of the fuss was to accommodate friends and family from abroad who
would like to come. As it is, neither of the God-parents will be able to attend
in person. (The Catholic church allows parenting by proxy, but only in the
spiritual and not the temporal category). We are running around like headless
chicken trying to organize a reception afterwards. Unfortunately, this being the
pre-Christmas/Hanukah/post-Eed season, not only does our parish hall have a
previous booking but so do all the possibilities within a likely ecumenical
orbit. We are determined not to be stressed about this though. Mummy and Daddy
(and Mummy's Mummy and Daddy, no doubt) have happy memories of organizing their
wedding reception, and would rather never have to do the same again!
Baby's eczema
is increasingly turning out not to be. The doctor and midwife may have panicked
Mummy and Daddy prematurely. He still has milk spots but the dry skin on his
forehead has largely disappeared with his prescription moisturizing cream (doing
double duty as a hair gel). We thus have to scratch around for an alternative
explanation for his restlessness. It may just be that he is growing up and
becoming more aware of his surroundings. Rather cruelly, Mummy and Daddy are
pinning their hopes on separation anxiety. Mummy is sure that Baby is getting to
know her personally and not merely as his feeding station. But if Baby could
prevail on himself to call for reassurance every now and then, Mummy would be
very much reassured in turn. Daddy is more hard-hearted and cares not whether
Baby is developing an unboundedly interpersonal, socially-associative
relationship with him. He is just happy to cradle Baby to sleep on his chest.
3-12-2005
Weekends are a
strange time for Mummy and Daddy. After five days hearing Daddy moan
pathetically at having to go to work every day and not being able to play with
Baby (or watch repeats of "Bewitched" at 10 a.m.!), Mummy is keen for Daddy to
have the full experience of a restless child who refuses to settle all morning
for more than 10 minutes without crying. Not that Mummy is complaining, mind
you. It is just important that Daddy has a proper appreciation of the trials and
tribulations of Baby as well as his virtues. Alas, Daddy (no doubt because he
can leave it all behind again on Monday) tends annoyingly to treat it all as a
great adventure: "Isn't it fun that he is screaming? We never get this at
work...". Can't Daddy learn to complain just a bit so Mummy can tell him off for
moaning when she has to deal with this every day?
It is also the
case that Mummy is super-efficient by now in all things to do with Baby. Not
that Mummy had not put her whole heart and soul into reorganizing our lives in
preparation for Baby's arrival. Drawers and shelves were cleared out for Baby's
kit all stacked by category (in a complicated system that Daddy has yet to
figure out). Plastic bowls (which happily used to hold Christmas puddings in
their previous existence) carefully labelled with "top" and "bottom" and placed
next to the hybrid baby toy/bath thermometer provided by the fairy Godmother.
What is most impressive, though, is how quickly Baby is stripped down, cleaned,
dried, changed and dressed. Think Formula one pit stops. Except that Mummy
manages with a team of one (Daddy might just count as another token half). Daddy
can only pretend, when it is his turn, that he is taking a gentler approach out
of consideration for Baby's delicate constitution.
It occurred to
us, after re-reading previous entries, that it has been already some two weeks
since Mummy's Mummy and Daddy went back to Spain, having driven their way up the
continent hurriedly in the first place to care of mother and child after Baby's
birth.
Lest our
readers are wondering, we were never the least concerned that their arrival
would be an interruption of our hedonistic and sybaritic lifestyle. Alas, the
truth is that hedonism, or even general degeneracy (the aspiration of every
ambitious young person), is not compatible with 1) pursuit of a would-be spouse,
2) engagement for marriage or 3) marriage. Let that be a warning for all ye
callow youths.
As it was, the
three of us, parents and child, were so royally taken care of, that adjusting
back to life without their comforting presence came as a great shock. It was as
well that Baby is such an all-consuming interest: little time was left for Mummy
to feel very sorry for herself. So here is big thank you again from the bottom
of our hearts, all the way across the aether, to a little village in Castilla
(which has broadband). We are looking forward to seeing you in two weeks.
4-12-2005
Today was a
fun-filled day for Baby. (And hence a short diary entry for Mummy and Daddy.)
Not only did Mummy have her friends around, including the director/choreographer
of her dance company, but a good friend of Mummy and Daddy, whom we miss
dreadfully, came all the way from Cardiff for a surprise visit. (That is,
Cathrin told us she was coming but we forgot completely. So we had twice the
amount of pleasure.) Baby was in fine form in front of our guests, and
encountering another howling infant, did no more than adopt a considering
expression, as if to say "ah, that is how it is done". Having said that, Baby
needs little tuition. Even if he was not in active daily training, he has
clearly been blessed by quite enough natural ability in the bawling stakes.
On of our
regular correspondents telephoned to ask if Mr. Darcy's fruitcake is the same
one we would have had
for the baptism...
Well, if you
are one to wonder what happened before the princess met the frog and had lots of
tadpoles, this is the prequel to Mr. Darcy:
(If you want to skip to the end, here is the summary: Never indulge in sane
discourse if you wish to live sans discord.)
We were walking down the street with Baby one day when Mummy asked (out of the
blue) the same question: whether we were going to have, for the baptism, the
cake from Daddy's Mummy. Daddy answered reasonably (but, in hindsight,
unnecessarily defensively) that it was his cake, and that no one was not going
to take away no cake from him except over his dead body. (It is important to get
one's double and triple negatives right when arguing with Mummy who is a dab
hand at "Oh, yes you do. Oh, no you don't.") Our voices rose. "But your Mum sent
it all the way and the colour would look really good on him".
At this point,
even Daddy realized that he was not so much barking up the wrong tree but
yodelling in the wrong forest. Ah! Mummy was referring not to the baptismal cake
but a
cape which had been sent from Hong Kong. The difference of a single letter.
Of course it
would be perfect. He had no objections at all. Quite the contrary. So it seems
our guests on the day will not after all have the traditional free entertainment
of a punch-up outside the church between the grandparents over all four
hereditary baptismal gowns. There shall be just one gown which Mummy's Mummy has
arranged to have embroidered with the names of all the previous babies through
the generations. And over this will be draped the gloriously over-the-top
embroidered golden design (i.e. the cape) from Hong Kong. Baby will be accoutred
like a prize boxer on the day, and Mummy and Daddy shall take a suitable number
of photographs to embarrass him with when he grows up.
As for the
fruitcake cake, it has eloped with Mr. Wickham. To any of our readers who might
have been thinking of coming to the baptism, before you reconsider, let us offer
some reassurance. "I am grieved, indeed," you might cry. "Grieved -- shocked.
But is it certain, absolutely certain?" Yes. But don't worry. There is plenty
more cake where that came from.
5-12-2005
Remember to
write about the bladder, Mummy urged. Today's entry should start off with:
"Daddy at last has some appreciation for what Mummy had to endure in nine months
of pregnancy!". This is something not all our readers will have come across:
"Pregnancy Profile is a wearable vest-like garment that replicates the visual
appearance and actual feel of the third trimester of pregnancy." Apparently,
they are a staple of many prenatal classes in the US. Sadly, our midwife was too
practical for such fun. But if you really wanted someone to get the same
experience for free
after the arrival of a child, you can persuade the father to have three glasses
of water before strapping the baby onto his front, walking to a long church
liturgy (this should take at least an hour and the child should not be detached
at any point), and then strolling back as slowly as you can. If you collapse
into fits of unsympathetic laughter half way home as well, that is definitely
helpful. But for the full effect, try and get the father to laugh as well. (He
will be crying at the same time.)
Mummy is still
waking up every two hours at night. The odd three hourly intervals last week
were obviously just to get our hopes up. Yesterday, Mummy woke up at 4 a.m. to
find that she had left Baby on her tummy after she fell asleep during the 3
o'clock feed. When she was woken up again at 5 a.m. by a hungry Baby, it took
her 5 minutes of searching before she realized that she had put him back in his
Moses basket next to her after all. When A. E. Van Vogt had writer's block, he
used to set his alarm clock to ring every hour. He would rouse himself, jot down
whatever came to him and go back to sleep. By the morning, he would have enough
ideas to get going again. This clear lunacy certainly explains a lot about his
books, and also why he disappeared into "Dianetics" for 20 years. Don't do this
at home without supervision, boys and girls.
Unlike his
boss, and contrary to his own and Mummy's expectations, Daddy hasn't been
weighing Baby obsessively and plotting obscure charts of his daily progress.
(Weighing Baby involves stripping, weighing and re-garbing him, and then
spending the next hour trying to get the poor kid over the shock.) This has not
prevented him discussing the all the more improbable popular science theories
with Mummy.
For example,
we have noticed that, when Baby can be persuaded to unclench his fist, there is
a significant discrepancy between his ring and index fingers. (For cutting edge
science of this sort, it is not necessary to measure as such, only squint). Baby
is also much more inclined to turn to his right to look at pretty and bright
objects, indicating a possible strong left brain dominance. There is some feeble
evidence that both of these may be linked to the levels of testosterone exposure
in the womb. Does that mean he should drink more tap water, given that there is
supposed to be some estrogenic contamination of the UK water supply? (Male fish
in English rivers have been reported to be changing sex. The two hormones being
sort of opposites, like sugar and salt, should surely cancel out.) Does that
also mean that he is going to be less strong in the languages and artistic
pursuits, and that therefore, Mummy should devote even more time and effort into
instilling some aesthetic appreciation into him? Daddy's college tutor was the
University professor in endocrinology. There is no other excuse for Daddy's
gross ignorance. To quote Daddy's boss, there are few people who know so little
about so much...
We are
enjoying this.
6-12-2005
Mummy is
really pleased because her bus driver today offered to swap her bus for
Baby. No. She did not go through with it. Daddy checked. Baby is asleep (for
once!) in his Moses basket. The real question is are these transactions
common, and where does one park the bus afterwards? No. Of course we are
joking. We would not swap Baby for anything in the world. It was not even a
double-decker.
We had a
query about the origins of our recent Jane Austen theme. Apparently, any
incipient interest in Jane Austen rather than, say, large trucks or
football, would be a matter of extreme significance for Daddy. Thank you
very much to the other five correspondents who sent us the BBC news link:
According to the Proceedings of the Royal Society B, testosterone for
Chinese men does not drop after marriage, but only after the first child...
(The article is misleadingly entitled "Becoming a father civilises men"!) To
reassure everyone, Baby finds the incessant 18th century Ceilidh dancing a
little distracting, but, apart from that, Colin Firth's admirer remains
Mummy who now refuses to watch anything else on TV.
Thanks
also to Rikkie for sending us these simple baby exercises. "Stand in front
of your baby and make simple movements, such as sticking out your tongue or
opening your mouth wide". Apparently, Hong Kong is less keen on Welsh rugby
than the All Blacks and their Haka. It is not such a bad idea really. Baby
has started to watch Mummy and Daddy's faces intently, and is just starting
to make the odd cooing noises. I reckon it won't be two years or so before
he starts speaking his first words.
We tried
out Baby's new toy tonight. Actually, Mummy's Daddy had assembled it long
ago when he came after the birth but, being well organised, we have only
just got around to putting the batteries in. It is a mechanised baby swing
with aquarium (perched on top of the swing and waiting hopefully, like in a
variety show, to decant on our solitary contestant should he misbehave!),
music, water sounds, mobile and flashing lights: this is the Swiss Army
Chainsaw approach to pacifying children. At the moment, Baby is just a
little light for the motor, so he swings around an arc which is alarmingly
high for his parents (despite the three-point seat belt). The lad himself,
though, is his usual cool nonchalance, calmly surveying the see-sawing room
with some glee (until he became hungry and starting clamouring for Mummy
again). Thank you fairy godmother. At some desperate point, at 2 o'clock in
the morning, we shall be sending our thanks again.
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