Does the title of this post conjure 50 shades of gray type images? Because it absolutely shouldn't. Oh, make no mistake - I get plenty of action at night. And it's all very vigorous - very vigorous MARCHING, that is.
Flying in the face of conventional wisdom (play classical music for your child, rock her gently, whisper soothingly to her), I have discovered that the only way to make Leya fall asleep is by swinging her wildly while quickstepping around the room and belting out a song. Any song will do, although she is particularly fond of 'The Grand Old Duke of York' - which is why I am begging if anyone knows whether that little ditty has a second verse? By the time I'm on round five of 'He marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again', I am quite delirious. Also, my quick, neat marching steps have morphed into a particularly ferocious aerobiocs class. There I go, hopping from foot to foot, trying out a couple of lunges and squats, even throwing in the odd gallop. I fully expect the wooden floors to give in at some point. Yet through it all, Leya clings to me patiently, with all the fortitude and forebearance of an understanding mon chichi. An unblinking mon chichi, I might add - one that refuses to close her eyes for even a second. It seems that the more tired I am, the more she wants to be jogged around her room. Perhaps she feels she is doing a public service - after all, 30 minutes of throwing a 5kg weight from side to side must surely be doing something to shift my post-preg bulk.
Of course, the Grand Old Duke of York gets a bit tired after minute 15 - which is why we have to throw some others into the mix. Do you realise how few song lyrics you actually know? Or that most of those that you are able to recall are inappropriate bedtime music for an infant. Hence my repertoire has evolved into a bizarre mix of the Christmas carols and hymns I learnt at nursery school, and Jewish songs like Hava Nagila (very festive, perfect for establishing a quick, fast rhythm). And yes, it might be spiritually confusing, but she is growing up in a mixed household after all - might as well start her young.
But at the risk of sounding like a nauseating mummy, I 'could (have) danced all night (another number I include in my nightly chorus, along with other favourites from musicals like 'How do you solve a problem like Maria' and 'the sun will come out tomorrow') just to see her face in the morning: that split second before she recognises me and then the smile bursts across her face, her tiny arms and legs pumping as if she just can't contain her excitement to see me. Not even my Jack Russells greet me with such enthusiasm. Which makes me think: if there is one thing more beautiful than a sleeping baby, it's one that's smiling just for you.
Flying in the face of conventional wisdom (play classical music for your child, rock her gently, whisper soothingly to her), I have discovered that the only way to make Leya fall asleep is by swinging her wildly while quickstepping around the room and belting out a song. Any song will do, although she is particularly fond of 'The Grand Old Duke of York' - which is why I am begging if anyone knows whether that little ditty has a second verse? By the time I'm on round five of 'He marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again', I am quite delirious. Also, my quick, neat marching steps have morphed into a particularly ferocious aerobiocs class. There I go, hopping from foot to foot, trying out a couple of lunges and squats, even throwing in the odd gallop. I fully expect the wooden floors to give in at some point. Yet through it all, Leya clings to me patiently, with all the fortitude and forebearance of an understanding mon chichi. An unblinking mon chichi, I might add - one that refuses to close her eyes for even a second. It seems that the more tired I am, the more she wants to be jogged around her room. Perhaps she feels she is doing a public service - after all, 30 minutes of throwing a 5kg weight from side to side must surely be doing something to shift my post-preg bulk.
Of course, the Grand Old Duke of York gets a bit tired after minute 15 - which is why we have to throw some others into the mix. Do you realise how few song lyrics you actually know? Or that most of those that you are able to recall are inappropriate bedtime music for an infant. Hence my repertoire has evolved into a bizarre mix of the Christmas carols and hymns I learnt at nursery school, and Jewish songs like Hava Nagila (very festive, perfect for establishing a quick, fast rhythm). And yes, it might be spiritually confusing, but she is growing up in a mixed household after all - might as well start her young.
But at the risk of sounding like a nauseating mummy, I 'could (have) danced all night (another number I include in my nightly chorus, along with other favourites from musicals like 'How do you solve a problem like Maria' and 'the sun will come out tomorrow') just to see her face in the morning: that split second before she recognises me and then the smile bursts across her face, her tiny arms and legs pumping as if she just can't contain her excitement to see me. Not even my Jack Russells greet me with such enthusiasm. Which makes me think: if there is one thing more beautiful than a sleeping baby, it's one that's smiling just for you.
