What I love about Leya

This is a direct transcription of a BBM conversation between me and my sister, the mother of a ridiculously cute eight-month-old boy who refuses to go to sleep until she has sung "Twinkle twinkle little star" fifty times over:

Me: The gripewater dummy failed me. Fortunately I discovered that walking and rocking Leya for an hour, without putting her down, has the same effect.
Her: Ahhh - welcome to my sad and hideous world of walking and rocking. The worst.
Me (some time later): Just realised the walking/rocking must be for TWO hours. She actually refuses to sleep. I think she has nodded off and then I see her glaring out of her judgey pitbullian eyes and she starts grunting and hissing like an ancient Galapagos toroise, as if she can sense my intention to put her down and is warning me against it.
Her: Such a familiar description. Hideous flinty snake-like eyes of the newborn, full of f*ck you mommy.

Yes, one month into motherhood I am finding out that it's not easy. And that's even before Leya turns 13 and refuses to walk out in public with me because it is embarrassing to have parents, and decides that if I do force her to be seen in my company her best camouflage is the tattiest tracksuit she can find. I'm not even talking about my latest accessory: a small patch of crusty dried vom that lives permanently on my right shoulder (moms, you know what I'm talking about). Or the fact that I seem to permanently smell like a dairy that hasn't been properly cleaned. Or that I constantly hear a phantom baby crying - and I'm not talking about confusing hadedas for the sound of a cry, I mean that wherever I go, I can hear those high pitched screams. Also, the other night during my two o'clock feed, I swear I heard cheesy disco music - of the variety usually featured on e.tv's late night Friday programming - coming through the monitor. I'll say no more about the effects of sleep deprivation.

But oh my goodness, smelling like sour milk instead of Bulgari is a small price to pay for experiencing so much love. Today Leya gave me her first real smile - not one of those twitches of her lip that grandparents try to convince you is a little grin. No, this one made her little eyes crinkle and tiny dimples appeared on either side of her beautiful mouth. Ignoring the fact that the sun had yet to rise I raced through to our room to tell James, where she obligingly showed him her latest trick, too. It was heart melting.

Her other facial expressions are just as adorable. I love the way, when she is about to have a feed, she draws her head back and raises her eyebrows while giving her mouth a prissy purse, before looking up at me and flashing those dimples like an old lady at a gin-soaked bridge party saying "well, I don't mind if I do". And when the milk is not come fast enough and she head butts me in the manner of a furious and frustrated woodpecker, snuffling and snorting. And when she's lying in her cot, content and sated, her lips drawn into a half-smile and the tips of her tiny fingers touching, as if she's a diminutive Machiavelli plotting to take over the world.

Who needs sleep anyway?

Things I thought I'd never do

My darling Leya Rachel arrived on Wednesday, and within seconds I was transformed from a stomach-rubber deriding cynic into the worst cliche about motherhood. I spend endless minutes marvelling at her beauty when, in reality, she bears more than a passing resemblance to the lovechild of Queen Victoria and Winston Churchill. Or like a French bulldog. Same thing, I guess. I am stymied by emotions so strong I never believed them possible. And I have done a number of things I swore I would never do.

Like sniff her bum to find out if she's 'packing'. This is an action that has always repulsed me, but never more so than when James and I were on a tram in Amsterdam, watching a family interact with a particularly poxy looking child. One of them picked up the infant, inhaled long and deep at the seat of its pants, nodded and proclaimed "Shtunke". This is a particularly hideous word, I am sure you will agree - one that is not only onomatopeiaic, but also seems to convey a sense of smell. Clearly, the other family members did not were unpeturbed, however. The baby was passed from one to the next, each taking a whiff of the baby's bottom, solemnly nodding and valildating the verdict: "Ja, shtunke".

As mentioned, I have never understood why people do this. Parents' standard argument is that pooh is different when comes from your own child, but this has never held water with me: on the contrary, pooh is pooh, no matter its egress point. You wouldn't walk past the bathroom after your spouse has lost the battle against last night's vindaloo, gag, and then walk inside to get a better smell, just to confirm that your instincts were right and the air is, indeed, rancid. So why does it make a difference because it has exited an infant.

I found the case of the Dutch family all the more puzzling, because they had already established that something rotten was going on. Surely, having been warned, they would then try to protect themselves from such a phenomenon, instead of deliberately exposing themselves to it. It reminds me of those people who say "Wow, that tastes disgusting, you must try it."

Nevertheless, there I am, sniffing my own daughter's bottom and finding nothing wrong with the practice. Please don't judge.

 Speaking of getting up close and personal with my child's bodily secretions, I have just become acquainted with the Nose Frida. First, let's discuss the name of this product. Does it come with accessories like the Throat Margaret and Ear Hilda? Because it really does bring to mind a doughty matron wearing support hose and tan leather shoes with sensible heels. In this sense, one would think that the Nose Frida is a tiny fairy that lives inside the nostril and provides nasal relief - not, of course, a glamorous Tinkerbell type fairy but a practical, no-nonsense one who spreads tissues rather than glitter dust.
If only the Nose Frida were so innocuous. This product is actually a tube that one attaches to the baby's nostril; the other end is inserted inside your own mouth and you literally suck away at the contents of its nose. This reminds me of that joke: A man is bitten by a rattlesnake on his privates. His friend dashes off to find a medicine man who can provide advice, and is told that the only cure is for him to suck the poison out of the bite. He returns to the snake's victim and says, "Bad news, you're gonna die." The concept is so gross that when a friend first told me about it, I thought she was joking. In a world where we can grow new skin, how is it possible that there is not a more sophisticated solution for a baby's blocked nose?

And yet I am quite happy to suck away at my baby's snot if it means she'll be more comfortable. Only time will tell if I pick up more habits previously regarded as beyond the pale, but my guess is that, if I love her this much now, and would be prepared to do anything for her, it won't be long before I'm licking the leftover food off her face.