Shhh....It's a secret

I have been feeling uncomfortable all day. This is because of my secret socks. Now, I don't really like to talk about secret socks. They're one of those things that just make me feel awkward for no absolute reason. I guess because I look upon them as the panties of the foot world. They are, after all, supposed to be secret, so when I catch a glimpse of someone's secret sock I have the same hot-cheeked feeling I would get if I walked in on someone in the toilet or saw a woman's armpit well past its shave by date. Maybe because this is an admission that, without the sock in place, their feet would be moist and sticky; their probably collecting bits of fluff from the shoe the way a bellybutton collects lint. The feeling is even worse if it is a man's secret sock, because I hate to think of men and their bodily functions. I feel the same way about blowing my nose in public. It's just so personal - only one step up the ladder from picking one's teeth.

Thus it is with a mixture of shame and embarrassment that I confess not only to having worn secret socks this morning, but to having put them on the wrong way around. In fact, I have avoided this particular pair (there! I'm out and proud - I own THREE pairs of secret socks) because I always find them hideously uncomfortable and therefore spend much time trying to surreptiously insert my finger into my ballet pump to rearrange. However, like trying to scratch an itchy bite on your posterior, there is no way of doing this discreetly. Also, it defetas the object - not only do I experience the very foot stickiness I am trying to avoidf, but I find myself walking about with a giant wodge of fabric padded under my toes.

Now I realise this is because, for over a year, I have been putting my toes where the heel should be. I don't know how I could make such an elementary mistake. But it does remind me of the time I went to a spa and, instead of spending five hours basking on Cloud Nine, squirmed in pubic hell - and realised, only when it was time to leave, that this was because I had put my paper G-string on backwards.

Dressing - sometimes, it's just not as easy as you think.

The Monstermorphosis

Once upon time, there was a little castle, where there lived a happy laughing baby and her unpsycho mother. But, although the baby and mother spent their days frolicking and gambolling together, the castle was under an evil spell, and as soon as night fell, both of them turned into terrible monsters. The baby started yowling and mewling and couldn't stop, and the mother turned into an nasty spitting, hissing harpie.

That mother, dear readers, is me; and that baby is of course Leya. For you see, as much as we are best of friends during the day, come 6pm, it seems that we turn into determined adversaries: me, craving sleep, and she doing her utmost to ensure I don't get it.

I call the change that comes over us the monstermorphosis, because it happens slowly but surely every evening. Our nights start like this: It's 6pm, and Leya has just finished her bath. She smells of her unique mixture of Elizabeth Ann's and savoury chicken (this baffles me a bit - why does her bath not dislodge this odour). She has that winsome after-bath appearance that babies get: hair in fluffy disarray, pink and fresh, and looking slightly like a chubby male silkworm now that winter's here and she is tucked into her striped velvety sleep sack.

As she falls asleep, I am overcome by a tsunami of love. I cradle her in my arms in a way that she will no doubt one day discuss with her therapist, and together they will identify this smothering mothering as the cause of all her issues. For now, though, she seems to enjoy it, and she begins to make her special sleep noise, a low little hum. "How sweet," I think to myself, "Your own little lullaby." As she drifts off, I tuck her in, stare down at her for a few minutes longer, then bend to kiss her and whisper, "G-d bless you my darling, I love you with all my heart." As I steal one last glance at her, I lament the fact that her babyhood is whizzing past - how soon until I can have another one (or two), I wonder.

Forty-five minutes later, she beckons me - the first of several times. I smile wryly to myself ("poor little girl, still not linking sleep cycles") and give her a quick mommy shuffle. At ten o'clock, this performance is repeated. I acknowledge to myself that, somewhere, Anne Richardson, Doctor Ferber and all the other sleep specialists are shaking their heads and having quiet apoplexies, but - silly though it may seem - I've missed her in the past three hours and am ready for a cuddle. All the same, I'm getting a little tired of all this tender bending over the cot, so I just blow a kiss near the general direction of her ear and walk out as quickly as possible - at least, as quickly as one can while trying to avoid creaking wooden floorboards by employing an exaggeratedly pointed toe-heel walk like a ballerina mimicking a creeping gnome.

At 2am, I have to ask myself what the hell was I thinking. Why would I have missed this sqauwling? Indeed, what is there to miss? No longer is a shuffle sufficient; now she wants to be cradled again. But she is very particular about her cradling stance: testily, she flings herself back and forth like a St Vitus sufferer trying out mattreses in a Sealy shop. Having eventually found a comfortable position(inevitably, one that forces me to bend my neck so that my ear touches my shoulder), she starts her wail. "I don't see what you have to cry about," I mutter sharply under my breath. "Here you are, being rocked by a human hammock - the height of comfort. If anyone deserves to be crying it is the human hammock who would far rather be horizontal."

Then starts the sucking. Now, I have tried repeatedly to give Leya a dummy. The last time, she took it out of her mouth, gave it an appraising look, and stuck it back in - the wrong way round. And then decided she prefers me. I am beginning to feel self-conscious - is my entire person breat-shaped? Is this why she fastens her lips on my nose, my knees, my arms - any part of me she can get a handle? I have more hickies now than when I was a drunken first year student with an undiscerning eye.

Finally, the sucking stops - and now, the sleep sound sets in. "Stop that," I order, thinking that she sounds like one of Khalisi's dragons with a stomach ache. We rock some more. I finally dare to put her down - she glares at me through closed lids and whines. I pick her up. We start the process again. "I can't understand how anyone possibly puts themselves through this twice," I think poisonously.

The night wears on, with this sequence repeating on and on, until finally it is morning. Order is once more restored to the little kindgom. The mommy, unpsycho once more, goes into the little baby's room to find her smiling and gurgling. There is kissing and hugging and lots of love...but in the shadows, the threat of the 6pm monstermorphosis looms.