Hymn

Wind Up

Little S is a terrible tease.  I don’t know where she gets it from.  She may still be sat on her fat arse, resolutely refusing to budge and run around like other children her age but she does know how to make us laugh.  Actually, knows how to make us laugh not just do funny things unwittingly. 

She plays all sorts of games with us.  She’ll rest her head on my shoulder and pretend to be asleep, suppressing giggles when I call her name, before throwing her head back and laughing long and loud.  In the car she’ll quietly remove her socks, place them in her mouth and chuckle in anticipation of being discovered.  She is a funny little girl.

She’s happy to share her jokes too.  This afternoon while shopping, she demonstrated her growing ability to mimic.  While we adults politely ignored the incident with the old lady in the lift, S immediately launched into a trumpet call of raspberries.  We’d managed to bite our lips until then.  Oddly, the woman, let’s call her Old Missus Windy, didn’t seem to see the funny side at all.

Cheek

Another day, another infant illness.  S has a rash.  And her face is unhealthily ruddy. 

Our car travels down the grooves we’ve worn in the road to the local doctors’.  We enter the surgery through the special ‘Paranoid Parents’ door.  It is without paint below waist height from innumerable pram scuffing and the handle gleams from polishing by incessant hands.  The nurse greets us by name.

The doctor tells us, S has slapped cheek.  I am outraged - the suggestion that I hit my child!  Surely, he can’t go around accusing honest tax payers of mild domestic abuse?  But he doesn’t stop there.  Quite common, apparently.  Incredible!  What lies!  I try to find the words...  Yes, other children have been in already.  He can’t seriously be alleging that I roam rural England smacking small children?  I wait for the claim that I steal ice creams too.  Surely he is confusing me with the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

‘But it’s all right now; just a bit uncomfortable but not dangerous.’ he continues, ‘It’s contagious for the week before the rash comes out but will soon disappear.’

A virus?  A virus?  Called Slapped Cheek.  I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.

Two Nights

Something disturbing has happened.  It’s left us feeling quite unsettled.  Irritable even. 

We’ve had two consecutive nights of unbroken sleep.  For the first time since September, S has slept through from 7 ‘til 7.  Two nights in a row.  That makes three good sleeps in the last eight months. 

Bizarrely, we feel more tired than before.  That’s not a complaint though.

One

Baby is one.  Not in the cryptic pub quiz sense of “a kola is one but an oak tree is two.  What am I?”  Or in the Ooo-she-is-a-One sense but in the much more regular and highly predictable she is now one year old sense.  Apparently this means she is no longer a baby.  I am not entirely sure what she has become.  She doesn’t look very different to the baby self of yesterday but if there’s one thing working at the food processing cum pest control factory has taught me it’s that labels are important.  Since she resolutely refuses to move off her increasingly fat arse, “Toddler” is inaccurate.  Equally, there doesn’t seem to be a widely recognised noun for “infant who is too clever to move, realising that if she remains stationary the world will come to her.”  She is not a child because she doesn’t have a mobile phone or a pending exam.   She doesn’t own a tattoo, miniskirt or pair of heels so that discounts “teenager.”  And mercifully she isn’t eligible for a credit card or National Service so we’d look a bit silly calling her an adult.

Actually I suspect that even when I ‘m on the verge of Pushing Up Daisies and S has long established herself as a Grown Up and done all sorts of things that I wouldn’t, she’ll still be My Little Girl and I’ll be ludicrously proud of her. As it is, today we’ll content ourselves with singing “Happy Birthday” while she beams gloriously back.  We’ll worry about labels another day.

Bang that Drum

Just about the only time little S hasn’t been ill this year is when we whisked her away to the disease-infested Tropics.  Since we’ve been home, she’s been poorly with a vengeance.  We’ve all taken it in turns to play incubator for the germs and they’ve gone round and round and round.  I don’t want to appear unreasonable:  I completely understand that she has to build her immune systems up, but I thought mine was in pretty good shape.  Not so.  It is useless.  All my antibodies seem to be elsewhere.  On holiday perhaps.  Or playing cards.  Or doing any damn thing they can expect fight off viruses.  I am considering legal action.  And I am as susceptible to Little Johnny’s lurgy as the next eleven month old.  S has been particularly crotchety over the last few days.  She is so congested that she cannot feed properly or sleep.  Again.  We’re all awake every couple of hours through the night.  I would say it’s just like the Bad Old Days of the Early Months but actually I can’t remember it ever getting better.  I think we’ve had one unbroken night’s sleep since September.  Apparently sleep-deprived rats behave normally until keeling over stone dead without warning.  I have taken to wearing elbow protectors so that if the same thing happens to me I will not injure myself. At the same time, this constant infestation has taught us a few things: the colour of snot matters; coughs vary considerably in potential debilitation; fluids can ooze from the most unlikely of places and it may not be anything to worry about.  This morning however, something new.  S had snot coming from her ear.  And she seemed particularly unhappy about it. The doctor calmly informed us that she’d burst an eardrum.  To relieve the pressure.  And apparently, this is a Good Thing.  Now, I have the utmost respect for the medical profession but really, are they out of their minds?  On what possible scale can a burst eardrum be  regarded as a Good Thing?  Try as I might, I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm or gratitude for this good news.  Nor could Baby, howling inconsolably in pain.

Dinner Service

A miracle.  It’s a miracle, I tell you.  Actually, no.  It’s not a miracle, more a Godsend.  I think that’s right.  It’s always difficult to quantify a faith position.  All of a sudden my theological understand seems wanting.  I’m tempted to spend some time with trainee nuns in the local seminary but after they took advantage of me so outrageously last time, I’m a little hesitant.

Maybe, it was just angels.  That’s more like it.  Angels.

For the length of this holiday, we’ve not a had relaxed meal together.  We’ve either had Scarlett on our knee or thrashing in a high chair, or one of us has been watching her sleep.  Food never tastes good in such circumstances.

Tonight something amazing happened.  Angels, I tell you.

We’ve grown used to random strangers accosting us in the streets.  Wanting to touch our blond haired, blue-eyed baby.  It’s quite flattering.  Having narrowly missed out on being accepted as a member of the Jackson 5  and Take That, I don’t have much experience of being surrounded by crowds of adoring girls so I was happy to make the most of it.  It wasn’t just girls though, a fair number of boys wanted a stroke too.  I suspect it’s exactly the same in a boy band.  In the end, after so much attention, S almost looked polished.

Inevitably we were the first in the hotel restaurant.  There as soon as the doors opened.  Our pitiful solution for eating together.  At least we had the choice of tables.  As we sat down the most amazing thing happened.  The waiter came and took S from us.  Picked her up and hoisted her away.  Our flirty little girl squealed with delight.  He waltzed her around the room.  He took our order, babe still in arms.  He whisked her into the kitchen.  Through the portal we watched her pass from chef to chef.  I hoped there hadn’t been some terrible misunderstanding about our hors d’oeuvres.

She emerged in the arms of the receptionist.  And stayed wonderfully and willingly entertained with adoring attention, for the duration of a four course meal and a couple of beers.  I could have wept. 

The entire staff came out to say goodnight to her.

I don’t want to push our luck but I’m pretty sure we know where tomorrow’s dinner will come from.

Hello Dolly

Just because something is bloody obvious doesn’t mean it’s easy to see.  Which is a shame. 

I know you can’t leave a baby alone but it hadn’t really sunk in that that means one of us always has to be with her.  Of course we are when we’re at Home, but this is Holiday.  And we’re in a hotel room.  The implication is obvious but it wasn’t really apparent.  Maybe what I mean is that I hadn’t thought it through.  Not that I’d have changed anything but maybe it wouldn’t have been such a shock. 

We can’t go out.  At night, at least.  During the day we can take baby with us, of course.  She clearly enjoys being Out but she’ll sleep contentedly and comfortably pretty much anywhere when needs must.  But night time is entirely different.   There’s Her Routine.

We’re not Baby Routine Fascists but we realised some time ago that it’s in everyone’s best interests for S to get a good night’s sleep.  Regularly.  That means we’re In by 7pm.  At the latest.  And she’s asleep by 8.  It is not a schedule that is conducive for a Good Night Out.  And although on School Nights at home, that’s okay, I really miss it here.

Having a relaxed drink in one the local bars is out of the question.  A civilised stroll in the evening is impossible.  Even having an evening meal together is difficult unless we want to eat really early, preferably in the hotel restaurant.

There’s only so much time one can spend in a hotel room before it starts feeling like a prison cell.  We take it in turns to play Crazy Butcher Bill but even then quickly run out of things to do.  Especially with a sleeping baby just feet away. 

I’ve read my books.  And T’s.  And, Lord preserve us, Mum’s.  I never knew a tender tale of love between the vicar’s daughter and a rough farmhand could be so moving.  I’ve read the hotel literature and memorised the Room Service offerings.  I clearly understand all the instructions for emergency exits, laundry and the hotel’s environmental policy on the disposal of sanitary products.  I can see the faces of seven US presidents in the patterned wallpaper.

We tried the television with the sound turned down but few of the programmes make any sense mute.  Mum’s bored with all the repeats on the porn channels, although she thinks she knows one of the plumbers. 

I have started to fashion a life size figurine of Elvis out of ear wax.

We forgot Travel Scrabble.  Damn it.

Frankly, the evenings are not much fun.  And I’m going to throw my dolly out of the pram.  Albeit quietly so as not to disturb the baby.

Water Water Everywhere

Obviously we haven’t done this before.  Past experiences have been a little Seat of the Pants; some might say reckless, others might say downright stupid.  Now we have a baby.  It makes life a little more complex.  That’s a bit like saying an atom bomb makes a bit more noise than a pin drop.

There’s so much more to consider now. And lots of things that are mildly troublesome at home are a whole lot of bother in a foreign land.  Baby milk is one.  You can’t drink the water, see.  At least not tap water.  I’m prepared to dismiss the whole thing as a cynical ploy by drinks companies to drive up demand for the bottled variety but my bowels and innumerable experts say otherwise.  And while we have no intention of molly-coddling little S, I don’t think it’s entirely fair to risk her being ill to make a point.  The prospect of her with the squits (I’m pretty sure that’s the medical term for it) while we’re here is too awful to contemplate. 

That drives us to some extraordinary lengths.  Partly because, get this, not all bottled water is safe either.  It’s around this time that I start ranting about force feeding us fluoride, the statistical impossibility of marzipan and alien abduction.

We are following Advice.  Following it right into a cul-de-sac of fuss.  It is a pain in the arse.  It’s not just for the drinking but for the bloody washing too.

It is this tedious.  First I hunt for low-sodium bottle water - below 20mg per litre if you must know.  Litres and litres of the stuff.  The first few go into a tub made sterile with tablets.  We drop the used bottles into the vat to soak while this ‘clean’ water takes the skin off our fingers.  After the allotted time, they are deemed acceptable but smell so strongly of chlorine that S won’t countenance drinking from them.  So we rinse them.  In boiled bottled water (almost certainly desterilising the sterile bottles).  Before making up the milk with more boiled bottled water.  In this way we squander hours of each day of our holiday.  It is not great.

Incredibly, this is an improvement.  At least we have a local supply of water.  Because of the Unknown, we travelled with nearly twenty kilograms of baby-related liquid.  That’s an entire suitcase of sloshing.

Girls will be Girls

She smiles differently.  Already, she smiles differently.  I’ve said before that she smiles at everyone; now it’s clear that it’s not all the same.  In the explosion of new faces over the last couple of days she’s definitely developed distinct reactions to men and women.  Female smiles elicit broad open responses that provoke shared laughter.  Male smiles make her turn and drop her head slightly before looking up with big blue eyes and smiling coyly back.  She’s not shy, she flirting.  Bloody flirting!  She’s ten months old for Heaven’s Sake - I didn’t think I’d have this to worry about for another decade.  Preferably two.  Or, better still, three.

When I mention it to her mother, she smiles gently and tells me not to worry but I swear there’s a twinkle in her eye.

Audience

Did I mention that it was an eleven and a half hour flight? 

Within an hour I am hoarse from silly voices and have cramp in my cheeks from pulling so many ‘funny’ faces.  I am exhausted and so too is my repertoire of amusing diversions for baby.  She starts to whimper.  Oh God.  I sense muscles clench and teeth grit across the cabin. 

We’re not too far over the Atlantic: I consider the swim ashore but an air steward wearing trousers that are a little too snug bars the emergency exit.  He smiles in a way that only air stewards in tight pants can.  I am petrified.  He too seems a little rigid.  I am stuck.  In my panic, I grab Baby.  A miracle happens.

As she clears the height of the seats, she catches sight of our fellow travellers.  She likes people.  She beams.  She grins from ear to ear.  And then she scrunches up her little nose and smiles some more.  The cabin melts. 

Until this time, I’d only managed one glance back at other passengers.  They glared back as if to say: “This is an eleven and a half hour flight.  You’ve brought a baby.  Are you out of your mind?”  I didn’t think they’d appreciate me agreeing so readily.  I quickly formulated a defensive strategy: I pretended to be Polish.  It worked fine until I was rumbled by a huge burly miner from Gdansk.  My knowledge of eastern European languages isn’t great but I think she threatened to add my name to the long tattooed list on her rippling forearm.  It was enough to make me sit down and stare at the unmoving map of our journey.  Time to destination: 40 days and 40 nights.

Now though, the vision of a flying lynch mob had transformed.  I look out over a sea of smiling faces.  Waving ripples across the rows.  Women have gone gooey.  Even the blokes seem pleasantly distracted. Periodically girls come over to coo.  I am holding The Golden Child.

And so the remaining journey passed. 

Completely unexpectedly, we do not feel the need to rush off the plane when it touches down.  There is no howling horde chasing us.  Instead a queue forms.  Seriously.  A queue of adoring women.  Each one wanting a stroke and cuddle.  To give, that is, not receive.  Sadly, it is nothing to do with me.  It is the Papal Infant on my lap.