Reflections on Ramona: 14 months

Looking back at the 13 month mark, I’m astonished that there’s so much more to note in such a short space of time. People wonder why toddlers have tantrums, but seriously: can you imagine learning so many things in such a small space of time and not getting a bit cranky?

Leaving aside the leaps in physical co-ordination that are happening, it’s language that’s really astonishing me. I suppose because it’s so obvious all the time, and because it’s allowing me an inlet into communication with my daughter. Because one of the toughest things about being a parent is trying to understand and make yourself understood when there is no common language – except for body language, which is so easy to misread - between you.

So, to mark 14 months, as we dart inexorably on to 15 since I’ve been so late with this update, I give you Whiffle’s Baby Glossary. Or: things wot my kid says.

  • Family: Mummy, Daddy, Yiayia (Greek: grandma), Pappou (Greek: grandpa), Ouma (Afrikaans, grandma), ‘Gamps’ (Gramps), ‘Cabbi’ (Casper, the cat), ‘Aki’ (Alex, the cousin). Occasionally she attempts ‘Ramona’, and gets ‘amona’, which is not bad going for someone with six teeth.
  • Animals: ‘Giger’ (tiger), ‘Ca’ (cat), ‘a pi’ (pig). For ‘dog’ she just strokes the picture and goes ‘aaaahhhh’, and all black cats are ‘Cabbi’.
  • Objects and responses to questions: ‘App-ul’ (apple – tomatoes are also apples, apparently), tea, ‘tthhh’ (teeth), ‘appy’ (nappy, said when a change is needed), ca-ca / poo (likewise), ‘out’ (in response to ‘where did you go?’ or ‘in and…?’), ‘up / cup’ (cup), ‘a boo’ (book), ‘up-ah’ (to be picked up – my mother taught her that!), ‘tah’ (star), ‘baw’ (ball), ‘beh’ (bear).

I’m sure I’ve forgotten more than a few, and those are just the regular ones; often she’ll say something once and then put it away for a few days to be hesitantly brought out again later. I guess being around grandparents speaking two different languages and the varied, positive environment at nursery plus having two parents that don’t shut up is having something of an effect on her.

Incidentally, as I’ve said before, I’m really writing this for my own sake, so I can look back at how she was when she was a tot. I’m not tracking her development, or comparing her to others, and for all I know she should have done all this stuff months ago. I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m just a parent, who, just like most other parents, is fascinated by their own child.

Here’s to every single one of us just happening to have the coolest, smartest kid in the world.

My name is Alex, and I’m obsessed with MasterChef Australia

Like, seriously obsessed. I’ve forgotten to watch all but one episode of Glee this season, but I get seriously grumpy when I don’t get my fix of Aussie culinary glory.

It’s just so damn good. And at this point I’d usually link to examples to show you what I mean but I’M AFRAID TO GOOGLE IT IN CASE I ACCIDENTALLY SEE WHO WINS. Which would upset me far more than is reasonable.

I felt relatively smug when I managed to predict the likely winner of the last series, but I’ve just taken a kick to the gut seeing my early pegged winner plunge into an elimination and promptly lose it.

Everything about it is wonderful. The challenges are extraordinarily freakin’ difficult. The guest judges and guest chefs are a brilliant mixture of the Nigellas and the Hestons (both appeared just this past week) and less mainstream but even more stellar culinary superstars. I’m not saying that John and Gregg aren’t brilliant, but how can they hope to compete with a contest that flies contestants to Malaysia for a masterclass with Rick Stein?

Although there is a serious dearth of announcements about cooking not getting any tougher than this, which they should really borrow from us.

Also, there’s a Greek judge. Alright, Greek Cypriot, but when you’re half a world away that’s closely related enough. And they help the contestants when they get stuck. And everyone sobs, and you can’t blame them because you can’t even begin to understand how you make a DESSERT THAT HAS TO BE SPRAY PAINTED WITH CARAMEL.

(You’re going to be doing some Googling, aren’t you?)

Oh, the huge manatee. You can keep your X Factor and your Weasels Got Talent. I know what I’ll be watching.

Feminist Friday: Reverse Sexism

I’ve been meaning to write a Feminist Friday post for a while.

Certainly I have lots of feminist things to say: as a woman, first and foremost, but also as a mother, as a married woman (that I chose to get married and took my husband’s name – for all sorts of not very interesting reasons, I might add – is about a week’s worth posts on its own)… I could write a few essays.

Maybe that’s why I don’t post about it that often; because there’s so much to say I might NEVER STOP. Also, I do write a lot of things for BitchBuzz on that theme, like this piece on the feminist nightmare of children’s TV shows. Or maybe it’s because I feel like sticking my head above the feminist parapet can sometimes be unsafe, and that makes me less active than I’d like to be. Certainly I’ve read enough utterly terrifying and distressing posts about what outspoken feminists are subject to online to make me shy away from stating my feelings about emotive subjects publicly too often.

I do, though, like the Feminist Friday prompt, which helps consolidate my thoughts on a single topic. This week it’s ‘reverse sexism’.

Let me start by defining the term, because on the surface it makes no sense. I don’t think ‘sexism’ (unlike ‘misogyny’) denotes lesser treatment of women per se. If you’re treating a man badly because of his sex or perceived gender, it’s just plain sexism. Nothing reverse about it.

But it’s telling that we think of sexism as just applying to women, isn’t it? It’s telling that we basically know that misogyny is far more common than misandry (a term that, for the record, does not mean the opposite of misogyny; the opposite of misogyny is not hating women). When we say that it’s ‘reverse sexism’, we’re already admitting that we believe there is a privilege imbalance, and that men are so rarely treated badly – as a group, not individually – by society that we even need to qualify the word ‘sexism’ in order to apply it to them.

So what do I think when men are treated badly, or pointlessly exluded or villified? Well, I think it sucks. Because I think it sucks when anyone is treated badly for a stupid reason, particularly something as uncontrollable as an accident of birth. I think it’s bad for men, and I think it doesn’t help women in the slightest either. In fact, I’d argue, most cases of sexism towards men are invariably sexist towards women as well (perhaps because thinking of people as biological sex or percieved gender first and people second is never going to end well).

There seems to be a slight tendency among some women to think it’s funny when the sexist lens is turned on men, or think it’s somehow levelling the playing field. Depicting a man as a bumbling, inept oaf in an ad? Drooling over half-naked pictures of a footballer or movie star? Infantilisation and objectification ftw? Erm, no. And might I just say that ‘Darren’, a commenter on the piece I just linked to explaining my dislike of lazy man-bashing, is possibly the best proof I have that this definitely affects women as much as men; see his pearl of wisdom on housework.

Not only do two wrongs definitely not make a right, but by doing these things we are not bringing things down to an equal footing. We’re merely providing approval for more ridiculous patriarchal nonsense.

For example, when we objectify a famous man, we’re saying it’s okay to use women’s bodies to sell things because we’re using men’s bodies too, rather than asking ourselves if it’s really okay to mindlessly use people’s bodies that way at all.

And when men are portrayed as domestically useless, we’re underpinning the ‘I Don’t Know How She Does It’ trope that insists women can’t have it ‘all’ where ‘all’ is never defined for men. Despite women storming into the ranks of the working world, they still do more than their fair share of domestic labour, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a woman expressing discomfort with the idea of a man getting involved in that domain at home, even though she’s working as many hours out of the home as he is.*  Now, of course for men there’s a payoff into being made to look like idiots here, which is that they don’t have to do housework. So what starts out looking like sexism against them still turns out to hand power over to men. And the worst part is when women start internalising it all, believing that it’s biologically determined that she shalt never fix the drippy tap and he shalt never change a nappy.

I will leave the rant about the limits of biological determinism is for another day (it’s been put much better by Dr. Lise Eliot and Natasha Walter, among others, anyway).

So, maybe the reason why we think of it as ‘reverse’ sexism is just that. That even when we’re putting men down, we still seem to shove women even further down the ladder of equality and respect.

I’d like to make a brief side-note about ‘whatabouttehmenz‘. If you’ve not come across that concept before, in a nutshell, it’s when you try to discuss an issue, in a feminist space, that disproportionately affects women but someone pops up to insist you’re leaving men out. It’s related to the argument that says women-only spaces are sexist.

The thing is, that when those things happen to men they are not less important, or serious or tragic. It’s just that sometimes the same issue can affect different genders in different ways, not because those genders are pre-determined by biological sex, but because of varied upbringing. There might also be cultural reasons why those things happen that differ depending on the group you’re in. So sometimes it can be right and not discriminatory in the negative sense to segregate for the purpose of tackling a major issue. That doesn’t stop men from gathering together themselves and deserving the same respect and attention paid to their issues. And of course, men only spaces are not automatically misogynist.

Naturally, there are many cases when there is no need to separate and standing together is both appropriate and welcomed.

So, there you are. My first Feminist Friday post. It might or might not become a regular occurrence; we shall see.

*Not me. If anything the housework duties are weighted in my favour, and I need to pull my weight more, but that’s not because I think it’s ‘man’s work’ or beneath me or because my husband thinks I’m too stupid to do it, it’s because poo-filled nappies are better avoided if you can possibly get away with it.

This morning, there were bacon sandwiches…

Curtis would understand.

In Pictures: The last few weeks (not silent, not Sunday)

Reflections on Ramona: 13 months

Now that Ramona’s over a year old, we no longer fill in her baby book. Partly cos there’s no section for after 12 months, but also because now it’s past the firsts and into the everythings. So I wanted to keep a record somewhere of all the exciting things she can now do so that when she asks me years from now there’s a hope in Hell I’ll actually be able to give her an answer.

Things that make me proud…

  • Walking is old hat – progressing to a hesitant run now
  • Walking confidently in shoes
  • Standing on tiptoe to reach things
  • Opening cupboards
  • First attempts at climbing things (generally people)
  • Signing ‘finished’/'all gone’
  • Signing ‘butterfly’ whenever one is seen, but also on request in Greek or English
  • Dancing spontaneously to music, and also on request in English or Greek
  • Responding mostly reliably to questions about being hungry or finished by smiles or signing
  • Reliably pointing out ‘Mummy’s nose’, ‘X’s cheek’ and own head (asked in English or Greek) and knees. Sometimes own nose as well, occasionally feet
  • First word was Pappou! Lucky Pappou. This has been followed by ‘Daddy’, ‘Mummy / Mama’, ‘Yiayia’, ‘flower’ (or ‘wowwah’) and the spontaneous favourite: ‘hi!’
  • Animal noises: hissing like a snake, squeaking like a mouse, ‘moo’, ‘woof’ (actually ‘oof’) and ‘baa baa baa’
  • Understanding directions: going to fetch a book whether asked in English or Greek. Identifying by name four mini Moomin books: Moominpappa, Moominmama, Snorkmaiden and Moomintroll
  • Pointing out the following reliably in most books, when asked: cats, teddy bears, balls, hippos, dogs, monkeys, fish, butterflies, bees, ducks, cows, sheep, horses, bunnies, bikes, cars, drums, flowers, mice, socks, shoes
  • Starting to point out clocks, lights and mirrors when asked in English

I’m sure there are many more things. The babbling is sounding more and more like structured speech, so one of these days her language will start sounding a lot more like ours and our mutual gobbledegook will make more sense to each other. She listens a lot more, and looks up for approval when answering a question. We keep repeating simple questions and offering lots of praise and encouragement, and I insist my parents speak to her in Greek whenever possible, as well as repeating some things to her in both languages, so that she continues to have that comfort with either language.

I have no idea if she is average, or above or below. I don’t care, since she seems to be developing and learning at a nice steady pace which gives no indication that she’s struggling or unhappy; growing confidence and happiness are all that matter to me. Every week she seems to pick up half a dozen new things, some from us, some from grandparents and some from nursery. Despite being quite square-eyed as a miniature tot, she now shows no interest in the television at all but is obsessed with books. I wonder how long that’s going to last…!

I know toddlerhood and its attendant issues are right around the corner, but it’s easy to enjoy this stage of constant learning. I understand why she needs 10-11 hours sleep and a couple of hours of napping; if I took in half what she does in a day I’d be exhausted too.

Pickleface, Mummy is so proud.

Edited: Daddy insists I add that he is proud too.

Work, nursery, separation anxiety, teeth and something having to give…

Something had to give.

Let’s start with the good news. I am loving being back at work. I find that I end up laughing about something every day. And those occasional studies that talk about how mums make great employees have some truth in them, you know; my time management is better than it’s ever been, and even on slow days when the temptation strikes anyone, I’m not inclined to procrastinate (if you procrastinate with a child, you pay for it; puts you off for life). I really enjoy being me again, and I’ve had the luxury of a little time to do some of the really fun stuff, like reigniting our Twitter feed, as well as getting a far more regular content creation schedule in place.

Also, Ramona’s having more good days than bad at nursery. She’s playing outside, painting, pottering over to the book corner, etc. Today she apparently was the only child to have a proper afternoon nap, and when she woke up from it and the staff were busy soothing the others who had fallen asleep later she simply pootled over to some toys and played quietly and happily on her own. One carer said “it was like she knew to be quiet and not disturb the others, and she’s so independent; she didn’t need us!”.

Of course, increased independence can go hand in hand with separation anxiety. Although we were always careful to leave her for longer and longer periods with grandparents and eased her into nursery with half days, she’s now going through an apparently classic case of freak outs when she sees me or Ashley leaving. She’s generally happy but clingy when we get back, and I think that the day time anxiety is likely to ease quite soon.

So I wasn’t expecting it to spill over into night. I’m not even sure it has, exactly. She used to go into the cot drowsy but awake and sleep fine. She still sleeps through the night the vast majority of the time unless she’s sick or, in one case, too hot. Now she howls like a banshee when we pop her in the cot. For three days I attempted a sort of controlled crying; not giving in and picking her up, just soothing her in the cot, then leaving her for a minute or two, then silently popping her back down, etc etc. All it left was a baby who eventually slept out of the sheer exhaustion of being inconsolable. Today I snapped after half an hour of listening to her get more and more distressed, picked her up, let her lie on my tummy for five minutes until she was really sleepy, and then popped her in her cot where, after a brief wail of reproach, she slept like a log.

I feel terribly guilty now. Not because I think controlled crying is bad, because I’m sure it works well for many people. But because I think I picked the wrong time to do it. It can’t be a coincidence that this sleeping issue has appeared right when a tooth is coming through and she’s snotty and stressing out. If it was just the separation anxiety, I’m sure I could be a good What to Expect… girl and be all consistent and have a perfect bedtime routine that doesn’t deviate ever (seriously, who manages that?) and calmly sooth her, etc etc. But I ain’t that woman. I’m a woman who thinks a distressed child is distressed for a reason. She didn’t want to be rocked to bed, or to play or to read a book. She wanted soothing, from me, and she got it.

Most people would be fretting now about creating a new situation; I’m just sorry I didn’t give in earlier.

And speaking of giving in… It’s been forever since I ran. I feel very disappointed in myself and want to start again. I have all the excuses – going back to work, wanting to spend every minute I can with Ramona – and they’re all valid. But I have to find a way to find time for it again, and I know other busy mums do. It was good for me, physically and mentally, and I know I’ll have to start from scratch again, but I want to. Maybe if I start at the long weekend with the extra time I’ll have it’ll kick me into gear again.

Something had to give. And in the end it was the last of my faith in guidebooks and parenting tomes. From now on, I do what I think is right, and I trust myself.

Reflections on Ramona: Happy 1st Birthday!

Mummy with Ramona on her birthday

As some of you might have realised from the cake decoration picture I had up as Silent Sunday, we recently passed the incredible milestone of Ramona’s first birthday.

I thought about writing this post to her, but I’ve actually already done that in a way. Ashley and I each wrote a letter to her and put it away, along with her cards from everyone, for her to read when she’s older. We plan to write one each year and give her the whole lot at a milestone birthday like 18 when she can start to appreciate what’s in them. The tone of the letters was quite interestingly different; mine was a waffly description of her birth, and the things she’s learned to do, and what I find amazing about her, whereas Ashley’s was a shorter but beautifully emotional piece all about how he feels about her. The whole of which I think will make a great mixture of stories from childhood and understanding how parents can be just overwhelmed with love.

For me, being the mother of a one-year-old is, as I think with most childhood milestones, bittersweet. On the one hand, I’m truly excited at all the amazing things she can do; she walks pretty well, now, and she’s learned to clap at last! I’m very happy that we’re embarking on a journey that will see her gain even more independence and the ability to communicate clearly. She can now understand simple directions and that’s really quite amazing when I compare her to the blinky, waily, confused, wrinkled little pudding I held in my arms a year ago.

On the other hand, she’ll never be that tiny little brand new person ever again. And I find that sad. Maybe it’s the reminder of my own mortality. Maybe it’s the knowledge that, although we have a long way to go (and I’m terrified of teenagerhood), every step she learns to take already takes her further away from me. Although she suffers a little separation anxiety at nursery on and off – though mostly enjoys it – she loves being left with grandparents and doesn’t seem to mind if it’s me or Ashley with her. All of which certainly makes going back to work, which I’m thrilled I did, much easier but at the same time reminds me that although I feel like she’s an extension of me, she’s also very much her own person.

That’s the challenge of parenthood, I think. To you, they are almost literally your own flesh and blood; when they are away from you, something is missing. When they are sad, something in you is broken. When they are happy, something in you flies. When they are learning, exploring, doing, something in you delights with them every step of the way. And yet they are not you, and every move they make is for them, and must be for the them, and will be for them. Until, one day, if they choose to make it so and are lucky enough to fulfil their choice, it will be for their children.

I wish I could say this has made me even nicer to my own mother – not that I’m unpleasant to her, you understand; we are actually very close! – but I don’t think that’s how it works. Once a selfish kid, always a selfish kid.

And once a mother, always a mother.

Silent Sunday

 

Silent Sunday

Silent Sunday

Silent Sunday