Rituals and Poop

After a crazy couple of weeks worrying about work-related stuff I can finally concentrate on really important things again, like making sure I take enough videos of my kids. This is key because they are pretty cute these days. 

The basic dynamic is that the Noodle descends closely upon the baby like a swarm of giggling locusts, cooing and patting and poking her in the face. Because she is still just a tube-monkey, the baby's only natural defense in the face of obvious danger is to be adorable. Thus just as the horned toad squirts blood into the eyes of desert badgers (we don't employ fact-checkers around here), the Mini Muffin, unable to roll over or accurately manoeuvre her tiny, balled-up hands, frantically smiles at her sister. It usually works in the sense that she is still alive.

The Noodle (having turned all her angst against her increasingly desperate parents) loves the baby, but it's not a problem because babies are remarkably resilient. I was sure you couldn't bend such tiny arms that way without causing lasting harm, but apparently its fine. Also you can give a newborn an "indian burn" of love (in typing this I just realized that I spent my whole childhood saying this vaguely racist thing...what do the kids these days call it?) and she'll just spit up. 

But Noodle's very favourite part about the baby, it seems, is watching me change her diaper. It combines her two favourite things: rituals and poop. 

This morning, for example. (By the way, these days Noodle usually uses just one modal verb of her own invention, "moo-de", regardless of language, meaning or tense. It comes from the German "muss" but really applies everywhere, I moo-de tell you.) 

"Noodle, get your boots on while I get your sister dressed. We have to go," I said, laying the baby down on the changing table. 

"I'm coming, baby!" said the Noodle. There are shuffling sounds in the other room. She rounds the corner somehow holding a piece of paper, a key chain, a toy stethoscope, a stuffed animal and a tangerine. No shoes. 

"Noodle, no more playing. You have to get to kindergarten. St. Nicholas is coming today! Get your shoes on please while I change the baby's diaper..."

Sharp, exaggerated, excited intake of breath. A dropping of many objects at the same time. "Diaper?" says the Noodle. "I moo-de see the diaper!" 

"But your shoes..." I say, helplessly, as the Noodle drags her little chair across the living room and next to the changing table. 

"I want to see the kaka," says Noodle, climbing up beside me. "A really BIG one." 

"No, you need to..." I start to say, again. Then I remember my parenting mantra ("Do you really care?"), rub my face with my hands and give up. 

"Do you think it will be REALLY BIG?" I ask. "Like, SO big?" 

Noodle's eyes widen. "Let's check," she says conspiratorially as I peel away the baby's diaper. 

Which does not disappoint. 

"Mommy it is blueberries and blackberries and blueberries and haha!" says Noodle. I have no idea what the hell she is talking about. 

"Hee hee," says Noodle. She doesn't laugh; she says "hee hee." Then she says, "Hee hee poo poo...and the blackberries and the strawberries and the blue ones." 

What. 

"You're so calm," I say to the baby, cleaning her up as quickly as possible. "I like it! Let's get a fresh diaper on you." 

"Glulck," says the baby, sucking her fist. 

"A fresh diiiiiaper, baby?" says the Noodle, who is, perhaps, just a tad frightening. "For the poo poo, mommy? The poo poo kaka? And the pee pee? Hee hee hee hee."

I fold up the used diaper and throw it away.  

"No!" says Noodle. "I want to see it! I moo-de see the kaka. The really BIG one the...the blueberries blackberries and the, and the...I need to go buy fruits and vegetables! From the supermarket, mommy." 

"You do?" I ask. 

"Oh yes. One minute, mommy, I moo-de buy the...we moo-de...And the big one. And the big one from the supermarket. Yes, mommy? Not the kaka diapers. The other one. The really BIG one."

If a two year-old lost her mind, how would you know?

"...And the blueberries and blackberries and a...a mango. I want a mango, mommy. A mango. And rice crackers. Now, mommy. Please mommy. Mango, mommy. Cheese, mommy. Not diapers, Tali. Don't worry baby. Rice crackers. Bread. Bread, mommy. Bread. Please. With marmelade. A big one. A REALLY BIG ONE." 

I'm beginning to get the picture. "Um, are you hungry?"

"YES, Mommy," she says, suddenly looking very pitiful indeed. "I SO HUNGRY MOMMY. I want bread."  

"Well, your breakfast is waiting at kindergarten so get your boots on and I will get you some bread for the way." 

"Hooray! Don't worry, Tali, there is breakfast at kindergarten! I moo-de GO!"

"Glulck," says the baby. 

And off we go, because we moo-de.  

Where There's Smoke

The unacquainted often mistakenly believe that bibs are for catching dribbles of milk and food. A reasonable assumption, but sadly incorrect. In fact, they are mostly for drool. Newborns drool a lot because they haven't gotten the whole swallowing thing worked out yet. 

The end of the drool is a sign that they're ready for solid food. (Also babies will stare at each forkful on its way into your mouth, smack their lips and generally act the way polite dogs should not). 

No teeth anywhere.

The resumption of the drool is a sign that baby teeth are on their way. We've brought back all our little cloth bibs with their pro-Grandma messaging ("Take me to Grandma's!", "Grandma's Little Blessing", "I love Grandma!") and are waiting anxiously for teeth to arrive.

Except, so, like, where the hell are they? 

The signs of impending teeth have been there for at least three months. For those not in the know, other signs include chewing on fingers, gnawing on corners and toys and cables, chewing on thin air, and desiring to be held and cuddled and chew on Mommy's necklaces and wedding ring. And let us not forget the grumpiness. 

This is what all babies do: They will try to stick a rattle the size of an egg into their preposterously small mouths, will sort of dislocate their jaws, and then hurl the rattle onto the ground with a scream of frustration. 

The teething baby, however, is not just frustrated, but utterly defeated. These little setbacks make her very sad. Her lower lip trembles. A tear gathers in one eye. She will look at me, arms raised, beseeching. When I pick her up, she'll bury her face in my shoulder and wipe her snotty nose on my shirt and rub her eyes and say, "Meeeeeh," and sigh dramatically all the while.

Obviously, this is adorable. But also, I feel terrible for her. She appears to be in pain some of the time, but also this suffering has not resulted in a single tooth. Not a one. 

Little eyes on the prize. ToothWatch

All our other baby friends have at least two little punctuation-sized protrusions in their lower gums, the better to scrape at steamed fruit with or gnaw on overcooked rice. But not our poor, gummy Noodle. Oh woe.  

We'll keep you posted. 

Because I'd read YOUR blog

My due date came and went on Saturday, and despite the odd contraction, this child is showing no signs of wanting to be born. This total lack of initiative proves she is definitely our baby.

On the other hand, as the inspector at police headquarters told Alex and I today, maybe she's right to stay put. (It's a long story, but basically they've been ordered to investigate whether we have a so-called "Scheinehe", or a marriage for the sake of a visa. Pro tip: If you got married when you were eight months pregnant, chances are good that it wasn't for a visa.)  The world is so shit anyway, he explained. And once she comes out, he said, marking up our documents with  a highlighter and a great deal of disgust, she'd do better to just stay a child forever. 

"Alles, nur nie älter als sechs Jahr werden," he said. "Sechs. Bis dahin geht's grad noch." ("Do anything but get older than six. Six. Until then it's just about okay.") 

God, I love this country and the people in it. I'm serious.

The uncertainty about when I'll finally go into labor and what that will actually be like (sources say uncomfortable) makes me anxious and irritable, and my anxiousness and irritability are compounded by the heat and by the sounds of traffic down on Gumpendorfer Strasse, where we live, and by the fact that one of our two devil cats just peed in the corner again. Also, everyone keeps calling and texting to ask if I'm still pregnant, which is very sweet, and which is stressing me the fuck out because it means all I can think about all day is how very pregnant I am and that I am essentially waiting around to lay an egg. 

Also stressing me out is the long list of things I want to accomplish while I'm on maternity leave. This includes things like, "Be a good mother," although given the heat and my ill temper this has temporarily been downgraded to, "Give birth". One step at a time, right? 

Another thing on my list was to start a blog, because my understanding is that once you have a baby you finally have something worth blogging about. With this in mind, I forced Alex to join me in brainstorming session about what to name this blog (his suggestion: Naomi's Blog) and on the basis of that conversation I was thisclose to going with "Poo & Nipples," something I had previously discussed with another friend, but then I realized that maybe that's a little bit gross and essentialist and in any case I have no right to go around summarizing the experience of blogging about babies (and sundry) before I've even had a baby. I've spent the last week not blogging because I have been going back and worth about whether "Poo & Nipples," which is an awesome name, is maybe inappropriate and degrading, and I feel like it might be... ugh, it's all just so hard when you weigh nearly 100 kg and spend all your time crying and sweating. 

Anyway, so THEN I thought: Naomi, how about you pick any old freaking name and you can just reserve the right to change it any time in the event you manage to keep this up and can be bothered. 

Et voila, Life & Times on Gumpen Village Street. Enjoy.