A minor domestic dispute

Washing up tubs. You know, the plastic tub you put inside the kitchen sink. Pretty standard kitchen fare, aren't they?

TLOML does not think so. He is dead against them. I have suspected this for a while, since he's forever taking ours out of the sink and resting it on the worksurface so he can 'get to the sink better'.

Finally last week I confronted him. The arrival of Lady P means our kitchen worktops are now cluttered with expressing and sterilising equipment, special bottle brushes, and a special draining rack to dry the special brushes on. (Yes, we may have gone a little overboard on the cleaning equipment. It's the neurotically clean American in the house driving that, needless to say).

Anyway the point is that we don't have room for washing up tubs littering the place up. So I confronted him.
'What do you have against it?' I asked. Bear in mind I'm a little sleep deprived, so if I sounded a bit fractious, that might be why.
'What is it for?' he counter-asked. Always the lawyer...
'Well,' I explained, 'It's so you can tip liquids away, down the side of it, even while you have a sink full of washing up.'
'But we have a built in drainer next to our sink,' he pointed out. Bear in mind too that he's getting about 45 minutes more sleep than me - I know because we compare notes daily - so has the upper hand where reasoning is concerned.
'Okay, but also it's nice because it's softer than the sink so you won't smash wine glasses in it.'
That was the best I could do. TLOML pointed out that we don't often smash wine glasses, and if we do it's not because the sink is particularly hard, but that some glassware is quite fragile, and would probably smash if you knocked it too hard against a paperback, never mind a plastic washing up tub.

I have to admit I was stumped. TLOML is right, it's a redundant piece of equipment. Yet every British kitchen I know has one. Well, except ours, since we have thrown it away.

TLOML claims no Americans have these silly washing up tubs. Is he right?

Transatlantic Nursery Chat

Lucky little Lady P is going to be bilingual from the start as we are immersing her in two languages: English and American.

TLOML changes her diaper when she's pooped, and sticks a pacifier in her mouth when she's hollering. And I, by contrast, put a clean nappy on after she's done a poo, and give her a dummy when she's skriking.

Oh, hang on a second, that makes three languages: Northern English. Skriking is a Northern word for screaming or crying. Along with gip, which means sick (as in, 'Oh little Lady P, are you gipping on my shoulder?'), it's become a word I use much more frequently now we have a wild, screaming, vomiting creature living amongst us at Fox Corner.

For what it's worth I prefer the English words in the main. They are somehow more baby-friendly. 'Posset' sounds so much more pleasant than 'spit up'. 'Muslin' has an innocence to it, whereas that 'burp cloth' just sounds bawdy. 'Diaper' and 'pacifier' sound like clinical equipment, whereas 'nappy' and 'dummy' are straight from a nursery. And 'receiving blanket' sounds like something that might be used in a religious ceremony, perhaps a baby sacrifice event - till you learn it's just a lovely swaddle cloth. The only exception, I think, is 'poop', which is much cuter than dirty smelly 'poo'.

We use these Transatlantic alternatives interchangeably - which is great for the development of Lady P's cerebral cortex. She'll grow up learning there is more than one word for most objects, and thus grasp the concept of language very early on.

But there is one word I want to stick to, to the exclusion of all other (American) alternatives: I'm pushing hard to be called mummy, and not mommy or mom. It's the only name I think a mother should have, and I'll be disproportionately upset if I don't hear it on her lips one day. So I'll keep saying it to her, over and over, and just hope she's listening.

Are you listening, Lady P?

Oceans of patience

This week's lesson is in patience.

I am not a patient person. In fact, I'd go so far as saying I'm known for my impatience. TLOML has more patience than me, a lot more, but still he has his limits. The UK Border Agency with their 7 month visa process hit up against them fairly quickly. And British waiters - the ones that fail to meet eye contact and take ages to notice we need menus or fresh drinks - also incite some grumpiness. Yes, we are neither of us models of forbearance. We like instant gratification, rapid results, and for life to tick along at a satisfying pace.

Or so we thought. Until Lady P came along and taught us that there is just no point cutting corners. Changing that nappy hastily, without proper care to creases and pulling the little ruffle out around the legs will surely come back to bite us later that day. Putting her down when she looks like she just might be asleep will only result in an angry baby and twice as much effort to calm her again. Cramming the bottle of milk into her quickly because it's the middle of the night and we're tired will bring out a burpy fit of rage.

There are no shortcuts.

So we've undergone something of a revolution these past four weeks. It turns out we are both very very patient people. We do have the capacity to jiggle her on our knee for thirty monotonous, muscle burning minutes. We have it in us to stand and rock her for twice as long, if that's what it takes. Taking almost an hour to feed her 4 oz of milk, with long, backrubbing burp sessions between every few gulps, is absolutely fine with us.

Who knew?!

One thing hasn't changed though. And that's the rate at which we like our G&T served. The moment she's asleep, that Hendricks better be splashing into a glass near me or there's big trouble.

Eating the elephant

My wise and glamorous entrepreneurial friend tells me that the best way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. Not that she eats a lot of elephants, so far as I know. But she often tackles large and apparently unmanageable tasks, and does so by breaking them down into bite size chunks.

I have decided to take the same approach to raising Lady P.

By raising, I mean creating a baby who settles for a nap without fuss, isn't dependent on a dummy, doesn't need to sleep in our bed every night, and has a reasonably predictable eating and sleeping schedule. (Later we'll be creating a toddler with a nice attitude, and a child with good manners, but let's cross one bridge at a time).

As you can tell, I have set quite a high standard for her, and for us. I was just determined not to get into bad habits, that's all. I was always a bit sniffy about people whose 2 year olds still use dummies, or can't go to sleep without having their hand held. I figure you have to nip that stuff in the bud.

But maybe 3 weeks old is a bit early to be so strict. After all, it's a lot to handle, being born and existing in a world you didn't even know was out there. I feel for her. No wonder she needs rocking to sleep sometimes. And we're both learning the basics here, like how to feed effectively. So if she's wailing for food in the middle of what I thought would be a good long nap, I just need to take that on the chin and provide the boob she demands.

So as I said, it's like eating an elephant. One bite at a time.

Right now I'm focussed on learning how to get her to feed properly, frequently and till she's satisfied. Once we've got that sorted we might start to think about getting her to sleep without resorting to a buggy ride or curling up together (not that I don't like curling up with her, it's just, well, like I said, bad habits die hard). And one day we'll get rid of that dummy.

For now, we're savouring the first bite of elephant. It's a little chewy, but still very satisfying.

Dining with Lady P

Three weeks in and we decided it's time we clawed back our social life. Lady P has trampled all over it, with her tiny, wrinkly, little feet. Enough!

Actually, we hadn't done too badly in some ways. Since she was born we've managed to cook and eat a decent meal every night, and sat together to enjoy it (albeit with the odd interruption) - which is important to us both. Still, dinners out, and leisurely pub lunches, have been in short supply. I've been nervous to go out and meet friends for coffee in case Lady P wakes and demands food and the world sees my rookie-mum ineptitude.

But you can't stay home forever. So we ventured out.

On Friday morning I met a girlfriend for coffee nearby, at a Starbucks that's always full of buggies. Lady P slept throughout. Phew.

On Friday night we bamboozled Lady P into coming out for dinner. We just did our usual bathtime and bedtime routine but tucked her up in the buggy instead. She was none the wiser, and slept throughout dinner. We considered this a major triumph: it was a proper date night, just the two of us, and we actually talked about something other than Lady P for more than 5 minutes at a time.

Chilling in Curry Paradise

Enjoying a beer in the Freemasons

By Saturday we had become really bullish. We took Lady P for lunch with TLOML's best man at the Freemasons in Hampstead. She awoke. She liked what she saw - the light from the window, presumably. She socialised, pooed in her nappy and fed in a completely uninhibited way. Good for her. Afterwards I walked down to Kentish Town for a coffee at Doppio with my friend the gambler. Lady P was, by now, getting into the North London social scene - again, she gurgled, glugged, and gurned without a care in the world. And on Sunday we met a few friends for a drink in the afternoon, with Lady P in a sweet little dress, full of milk so she would sleep for the most part. Again, it was fairly successful, unless you count the last 5 minutes when she screamed bloody murder till we removed her from the scene. It might have spoiled the atmosphere for other drinkers, but it didn't bother us any.

So we've broken our duck, and are no longer housebound. We are lucky in that where we live, like so many parts of London, is very baby-friendly. Fox Corner is right in the middle of a swathe of nappy valley that cuts across North West London. It used to annoy me a bit, all those buggies cluttering up the nice places to eat and drink. But I'm very grateful now.

It struck me that if we were in New York it would be very different experience. You don't see so many buggies in the bars and restaurants of Manhattan.  At brunch, somewhere lowkey and grown up (like Cookshop) you might see one or two under 5s. I suspect it's because they have cheaper childcare so the babies can be left at home. I imagine you'd feel a bit of an idiot breastfeeding in any of our old haunts in Chelsea. By contrast, in North London, you actually feel like a bit of a weirdo for not having a babe in arms. I counted four babies at the Freemasons, and several toddlers. We were not the only buggy in Doppio, either.

At some point Lady P will be less portable, and a lot less willing to sleep in her Bugaboo while dinner is served around her. So for now we will make the most of it, and make the most of our baby-friendly locals.