Honesty

If Oscar was popular in Europe, then in Hong Kong, where there aren't that many babies that look like him, he is a total superstar.

Hong Kong locals don't have their tongues in their pockets, and they have a habit of telling you exactly what they think without holding back. That's how, when in a shoe shop, a saleswoman literally laughed when she saw how big my foot is. That's why, when going through prenatal care, I became an obese alcoholic rather than a plump girl who enjoys a glass of wine...

But finally, thanks to my baby, I can enjoy the positive side of this honesty. I have not yet been outside without at least three people stopping to tell me how beautiful he is. One woman even passed me by and then ran back to take a second look.

Although yesterday I got a strange exchange when one shopkeeper asked me if he was a boy or a girl. I answered, "boy", to which she shook her head and said, "no, girl". I repeated boy, telling her I was pretty sure that I knew if my son was a son and not a daughter. To which she said, "no, he has girl eyes".

Hmmmmm...

For future reference

The authorities on baby jet lag all agree - the best thing to do, as with adult jet lag, is to get as much exposure to midday sunlight as possible.

Now, do any of these experts have some advice for a mother trapped in typhoon season Hong Kong, with only rain, mist and grey skies to deal with at midday?

The jet lag dance

Last night it took me no less than TWELVE attempts to get Oscar to sleep by Hong Kong bedtime, by which time we were back to French time anyway.

The first five attempts went as usual, with me walking around the flat wondering how long it would take my shattered arms to let go of the 7kg baby blowing raspberries in them.

By the sixth attempt, it was 2am and I was so desperate I broke my own rule and tried putting him in front of the TV (anyone who knows me will know what a huge compromise this was for me). Turns out I had no addiction to be worried of - Bambino was not interested one bit in the TV, and if anything, the flashing lights woke him up more than turning him into a square-eyed zombie.

On the seventh attempt, at 3am, I broke out the big guns - the musical mobile that had never yet been used as it was being saved for just such a desperate occasion.

As I wound it up over Oscar's head, he gave me his best look of incredulity, as if to ask me if I was stupid enough to really think this was going to work. Indeed it didn't, but then again the music had run out by the time he was quiet enough to hear it, so I went in for a quick rewind interlude while the baby stamped his feet, covering his ears with his hands and wailing something I could swear sounded like "Shut that bloody bazooki up!"

I sat next door as I listened to him trying new tactics, attempting to reason with it by blowing raspberries. To no avail.

On the second wind up he was trying to roll over, as if wanting to escape while letting out a slow sigh. He looked at the mobile as if to say "look old chap, you're wasting you're breath" and by the third wind he was blowing the raspberries at me, trying to tell me "that was rubbish".

By the fourth wind up I gave in, picked him up and used my tried and tested method of walking around again. Finally he drifted off, and so did I, seconds after crawling into bed.

And...? You guessed it, one hour later I was up pacing the room again, singing the 250 verses of "mon papa ne veut pas" until my tongue was like a shrivelled old flannel.

And just when I thought my ordeal was over, typhoon Fanapi went and knocked over a load of furniture on the roof, waking us both up with a start.

My Mamie Jacqueline says that sleep nourishes the mind the way that food nourishes the body. Well, if Bambino doesn't start accepting to go to sleep when he needs to, we might soon have a little Oscar Gump on our hands. And considering how much he loves being on his feet nowadays, I wouldn't be surprised if he just got up tomorrow and started to run around the world talking about how life is like a box of chocolates...

And that's why you shouldn't travel long distance with small babies

With the cot bed debacle and mile high tantrums behind me, I thought the hardest part of our trip back from Europe was over, but hooooooo no.

In fact bambino was quite well behaved on the plane, chatting away with 7-month-old Octave, who was sitting next to us, and smiling at everyone who passed the cot, including my elderly neighbour who thought I needed her advice about everything. In fact she literally grabbed him from me when she saw me sitting him up, telling me that I was doing permanent damage to his spine. Needless to say, I didn't close my eyes for the duration of the flight, just in case she decided to sneak him some orange juice while I slept or something.

Once in dried seafood street (nothing like dehydrated abalone to remind you that you're back in Hong Kong) I even managed to get the suitcase up the stairs alone (well, actually, someone else carried it for me, but you know), and when I closed the door behind me, I was quite pleased to be home.

But then I sat down. And the tiredness kicked in, my eyelids suddenly feeling like they had been cast in the heaviest iron. And for the next 12 hours, I fought to keep them open while Oscar laughed and squealed and demanded to be picked up.

Around bedtime I tried to put him to sleep, to no avail, until he started whinging pretty loudly, probably wondering why I had shut him in a dark room when it was only 3pm back in Frrance. This continued throughout the night, with me just falling asleep for five minutes until he woke me up with a cry. Carrying a 7kg packet around at 3am when it's all you can do to just stand up demands a level of effort I hadn't even imagined until now.

It's one (very difficult) thing dealing with jet lag, it's an entirely different thing dealing with my baby's while dealing with my own.

Hopefully it'll all be back in order soon (some websites reckon it takes babies up to two weeks to adjust; please, no...) and I can enjoy Hong Kong again. Once I get used to the noise and the people jumping queues and the stifling heat of typhoon season, that is...

I am a soppy mummy

Things that I love watching my son do: when he wakes up, he invariably arches his back like a cat to stretch out, arms in the air and legs straight as arrows; halfway through a feed, he'll catch my eye, push his head back and beam at me with his toothless gums before heading back in for his second course; when he's had enough to eat, he purses his lips in a really French little pout; when he pushes on his legs to stand up (supported), he pants and dribbles with a giant grin, as if proud of this, the most effort he has ever made; when he falls asleep in my arms and I put him down, he looks up at me with a contented smile before drifting off again; when he is trying to understand something, he gives an imperceptible flash of the eyebrow that makes me know he is Krusty's son...

These and every other tiny detail of Oscar's life of smiles make me feel an overwhelming tsunami of love.