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?
22 September 2010
21 September 2010
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...
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...
20 September 2010
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...
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...
07 September 2010
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.
These and every other tiny detail of Oscar's life of smiles make me feel an overwhelming tsunami of love.
13 August 2010
Nostalgie FM
I have been feeling rather old this week. Or perhaps not old, more nostalgic.
It all started when we went to visit my grandmother, Mamie Jacqueline. She lives in a house in Surgeres, around 30 minutes' drive from the Ile de Re, where she has lived, to my knowledge, ever since my own mother was a little girl. Her house has seen most of my Christmases, a lot of my summers, and it's always a pleasure to go and reminisce there when I visit.
But this time, everywhere I looked, all I could see was the past - the dried up grass where my late Papi's tomatoes and strawberries used to grow; the dishevelled tool shed which used to be forbidden to me as a child; the rusting laundry line to which post my brother and cousin once tied me for a whole afternoon... Instead of feeling warm at the thought of all the memories I have, as I usually do, I felt sad and, well, nostalgic is the best word for it, I suppose.
And the feeling has stayed with me ever since. Walking on the harbour front in St Martin, all I can see is the ghost of my 18-year-old self, hanging out with my cousins on the terrasses, feeling very adult. Everywhere I go, I feel the shadow of my past self lurking just over my shoulders.
I don't know whether this has something to do with having a child myself now, or whether it's because my 30th birthday is just around the corner, but it's quite frustrating to have the feeling that I used to mock in my own parents.
When we used to watch the videos of me as a little girl, my parents always used to be depressed. And I used to think they were silly, and that they should be happy to have recorded such great memories. But now I feel the same as they did. In fact, we watched those same videos on this trip, and all I could think was "where did the time go? how did my life go by so fast?!"
My life isn't over, I know. But now it feels like I need to leave the floor to my baby, and it's Oscar's time to make memories. Thankfully his memories will make up a big chunk of my own. It's just a new chapter about to start, even though I'm finding it hard to let go of the page I have to turn for it to begin.
It all started when we went to visit my grandmother, Mamie Jacqueline. She lives in a house in Surgeres, around 30 minutes' drive from the Ile de Re, where she has lived, to my knowledge, ever since my own mother was a little girl. Her house has seen most of my Christmases, a lot of my summers, and it's always a pleasure to go and reminisce there when I visit.
But this time, everywhere I looked, all I could see was the past - the dried up grass where my late Papi's tomatoes and strawberries used to grow; the dishevelled tool shed which used to be forbidden to me as a child; the rusting laundry line to which post my brother and cousin once tied me for a whole afternoon... Instead of feeling warm at the thought of all the memories I have, as I usually do, I felt sad and, well, nostalgic is the best word for it, I suppose.
And the feeling has stayed with me ever since. Walking on the harbour front in St Martin, all I can see is the ghost of my 18-year-old self, hanging out with my cousins on the terrasses, feeling very adult. Everywhere I go, I feel the shadow of my past self lurking just over my shoulders.
I don't know whether this has something to do with having a child myself now, or whether it's because my 30th birthday is just around the corner, but it's quite frustrating to have the feeling that I used to mock in my own parents.
When we used to watch the videos of me as a little girl, my parents always used to be depressed. And I used to think they were silly, and that they should be happy to have recorded such great memories. But now I feel the same as they did. In fact, we watched those same videos on this trip, and all I could think was "where did the time go? how did my life go by so fast?!"
My life isn't over, I know. But now it feels like I need to leave the floor to my baby, and it's Oscar's time to make memories. Thankfully his memories will make up a big chunk of my own. It's just a new chapter about to start, even though I'm finding it hard to let go of the page I have to turn for it to begin.
05 August 2010
Waiting for Krusty
It's day six of my bittersweet trip to France.
Bitter because it's hard to be away from my husband (who I realise I haven't been separated from for almost a year). And sweet because, well, where do I start?
First there's the pleasure of watching Oscar interact with my mother, now known as Lady Gaga for the noises she makes when she sees him, and my father, who Oscar seems to find hilarious. I watch them play and fuss over him and I imagine being a baby myself. This is how they must have been with me. It's mindblowing in a way.
There's also sweetness in my bambino, of course, as usual. Since we have arrived, he has really found his voice, adding brief, sharp squeals to his repertoire of coos and gurgles. He has also realised that those two things on the end of his arms are actually his hands, and his to control, and he keeps delicately grabbing his own fingers like one of those claws that grab teddys in arcade machines, and smiling proudly. It's a far cry from that day I had to remove his hands from his face because he couldn't understand that he was in control of whether they were there or not.
And, it goes without saying, the sweet, sweet pleasure of finding French food again. Oh my. There are peaches that taste of raspberries, bread that tastes good from the moment you buy it and even for a few more days after that (if it survives that long without being eaten). There are tomatoes that have the colour, texture and TASTE of tomatoes, there are my mother's desserts, cooked from my grandmother's recipes. And there are mussels. And melons. And and and. Oh how much we are missing...
Bitter because it's hard to be away from my husband (who I realise I haven't been separated from for almost a year). And sweet because, well, where do I start?
First there's the pleasure of watching Oscar interact with my mother, now known as Lady Gaga for the noises she makes when she sees him, and my father, who Oscar seems to find hilarious. I watch them play and fuss over him and I imagine being a baby myself. This is how they must have been with me. It's mindblowing in a way.
There's also sweetness in my bambino, of course, as usual. Since we have arrived, he has really found his voice, adding brief, sharp squeals to his repertoire of coos and gurgles. He has also realised that those two things on the end of his arms are actually his hands, and his to control, and he keeps delicately grabbing his own fingers like one of those claws that grab teddys in arcade machines, and smiling proudly. It's a far cry from that day I had to remove his hands from his face because he couldn't understand that he was in control of whether they were there or not.
And, it goes without saying, the sweet, sweet pleasure of finding French food again. Oh my. There are peaches that taste of raspberries, bread that tastes good from the moment you buy it and even for a few more days after that (if it survives that long without being eaten). There are tomatoes that have the colour, texture and TASTE of tomatoes, there are my mother's desserts, cooked from my grandmother's recipes. And there are mussels. And melons. And and and. Oh how much we are missing...
01 August 2010
To hell and back
Once I had finally sorted out the plane ticket (they wouldn't give me a cot bed seat until Krusty called every hour to insist, long story...) I was actually quite excited about taking Bambino to Europe, not least because the cold plane would mean I could finally dress my baby in shoes and a cardigan.
I admit that it was quite difficult to say goodbye to Krusty not knowing when we would see him next, but I felt confident that everything would go well. Night flight? Check. Warm, comfy clothes? Check. Soft cover used at naptime to induce sleep? Check.
But I should have known better. In fact, as soon as the wheels of the pushchair got trapped in the door of the Airport Express train, inducing panic in all those around me, I should have seen the signs of a nightmare trip ahead.
It's safe to say, in retrospect, that Oscar does NOT like flying. As soon as we sat down in the plane, he cried for three hours then again every two. The incredibly manicured man next to me (my gaydar was on full alert) started huffing as soon as he sat down, giving Oscar the evils while he edited back copies of the Portugese version of Hello magazine.
In fact the airline had put me in a window seat, so I kept having to step over him to get out (he wouldn't swap with me because he had "specifically ordered a corridor seat"), so after a while, he just draped his cover over his head, periodically huffing from underneath it like some modern, bitchy Egyptian mummy. He paid for his huffinness in the end when the cot bed fell in his lap, breaking both of our tvs...
Many more hellish things happened on the flight, not to mention the endless train journeys from Paris to La Rochelle, with crying all the way, but this trip was a little like childbirth - I remember that it was painful, but I can't remember the pain, because the end result is so pleasurable (oh the baguette, oh the clean, fresh air, oh the proud feeling of seeing my son smile at my parents) that the ordeal has disappeared in my mind.
I admit that it was quite difficult to say goodbye to Krusty not knowing when we would see him next, but I felt confident that everything would go well. Night flight? Check. Warm, comfy clothes? Check. Soft cover used at naptime to induce sleep? Check.
But I should have known better. In fact, as soon as the wheels of the pushchair got trapped in the door of the Airport Express train, inducing panic in all those around me, I should have seen the signs of a nightmare trip ahead.
It's safe to say, in retrospect, that Oscar does NOT like flying. As soon as we sat down in the plane, he cried for three hours then again every two. The incredibly manicured man next to me (my gaydar was on full alert) started huffing as soon as he sat down, giving Oscar the evils while he edited back copies of the Portugese version of Hello magazine.
In fact the airline had put me in a window seat, so I kept having to step over him to get out (he wouldn't swap with me because he had "specifically ordered a corridor seat"), so after a while, he just draped his cover over his head, periodically huffing from underneath it like some modern, bitchy Egyptian mummy. He paid for his huffinness in the end when the cot bed fell in his lap, breaking both of our tvs...
Many more hellish things happened on the flight, not to mention the endless train journeys from Paris to La Rochelle, with crying all the way, but this trip was a little like childbirth - I remember that it was painful, but I can't remember the pain, because the end result is so pleasurable (oh the baguette, oh the clean, fresh air, oh the proud feeling of seeing my son smile at my parents) that the ordeal has disappeared in my mind.
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