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Photo courtesy of Storme Sabine Photography

Call ‘em what you will:  buggies, pushchairs, strollers, prams, baby carriages, perambulators or carrycots.   Although we’re aware of the function they serve, some of us seem to be unaware of the imprint these means of transport will leave on our bodies and minds.

I had no idea what was in store for me when at eight months pregnant I smiled blissfully for a photo in which I stood alongside the buggy we just bought for our soon-to-arrive bundle of joy.  A few weeks prior to taking this photo, I was living in a buggy bubble, surrounded by objects referred to as Bugaboos, McLarens, and Gracos.  And once this bubble popped, I was transplanted to an accessories orb and encircled by cup holders, parasols, sun shades, footmuffs, bag clips, insect nets, and buggy boards.

Giving me added pressure when I was trying to decide on a buggy, one friend was intent on informing me that pushchairs are the ultimate accessory.  She says similar to a woman deciding to wear a Kelly bag or Kipling on her shoulder, or Louboutins or Birkenstocks on her feet, the decision to buy and push around a certain type of pram makes a statement.  After she saw the aforementioned photo, she said that my decision to purchase a red buggy meant that there was a lot of passion stirring below my surface.  I told her that it wasn’t passion but rather a very active, 3.5 lb. fetus, and that I actually chose a red buggy for safety reasons – red lights instruct us to stop.  She said I was lying.  I told her to quit with the envy and jealousy.  Her buggy is green, after all.

Two and a half years into pushing our diminutive lorry over cobblestones, through sand and gravel, up and down curbs and stairs, on public transport, in snow and cats-and-dogs rain, and around unforgiving pedestrians, I feel equipped to teach Buggy Etiquette 101, How Playing Twister Is Good Practice for Pram Usage, How to Forgive Your Fellow Sidewalk Hoggers for They Know Not What They Do, and Surviving Life Post-Buggy.

I ask my husband what he imagines when he thinks of prams and he says, “Manic women pushing their way down the street with great impatience, assuming they have the right of way in all situations, even if oncoming traffic is someone in flames running towards them, having just run out of a burning building.”  Yikes.  Is this the picture I and my fellow moms and carers project?  Or is this just a man who assumes he has the right of way or who has tried to cut lanes and jump in front of mini moving vehicles one too many times and has the scars to prove it?

Either way, I feel the need to defend my fellow baby carriage comrades.  Until one has had to operate the machinery known as pushchair, one can never understand the intricacies of the apparatus, the physical and psychological commitment, and men and women of planet Earth – the fortitude.

What used to be a quick jaunt to the local coffee joint to get my caffeine fix has now turned into my own personal Cirque du Soleil routine.  I know, I know, I should be grateful that I even have a buggy, that I have two legs and two arms and that I can afford a latté in this recession, but please hear me out.  Both fresh air and caffeine are necessities when you have little ones.  Thus, for any U- or G-rated readers, it’s like slightly injuring two birds with a teeny, tiny stone.  When leaving the coffee shop with a buggy, I have to use one hand to open the door and then quickly kick my foot to catch it in order to hold it so it frees up the hand to hold the coffee.  Meanwhile, the other hand is pushing the buggy and its 12 kilos of cargo while my 4.5 kilo bag steadily slides down my shoulder.  When I’m being kind enough to grab coffee for a fellow mom as well, having to carry one of those molded fiber coffee carriers with two cups requires use of the outer wrist, forearm or chin, or a combination of the three.  Why didn’t I purchase a coffee cup holder?  I did, and the contraption is relatively useless.  Not only does it add a few unwanted inches to the width of the buggy, but if you are using a paper coffee cup with a plastic, domed, sippy lid, your coffee will come spewing out the first bump you hit.

I told my husband that I was going to start charging spectators for the entertainment I provide during this routine.  He jokingly threw some coins at me and said, “For the time I watched you take ten minutes to put the raincover on.”  It baffles me when onlookers see me struggling and smile, waiting to see how I will manage such a feat.

In one instance on the high street pavement, a young man and I had a showdown of sorts.  I do not believe I automatically have the right of way simply because I am with pram.  But I also do not believe that if I’m carrying my ridiculously heavy bag along with three bags from the grocery store and pushing my son in the buggy, I should have to swerve in order to move out of the way of an approaching roadblock, a.k.a. a young man with nothing but chewing gum in his mouth.  If I could’ve magically disappeared from his path so as to not interrupt his strut, I would’ve gladly done it, but alas last time I spoke to Cinderella, she wasn’t too keen on lending me her fairy godmother for any proposed stretch of time.

My fellow moms have told me similar stories – the face-off in the cereal aisle at the market, the confrontation on the bus, and the war of a few words at an airport.  One mom tells of the time she was ready to put her dukes up when contending with a “swommer” who almost caused a head-on collision.  “You know, a swommer,” she says, “one who is steering while on mobile.”

In my mind, whether it is pedestrian vs. buggy or buggy vs. buggy, the following should have the right of way:

• Parents behind the wheel of a double/twin buggy
• Parents who look severely sleep-deprived and are behind the wheel of a buggy
• Parents who are pushing a child who is having a tantrum
• Parents who are simultaneously pushing a buggy and carrying several bags
• Parents pushing a buggy without a raincover in the pouring rain
• Parents who are trying to simultaneously push a buggy and hold an umbrella
• Parents who are behind the wheel of a buggy at the same time that they have lost one shoe, have a foot in plaster or are using a crutch
• Parents who have one child in a buggy and another one or two running in a different direction to that in which the buggy is being pushed

With regard to right of way’s cousin, priority on the lift, the run-up to Christmas seems to be the worst.   In one department store, a week before the jolly man with the white beard in the red suit was to arrive, I waited for nearly 25 minutes and 11 instances of doors opening only to reveal a jam-packed lift with no space for a buggy, let alone me, the required chauffeur.  As I gave the dirtiest looks I could muster during this merry season to all who appeared perfectly capable of riding the two sets of escalators on offer, I started looking around for a sign which asked lift-riders to give priority to wheelchair users, the elderly and those with prams. 

Now I know there is a constituency who believes that prams and their accompanying manoeuvrers should not be given priority and that they somehow feel that they are entitled, but ladies and gentlemen of the who-should-be given-priority-when-riding-lifts jury, please keep in mind that prams are not allowed on escalators, and the last time I tried to drag my son’s pram up five flights of concrete stairs, in addition to risking both our lives, I had to visit a physiotherapist for a couple months afterward.

After physiotherapy sessions, I perfected my buggy up the stairs method, only to have it fail when we added the buggy board.  It’s nearly impossible to roll the buggy up with such accoutrement.  But, my success on the high curb front remains.  I can now secure my son with one hand while holding on to the pram handlebar with the other in a pseudo rendition of the Heisman Trophy. 

I’ve also managed to compromise with my son in an attempt to get him in the pram.  The only way he’ll readily get into the pram is if he gets to ride what my husband dubbed “shotgun style”.   He kneels or lies on his belly, looking out his observation deck.  After scores of attempts at distraction, bribery and recruitment of other moms’ help in getting him in his buggy, this seems a suitable settlement. 

All this after I was living in fleeting buggy and parenting harmony when I read that I may have been doing the right thing for the first year of my son’s life by choosing to have him face me in his pram rather than face forward and watch the world go by.  I read the report in late 2008 which suggested front-facing strollers could deprive babies of their first lessons in life by discouraging their parents from talking to them.  This research into the psychological effects of buggies revealed that children who grow up in forward-facing buggies can be emotionally isolated.  In essence, by choosing to ride shotgun style, my son is conveying to me that he wants to be emotionally isolated.  Oh boy.

As many times as I’ve whinged about adjusting to pushing a pram around after about three decades of standing upright with nothing in front of me but the ground, I have missed it on those occasions when we decided not to use it.  For our buggy has served as a makeshift bag and suitcase, a grocery cart, and a bed.  In fact, I have grown so used to it that as I was leaving our flat on my own to go to the market as my husband and son played in his room, I started pushing the buggy out the front door with me, only to look down and see that it was sans child.

Soon enough, I will be left with the nostalgia of recognising my son’s little friends’ buggies, for when we walk into a library, class or playground, I already know who is there by perusing the pushchair parking area.  There will be an end to the era of buggy brigades, and I will be left with a different photo – a photo of me standing next to the threadbare and empty buggy, only this time with a tear in my eye.

During the adventurous and oh-so-entertaining period which shall henceforth be referred to as The Epoch of Weaning, I used to pretend the carrot and mango purée stains on my son’s bibs were Rorschach tests.  You wouldn’t believe what I saw.  Once, I spotted Mary Poppins doing a handstand on top of her umbrella.  Another time I made out a smack of jellyfish making its way up one side of the Eiffel Tower.  You see, entertaining myself was required at such a madcap stretch.  After all, at what other point in my life would I find myself squeezing my breasts into a bowl on the table so as to add the essential milk to the baby rice cereal?

Somewhere along the line, somebody (read: Annabel Karmel) convinced me that making all of my son’s food was the best way to ensure he received organic, nutrient-rich meals without any artificial ingredients, preservatives or disguised sugar.  In preparation of W-Day, I lined up the army of accoutrement on the kitchen counter: a hand blender, colourful suction bowls, heat-sensitive baby spoons, bendy ice-trays, plastic baggies and markers to label and date them.  Go Team Introducing Solids!

How exciting for my little guy; he was taking his first step on the path to pulverized pieces of pleasure, of macerated delights.  And, after taking said step, he made it known that he did not care for baby rice cereal.  That’s okay, it happens.  He didn’t care for smashed bananas.  That’s okay, it happens.  He didn’t care for puréed pears, apples or sweet potatoes.  Like I said, it happens.  Take a deep breath and remember that the first stage of weaning is all about acquainting my son with new tastes and textures, helping him learn to take food from a spoon, and familiarising him with the process of moving food from the front of his mouth to the back and then swallowing.  New day, new efforts.  He didn’t care for porridge or parsnips or yogurt.  He didn’t care for the first formula we tried, or the second, third or fourth.  Time to consult the weaning experts again.

I quickly learned I was doing one thing wrong – microwaving my breast milk before adding it to the different purées.  I’m sure I knew in the back of my head that I should not be doing this, but pair a seriously sleep-deprived mum with a crying baby in her arms, and the relatively new mother is bound to do silly things.  I also learned that I was probably introducing solids at the wrong time, either when my son was too hungry (i.e. before his usual breastfeed) or too full (after his usual breastfeed).  The recommendation was to pull my little suction cup off of the breast after he had half of his feed and then introduce him to the specials of the day.  Easier than it sounds.  There must be a support group somewhere for mothers who interrupt their little one’s feed.

No more microwaving my mammary gland rations and feed my son solids at a time that is – as Goldilocks would say – just right.  Long live good advice; I soon discovered that my little munchkin liked avocados and mangos.  This only happened with a few intermittent mental breakdowns though.  Once while looking for the ingredients for a particular purée recipe, I trekked in a torrential downpour to six different markets.  When a woman at the last market told me they didn’t have the sought after ingredient, I grabbed her, started crying and asked her to please hold me for a moment.  The post-natal hormones were still hosting parties in the home known as me.  Another time, I asked a stockist at a market if she knew which of the 150 yogurts on the shelves was the brightest-coloured.  She gave me a funny look and said, “Now why would you want to know that?”  I nearly replied, “Don’t ask any questions, just do as I say,” until I realised I wasn’t telling her to do anything; I simply had a query.

After a few days, I tried some of the previously rejected foods.  Round two for the pears and apples.  And with a friend’s suggestion to keep the food coming like one continuous stream (“that’s what babies are accustomed to up until now”), apples were now added to the catalogue of favoured crushed cuisine.  Pears still did not make the cut.

At the same time the weaning experts said I should start moving from smooth purées to adding a little more texture, we took a trip to the US to visit family.  I momentarily panicked as we were just starting to get into the groove of this weaning thing, and I was afraid that time, surroundings, and ingredient differences would mean that weaning was adjourned.  Just the opposite happened.  Perhaps because my parents were more relaxed about the whole liquids-to-solids state of affairs, or possibly because my son wanted to bypass the whole pulp provisions stage and go to the chunks, lumps and flavour stage, my little prince was introduced to and loved tortilla soup, rice and beans, salmon, asparagus, strawberries and whipped cream, and sherbet.

I laughed when one friend told me to make “yummy” sounds as I was introducing these new foods to my son.  What exactly is a “yummy” sound?  And surely my son can see how incongruous my wannabe scrummy sounds and facial expressions are.  ‘Tis true that while tasting – and sometimes even smelling – some of his baby food, I gagged. 

As he tasted and attempted to chew new foods, I would exaggerate my own chewing gestures, moving my jaw in a circular motion and smacking my lips.  My mom said I looked like a giraffe chewing.  This gave me a great idea.  When I returned home to London, I found on youtube a great video of a giraffe chewing and decided to show it to my son, saying, “Would you look at what a great chewer he is, how his lips, tongue and jaw muscles all work in conjunction.  Now that is something to strive for.”

I admit to weaning envy when my friends were able to feed their precious offspring spaghetti Bolognese and cottage pie.  Alas, we were progressing to the next stages at our own pace.  We moved to solid foods at two and eventually at three feeds.  And with all his new teeth, my little guy favoured chicken, cheese and carrots.  One fellow mum told me that she learned in her first aid class that carrots are the main food that little ones choke on and as such, I developed a paranoia.  Every time I fed my son carrots, if he stopped chewing for more than 2.5 seconds – at which time I assumed the unchewed carrot was making its way down his throat, causing him to start choking – I would make him cough up what was in his mouth.  To this day, I think he believes that that’s how carrots are eaten – chewed for a while and then spit out.  Oh dear.

Once, while at the health visitor for a routine check-up, I told her that my little guy was addicted to butter.  He wanted butter on everything or even by itself with a spoon.  She said there was no harm in him eating butter all the time, so long as it didn’t upset his stomach.  I know it upset one fellow mum’s stomach when we all got out our respective child’s lunches and began feeding the little angels.  She asked what the blob in the little blue bowl was, and I told her butter.  She asked, “He eats it by itself?”  I said, “Oh, ya, he loves the stuff.”  I witnessed this strange movement in her throat and mouth, indicating that she might just heave.

My little prince and I entered the next stage, during which he started to show his love for bread, eggs and chips (fries, as they are called on the other side of the pond).  Now that he was over a year old, he was now also able to eat peanut butter, and eat peanut butter he did.  If he had it his way, he could sit with the jar and a spoon and likely finish the entire jar.  This always made me question whether the foods we eat as pregnant women affect the likes and dislikes of our babies.  I ate peanut butter all through those nine months.  And to the dismay of obstetricians and paediatricians the world over, I also ate a lot of ice cream and chocolate – both foods my son now favours.

After witnessing my son’s eating habits, one friend said that he should definitely be taking vitamins.  She recommended vitamin drops, and upon her counsel, I added them to his fruity morsels du jour.  All went pear-shaped (no pun intended) as he started to shoot out pieces of half-chomped fruit, with projectile vitamin liquid to follow.

Another friend said she read that we should never give our babies diet drinks, tea or coffee.  I couldn’t resist.  I told her, “But in my baby nutrition book, it says that as the baby becomes increasingly used to eating solids, he or she should be learning to fit in with what the family eats.  I figure I drink coffee a few times a day, so why not give Enlai some too.”  She looked stunned.  Once again, I thought someone might call Child Protection Services on me, or at the very least, the Baby Nutrition Police.  And because her stunned look didn’t go away for at least seven minutes, I felt it necessary to invite her to the next playdate, when I planned to have the How a Sense of Humour Can Save a New Mother chitchat.

While it seemed brilliant advice at the time, the suggestion to use cookie cutters to make different-shaped foods so as to entice my little sweetie to try new grub backfired.  Ultimately, he only wanted dinosaur-shaped sandwiches, teddy bear-shaped pancakes and star-shaped papayas.  Not easy to accommodate when we’re away from home, and he refused to eat the food in its usual shape.  Using a butter knife, I tried to carve a diplodocus into a tuna sandwich, and it came out looking like a tyrannosaurus rex ate the diplodocus for lunch and then spewed out the bits he didn’t want.

Both a comical and sometimes exasperating experience, weaning endowed me with yet more patience, as well as much-needed insight into my own eating habits (since when are truffles, brioche and gingerbread lattés not food groups?).  And now that we’ve got the solids stuff down, it’s time to get the sharing, manners and tidying up bits and pieces down.  Wish me Godspeed.  Or at least some Häagen-Dazs at the end of what may be exhausting months ahead.

Happy New Year!  While I am generally of the mindset that resolutions can be masochistic, I think that when you become a parent, you automatically subscribe to a form of masochism, so why not make resolutions of the attainable variety.  I once read that if one shares his or her resolutions with others, he or she is more likely to follow through with them.  For the past two decades, I’ve resolved to learn the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne and haven’t followed through.  Here’s to trying to follow through on these resolutions:

1.  Embed in the deepest trenches of my memory banks images of my son Enlai at this age, such as the one of him running down the hall on Christmas day with nothing but a pajama top, bare bottom and a chocolate chip cookie in one hand, singing his version of The Wiggles’ “Shaky, Shaky”.

2.  Learn how to properly pronounce dinosaur names.

3.  Be fascinated when we watch The Tale of Desperaux, The Jungle Book or Winnie the Pooh for the 100^th time.

4.  Learn dance moves from Enlai.

5.  Resist the temptation to open the flaps in Enlai’s flap books while reading them to him.  Practice self control in this regard as I know he is on the road to joining the uppermost echelon of flap lifters, and I cannot get in the way of such an achievement.

6.   Learn the sounds the following animals make: armadillos, narwhals, and pygmy marmosets.   I have entertained myself long enough by making up supposed sounds.

7.  Learn the foods the following animals eat:  kudus, aye-ayes and solenodons.  It is not fair to keep answering “bananas” or “spaghetti” to the question “What do they eat?”

8.  Start my own Alison Jay, Oliver Jeffers and Joëlle Jolivet fan clubs.

9.  Allow more splashing in wellies.  There’s such a thing as drying off.

10.  Add more bubble bath when the request arises.

11.  Read more Yeats, Auden, and Komunyakaa poems to Enlai.

12.  Keep serving peas, green beans, and peaches even if they’re rejected every time.

13.  Let Enlai thumb through my Basquiat, Twombly and Bacon books when he takes them off the shelf, even if he does crease the pages.

14.  Wear Enlai’s Groucho Marx glasses more often.

15.  Write that letter to Enlai that I’ve been meaning to write to him since his first birthday, the one about what an amazing human being he is and how happy he makes me and how there is nothing like looking back into his big eyes looking at me.

What a Christmas gift!  Oomphalos was nominated for a 2009/10 Neighbourhood Leadership Award, for changing the lives of younger people.  The award, sponsored by the City of Westminster, Metropolitan Police, and NHS Westminster, recognises people who help others and take a leading role in their community. 

Leader of the Council, Colin Barrow, noted, “It’s been touching to read so many heartfelt stories about nominees who devote time and energy into getting local people together and improving their lives.”  He added, “Reading these nominations has shown me that there are whole networks of people in Westminster who are prepared to give their time for others, which fills me with confidence for the future of the city.”

Although Oomphalos was not ultimately shortlisted, to be nominated is exciting.  My most sincere admiration and respect to those on the shortlist, all of whom are trying to make a positive impact on children’s lives.

‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through Asia House
No creative movement class’s jungle animals were stirring, not even a mouse.
Little ones’ paintings were set out to dry with care,
As were dreamcatchers, chimes, and other art class ware.
Children sang a couple of Jojo’s songs before being tucked into their beds,
While visions of Miss Ayumi’s fairies danced in their heads.
And papa watching BBC News as I did some cleaning,
We were settling down for a quiet evening,
When outside there arose a bit of a clatter,
I arose to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I went to follow the hum,
Only to find Mr. Percussion, Ben, with some of his drums.
When also to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Soléne, the French instructor, with her usual good cheer.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Through the front door Santa Claus came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toe,
And on his shoulders were little patches of snow.
With a wink of his eye and in a voice rather firm,
Santa said, “I’m really looking forward to Oomphalos classes next term.”
To my surprise, he said he noticed a few new classes,
Like Nurturing Danceways and Tiny Dancers.
He said Mrs. Claus was interested in Touchy, Feely, Messy! and he in I ♥ Art,
And then said he’d love to chat more but really must dart,
He had stockings to fill and presents to put under trees,
Oh that Santa is quite the busy bee.
And I then heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

My son was almost named Balzac.  My husband and I discussed several names and constructed our shortlist as a lot of parents do, and Balzac somehow made the cut.  It wasn’t necessarily that my husband cherished Monsieur Honoré de Balzac’s writing but rather liked the sound of his surname.  Ultimately I couldn’t live with my son being nicknamed “balls” or “ball sack”.  My husband thought it would be character-building; I thought it would cost us a lot in therapy sessions.

Names are funny things.  While one psychologist says we have strong perceptions about first names and associate them with success, luck and attractiveness, thus producing self-fulfilling prophecies such as a teacher giving higher marks to little ones with attractive names, another psychologist argues that the consequences of a particular name for self-image are not devastating and that a child’s name is unlikely to be a significant factor in his or her development.  So what side of the fence are the children named Please Cope, Lotta Beers or Nice Deal on?  Do I hear accusations that I’m making these names up?

Scouring census records from 1790 to 1930, authors of the book “Bad Baby Names” discovered the aforementioned names, in addition to Post Office, Major Slaughter, and Ima Hooker.  Those still alive today – Miles Ahead, Cash Guy and Happy Day – said they liked having unusual names because it made them stand out.  I suppose celebrity offspring Fifi Trixibelle, Sparrow Midnight and Zuma Nesta Rock will feel the same way when the question is posed to them in the future.

But what of those named for material possessions such as cars and clothing?  In 2000, U.S. birth certificates showed that there were 353 Lexuses, 298 Armanis, 269 Chanels, six Timberlands, five Jaguars and some Infinitis, Celicas, Chevys and Courvoisiers.  Some contend that such names represent parents’ aspirations or social status, which can have a significant influence on a child regardless of his or her background.  Will the neurosurgeons or rocket scientists within the group resent their parents and change their names to Agnosia or Aeronautica?  In an example of a blend of parental aspirations and determinism, my husband is currently reading a non-fiction book in which a lawyer is named Lawyer.

One developmental psychologist asserts that a name only has a significant influence when it’s the single piece of information you know about the person.  Once a photo is paired with the name, the impact of the name diminishes.  And if further information is added, such as personality and ability, the name drops to minimal significance.  How long do the diminishing and the dropping take, I ask.  If I heard that there was a new gal in the office named Ima Hooker, I’m convinced that when I saw her face or grew to know her personality, her name would always remain at the forefront.

When my husband and I were considering baby names, we were eager to choose a name for our child that would remain at the forefront.  We had other criteria, too: couldn’t be a name of anyone we knew, couldn’t produce unfortunate nicknames or initials, had to sound pleasant, and most importantly, had to have a special meaning.

As per a suggestion in one baby names book, I solicited ideas from friends and family.  The book said that while the choice of name is ultimately the parents’, because they are making the choice for someone else, they are really acting as a trustee in handling the affairs of the unborn child.  My mom half-jokingly said, “Well, don’t name it Rice-A.”  Our surname is Rooney, and Rice-A-Roni is a well-known brand of rice in the States.  Oh, the hysterics of family.  One friend suggested Luna and then said, “I guess it would all become too ‘oooooooo’ sounding.”  When I told another friend an idea for a name, he said, “Isn’t that the name of the guy that was convicted of…”  I cut him off and struck the name off the list.

For a moment, I considered Bechet (pronunciation bə-shā) in honour of my dog who I named after jazz clarinetist Sidney Bechet.  But then I thought, “What will our child say when I tell him I named him after my dog.”  And I remembered what my dad said when I told him what I named my dog.  “How do you spell that?  It’s what?  French?  I can’t call a dog a frilly French name.  I’m calling her Big Shay instead.”  He also told me to write the name phonetically on her collar because if she were lost, someone might be calling her “Betchett”.  One can learn a lot about child-naming from a pet-naming experience.

I recall looking online for baby name ideas, and I was astounded by the categories.  There were nationality categories:  African, Arabic, Chinese, German, Hungarian, Irish, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Russian, and Scandinavian, among what seemed an endless list of others.  And there were alternate name categories such as floral, animal, Arthurian legend, gems, geographical, mythology, and celebrity baby.  There was even a moods baby names category, with my personal favourites Bliss, Journey and Memory.  Some of the nature baby name suggestions were Air, Haze and Corona.  Of all the categories, I was most entertained by the occupational baby names, including Anchor, Butler and Proxy.  What fun if Proxy wed Penn Jillette’s daughter Moxie Crimefighter.  Proxy and Moxie sitting in a tree…

Apparently, most parents today flock to the popular baby names category.  A study conducted by researchers from two American universities examined 127 years of naming trends from the Social Security Administration and found that once a name starts growing in popularity, Americans take that momentum and run with it.  This explains why the Michaels and Emmas, and their companions the Isabellas and Jacobs are starting to fill nurseries all across the U.S. of A. and will carry on doing so for foreseeable years.

I did my own bit of research.  Upon noticing the seeming popularity of the name Henry – I know four with less than two years under their belt, counting my son’s godmother’s Henry Hawley, my stepbrother’s Henry Wyatt, a friend’s twin son Henry, and the week-old Henry, another friend’s nephew – I looked up the popularity.  Indeed, it seems to be on the rise.  Parents of Henrys, the name of your son is in the top 100 in England, Australia, Canada and the US as I write this.

Both my brother’s first and middle monikers are in the top 20 most popular names.  With a name like Dylan Thomas, one might assume he was named after a certain Welsh poet, but his name is a combination of Bob Dylan and Saint Thomas Aquinas.  My family has a knack for combination names.  My clever grandparents named my uncle Amerfino, a literal amalgamation of American and Filipino.  My female cousins have names like Temecia, Ileana, and Nekia and middle names like Esperanza (Spanish for hope), Estrella (Spanish for star), Hope and Destiny.

My own middle name comes from a 60s singer who performed at Woodstock in the rain.  Psychology professor and former president of the American Name Society, Cleveland Evans, says the taste for obscure names developed in the 1960s, the flower power era when parents felt less obligated to keep family names.  He adds that it wasn’t until the 80s when parents really wanted to give their children unique names.  One such example is Jon Blake Cusack 2.0. Not Junior. Not the II, but 2.0.  Dad is a self-described “engineering geek” who talked his wife into the name that imitates the naming process for new versions of software.  Two other boys have unique names as well – ESPN, after the sports network.

From Aad to Zyta, the sheer choice of names can be overwhelming.  With exhaustive lists trimmed down to shortlists, and further spousal negotiations when factoring in future career aspirations, social status, nicknames, and the possibility of offended family members, I would suggest breathing deeply.  Like childbirth, there’s no escaping it.  A child has to be given a name.  In the meantime, I’ll ask my hypnobirthing friend if she’ll consider adding hypnonaming to her practice, offering breathing exercises and relaxation techniques to parents in the thick of the naming process.

There it was right before me: a two-foot long, about a quarter-inch wide, impenetrable dribble from a babe’s mouth.  I was completely mesmerised.  As the babe moved, the elastic dribble followed.  It never broke.  At one point, another little one entered the dribble zone, only to be ricocheted backwards when his arm touched the impervious, springy saliva.

I recognised it, the look of wanting to gum something to mere mash in order to ease the pain of a surfacing entity made of pulp, dentin and enamel, most commonly referred to as the tooth.  My son had this look, and I’ve seen it countless times on the faces of other little ones. 

In one of my son’s music classes, come instrument time, the teething tots were more interested in gnawing on the maracas, tambourines and drumsticks than in singing about an incy wincy spider or a twinkling little star.  I witnessed intricate webs of drool as one baby would have a go at the drumstick, completely saturate it and then pass it on to his pal next to him to have a nibble, who would then pass it to the little princess across from him.  By the time the fifth munchkin had a chance to chomp on it, not only were babies getting caught in the web, but the stick seemed to be sheltered in its own slobber cocoon.It’s a serious matter for parents and carers, this teething stuff, consisting of shrieks of the heart-stopping variety during the night, moodiness and clinginess throughout the day (or weeks or months), rashes, and an increase in laundry due to soaked bibs, shirts and blankets and spilled pink and purple medicines.

It is such a serious matter, I was nearly reported to Child Protection Services.  While attempting to give my son the infamous Ashton and Parsons teething powder to ease his pain, he slapped the sachet out of my hand, causing the powder to fly everywhere, including all over my face.  When I showed up at a playgroup – not having looked in the mirror before leaving the flat – with white stuff all over my nose and mouth, my fellow mums took me aside and said we needed to talk.

And talk we did.  Once I made it clear that my drug of choice was sleep and not what they supposed it might be, the suggestions started rolling in.  “If you want Enlai to sleep through the night while teething, you have no choice but to give him Calpol – and give the whole packet.”  And then another friend chimed in, “Don’t forget the Metanium on his chin, cheeks and chest.”  “I should be putting the same stuff I put on his bum on his face?” I asked.  “It’s all about the barrier!” she responded.  This friend replied in such a chipper tone that for a split second – in my sleep-deprived, frustrated state – I contemplated throwing Enlai’s teething ring at her.  I know violence is never the answer, but at the time, I was the parent of a teething baby.

I had other suggestions from friends and family, all of which I tried.  If someone told me that standing on my head while placing a feather boa on my feet and simultaneously doing some Gregorian chanting would’ve solved the teething dilemma, I would’ve gladly done it – 100 times a day, if necessary.  One friend recommended using one of those terry cloth rabbit ears thingamajigs, where you place your own middle and index fingers inside the terry cloth rabbit ear pockets and start massaging your little one’s gums.  What both my friend and the packaging failed to mention was that once your two fingers are in your little darling’s mouth, he may assume that you are in fact giving him the chance to have the gnaw of his life and subsequently try to “gum” your fingers into non-existence.

Teething rings, rattles, blankets, beads, and keys didn’t seem to work for us.  But, the suggestion to wet a washcloth, put it in the freezer and then let my little prince chew on it when it was nice and frosty worked wonders.  Freezer companions ice cream and popsicles were always good standbys.  He also enjoyed chewing on my clothing and on one occasion, took matters into his own mouth and decided the black foam handlebar on his buggy was just what he needed to alleviate the unrelenting hurt.  He bit a big chunk out, and when I glanced at his mouth, it looked as though several ant colonies decided to set up home along his gums.

In a separate incident at the market, while my husband was grabbing a baguette, he decided to give Enlai a petit pain to relieve his throbbing chops.  Enlai masticated most of the pain (no pun intended), and while we were in the queue, he handed the remaining mangled dough to my husband.  My husband wrung it out as one would a wet cloth, and what flowed out was enough liquid to hydrate a small nation.

Where slobber is, bibs follow.  With Enlai going through bibs like one Mr. Ramsay goes through expletives, I was left to my own devices when our washer/dryer broke down.  I started cutting shirts to make bib bandanas.  It was at this stage that my poor little drooling, would-be cowboy looked at me with those big eyes, as if to ask, “Is all this teething nonsense ever going to end?”  I consulted my how-to-survive-the-first-year bible which indicated, in short, that the answer was yes.  Yes, Virginia, there is an end to teething.

A friend told me last week that she thought the rite of passage must be having your little one have a temper tantrum while walking down Oxford Street and having everyone stare at you in disdain.

Another friend said that the rite of passage is the inaugural supermarket tantrum.  Did you see The Exorcist, she asks me.  She goes on to describe a scene where her little cherub starts throwing apples, oranges and lemons at passers-by while screaming at the top of her lungs.  Said cherub then runs away to what my friend describes as “a section of glass things” and gives her a look that says if her mum comes anywhere near her, she’ll pick up a piece of glass and throw it.  She then runs to another aisle, throws herself on the floor and starts flailing her arms as if she’s doing some sort of 360-degree snow angels interpretive dance.  My friend said it wasn’t the cherub’s head that was spinning around in the manner of one Linda Blair, but rather her own.

To my friends, I say the rite of passage has to be having your two-year-old have a tantrum at the Frieze Art Fair in the middle of an exhibitor’s space which is full of sculptures which you know are going to topple over because you are all too familiar with the aforementioned two-year-old’s determination to let the world know he is upset about something.

In this economic climate, who has the extra funds to pay for three £75,000 sculptures that her son “accidentally” knocked over?  I prefer last year at this same time when my son and I were standing in the White Cube space, and while I looked at one of Damien Hirst’s ‘Butterfly Paintings’, my precious, calm, angelic son picked up something off the floor and handed it to me – a pair of butterfly wings that had fallen off the painting.

Following the Frieze tantrum, in an effort to obtain sage advice from someone who’s survived these close encounters of the not-so-nice kind, I tell my dad about the outburst.  My dad says, “This is only the beginning of him testing you.  If he’s anything like you, he’ll be testing you for the rest of his days.”  Oh, how comforting.  I feel so much better now.

Knowing the peak age for tantrums is two to three, I decided to equip myself with the tantrum experiencer’s toolkit.  Calm demeanour?  Check.  Empathy?  Check.  Diversion?  Check.  Invisible blinders?  Check.  Sense of humour?  Check.  Perspective?  Check.

The main advice is to remain calm.  Okay, got it.  Om.  Om.  I will say to myself that there’s a new sheriff in town and her name is mama.  I am here to maintain civil peace.  I will not crack under pressure, but will keep my composure and take command of the situation.  I will speak in a soft, soothing voice.

While remaining calm, I will empathise.  I will understand that the reason my tiny tot is having a tantrum is likely because he wants something he can’t have, wants to do something he can’t or doesn’t want to do something he has to.  Or, he may think I am trying to thwart his independence.  Or, maybe he is just being a toddler who is looking to be the centre of attention, even if for a negative reason.  I will take into account that he may be tired, hungry, bored or overstimulated.  Overstimulated!  I almost forgot about that one.  It’s making more sense now.  My son probably saw about 500 pieces of art in the space of 45 minutes at Frieze.

One mum said she voices her empathy, offers her children control and then gives them hugs.  At first I thought, with an ounce of sarcasm (no, make it a gallon of sarcasm), “Oh, how sweet, solving the world’s tantrums one hug at a time.”  But after further research, I think this mum is onto something.  Apparently hugs reduce stress, and huggers have decreased blood pressure and heart rates.  Since she is aware that it’s frustrating for her children to feel as if they don’t have a say, she says she offers them control by giving them choices whenever she is able.  This same mum said she gives an abundance of praise.  She encourages her children’s good behaviour by praising it.  Is there a process one undertakes to nominate someone for the Nobel Peace Prize in the Motherhood category?

Another mum said she ignores the hissy fit and failing that, makes a quick dash for the exit.  She says pretending to tend to “more important things” and ignoring the bad behaviour usually works a charm for her.  When it doesn’t, like a sprinter running to the finish line, she leaves the scene of the paroxysm (with child in tow of course).

Because diversion has always worked wonders for me personally, I favour this tactic.  Initially, as soon as I knew Hurricane Fit was approaching, I went cross-eyed, made babbling noises, and did my own rendition of Riverdance to distract my son.  After about five times, he cottoned to my technique and grew more upset.  I have now chosen to try to distract him with something in eyesight – unfamiliar veggies, a colourful bag on a woman’s shoulder, a tall building or my unravelling socks.  This seems to work about 70% of the time for me.  With market tantrums, I start asking whether we should buy cheddar or mozzarella, pesto or tomato sauce, strawberries or apples, and my little guy then has the opportunity to feel more in control by helping me make decisions.

And during those times when he could care less about whether we get melons or blueberries, and is even less interested when I point out the man’s yellow shoes in front of us, I pull out my handy invisible blinders.  When your seraph has moved to the dark side with accompanying wriggles and screams, you owe it to yourself to realise that at this moment, the only two humans that exist are you and your little one.  As animals, we are inclined to turn in the direction of a loud noise, so it is inevitable that every Tom, Dick and Harry will look in the direction of you and your child as your child shouts to make sure his or her larynx is working.  But, it is in these precise seconds or minutes that you cannot let your own assumption of what others think of you – or what they in fact think of you – interfere with how you handle the tantrum.  Sadly, some of them will offer a most unwelcome tsk-tsk or look at you and say they’re two seconds away from calling Child Protection Services.  Others will give you a knowing look, a been there, done that glance letting you know this too will end.

One friend says she has no use for invisible blinders, but chooses to confront all looky-loos.  “I ask them if they have children,” she says, “and if they respond ‘yes’, I say, ‘Oh, good, then you completely understand what I’m going through right now.’”  And if they say no?  “Well, I say, ‘Oh, so you’ve never experienced this sort of thing.  Now I understand the staring.’”

Tanya Byron, of Little Angels and The House of Tiny Tearaways fame says, “Nowadays, when a child is having a tantrum they are labeled as being this awful, horrendous monster who’s going to grow up and be this nightmare adult.”  She adds, “Yes, they [tantrums] can be embarrassing and hard to deal with but they’re a very normal part of a child’s behaviour. I love kids who have tantrums as often these big dramatic scenes are hilarious, it’s just how you frame a situation.”

I believe she’s referring to a sense of humour, as well as perspective.  ‘Tis true tantrums can be emotionally exhausting for all parties involved.  But, they are what they are:  little ones’ blowoff valves that release hissing, hot air because they don’t yet know how else to communicate the emotions they are experiencing.  These episodes will end though, both in number and intensity.  And, although some munchkins may have intermittent tantrums until they reach four or five, there are splendid things called reason and articulation that make life easier.

Inspired by my friend’s story of the Curious Incident of the Toddler on Oxford Street, I wish to inform you all that I am offering a line of t-shirts for a limited time only: I Survived The Tantrums and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt, I ♥ Tantrums, and Mind The Tantrum.  Any takers?

Say it ain’t so.  Or, maybe, say it is so.  I read in the paper today that a third of parents have never sung nursery rhymes to their children.  Apparently, because parents are choosing to sing pop songs to their little ones rather than traditional rhymes which they deem boring and dated, said rhymes are in danger of dying out.

As with all things evolutionary, only the strong will survive.  Most of the nursery rhymes still sung today are only sung because of their patterns and rhythms – their “catchiness”, if you will – not their content.  I can’t imagine that half the parents and carers singing Baa, Baa, Black Sheep to their little ones are aiming to teach them about taxation, the real meaning behind the ditty.  I sure as heck am not trying to teach my two-year-old about losing his virginity when I recite Jack and Jill.  It seems that going up the hill to fetch a pail of water is a euphemism for having sex.

Professor Roger Beard, of the Institute of Education, said nursery rhymes were constructed to help children learn, unlike pop songs.  I beg to differ.  Maybe Beyoncé and her fellow “Single Ladies” writers didn’t write the song with the purpose of helping children to learn, but the song is undoubtedly teaching children.  The song is teaching the male child that when he grows up, if he doesn’t want to experience feelings of jealousy while watching his ex-girlfriend at a club dancing with another guy then he should ask her to marry him beforehand to prevent this situation.  And the female child is learning that in order to make her ex-boyfriend endure feelings of regret and jealousy after breaking up, she should go to a club and dance with other men and make sure her ex-boyfriend sees this activity.  Ladies and gentlemen, parents and carers, these are life lessons.

More than a quarter of the 2,500 parents polled by The Institute of Education admitted that they cannot remember a single nursery rhyme from their childhood.  Not a single rhyme?  Out of a choice of over a hundred?  Not even Incy Wincy Spider (or Itsy Bitsy Spider, as my fellow compatriots on the other side of the pond call it)?  Or Rock-a-bye Baby or Row, Row, Row Your Boat, or This Little Piggy? 

One psychologist says sharing nursery rhymes with your little ones enhances your bond while encouraging them to develop their language and communication skills through play.

I know my husband and I are encouraging our son’s language proficiency – as well as his skills for deciphering right from wrong – through nursery rhymes in our own little way.  For instance, one day I caught my husband singing “Wipe the Boffin Up” to our little lad.  I asked him what that song was, and he said it’s the one they were singing at the library.  I laughed and said that the song they were singing at the library is actually called “Wind the Bobbin Up”.  And, a few weeks later when my husband heard me singing “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” to our munchkin, he came into the room with a nostalgic look on his face and commented that he and his infamously wild childhood chum Hans used to sing “Do Your Balls Hang Low?”  I asked him to please refrain from changing the lyrics to the song in this instance.

Adjusting to lyric changes on this side of the pond has been an entertaining experience for me.  I’m belting out “…ashes, ashes, we all fall down” while other mums are singing “a-tissue, a-tissue, we all fall down”.  The Brave Old Captain Brown who was a splendid man morphed into the Grand Old Duke of York who had ten-thousand men.  And while participating in the Hokey Pokey – aka Hokey Cokey in these parts – I completely embarrassed myself.  American parents and carers, consider taking my advice and sitting out the first time in order to observe and learn when the bubbly music instructor suggests, “Let’s all stand up and do the Hokey Cokey.” 

My son Enlai seems to be growing out of nursery rhymes and entering the world known as mama’s iPod.  I don’t know if it’s a phase or if he is genuinely finished with the longstanding ditties.  He has his own playlist on my iPod which includes James Brown, KT Tunstall, Los Originales, Ray LaMontagne and The Beatles.

An instructor introduced him to The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, and he hasn’t looked back.  I’m sure the same is true for the David Weinstone followers.  The punk-rocker founder and lead instructor of Music for Aardvarks and Other Mammals offers New Yorkers a range of musical styles and topical song subjects, including spending the day alone with Dad, potty training, visiting the museum and other more complex topics.  There are no renditions of nursery rhymes such as I’m a Little Teapot, but there is pseudo rendition of Old McDonald, called New McDonald.  He believes children can appreciate sophisticated content if the vehicle is correct for delivering it.  I agree.  I’m not convinced that we’ll suffer as a civilisation if we do not continue to sing centuries-old nursery rhymes.  

One morning, I decided I’d had enough of nursery rhymes and chose to listen to some Sheryl Crow while we played in Enlai’s room.  Later in the day, I overheard him singing, “If it makes you haaaaaapppy, if it makes you haaaaaapppy…”  If it makes you happy to sing pop songs instead of nursery rhymes to your wee ones, I say knock yourself out.  Just be prepared to answer them when they ask, “What does go to rehab mean?”