Dongurigal

Conversations with Sproglette 2

Sproglette: Hey mom, hey hey. Mawwwwwm. Wake up. I'm awake now. I'm all refreshed. You were right, I'm all smiley, all happy. I'm not growling. But you. You look really crotchety. And you're growling!

Dongurigal: You call that a nap?

S: What? What's wrong with 22 minutes? It's long enough.

DG: Not for me, it isn't.

S: Well, it's long enough for me.

DG: Not, it's not.

S: Yes, it is.

DG: Is not.

S: Is so.

DG: IS NOT

S: IS SO.

DG: IS NOT IS NOT IS NOT LA LA LA

S: Mom, grow up. And get me out of this crib will ya.

DG: Fine. Now what do you want to do? 'Cause I can tell you what I want to do. Nap.

S: I think I'll crawl, thank you. Put me down. Please.

DG: I gotta change your diaper first. Ok, done. There you go, you're on the floor now. Have fun crawling.

S: Aren't you going to play with me?

DG: Nope, I'm too tired. I have no energy. You  didn't nap long enough, so I'm just going to sit here and watch you.  And read.

S: You mean you'll read and every now and then get up to move me away from the wires and back to the middle of the rug. 

DG: As you like.

S: Please play with me.

DG: Nope.

S: Pretty please.

DG: Nope.

S: With sugar on top.

DG: Ok, ok.O-KAY. Just for a few minutes, though.  Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo. Well, back to my book now.

S: Play longer.

DG: Nope.

S: Why not.

DG: Because I'm too tired. And I don't want to be awake. We're stuck in this apartment most of the day and napping makes the day shorter.  Really, Sproglette, it's such a tragedy that we're in Doha this summer. You can't be outside, it's too hot. We can't listen to birds, we can't go for a walk. You're missing out on so much. It's brutal, just brutal.

S: Oh, mom, quit being so melodramatic! What are you talking about anyway? This apartment is AWESOME.

DG: Sure it's nice, but I'm a bit stir crazy.

S: Stir, I don't know about, but you're definitely crazy. Look at all the exciting things we can do in this apartment. Crawl over here. Crawl under the coffee table. Examine the wheels of my high chair. You really should dust them, you know. We can chew wires! Chew the corner of the rug! We can scritch the rug! I love scritching the rug. Oh, oh, wait. Let's smack the ceramic tiles! C'mon mom, smack these tiles with me. You'll love it.

DG: Smack the tiles with you?

S: Yeah, listen smack smack smack. Isn't that just great.

DG: Smack

S: Harder

DG: SMACK

S: Three times in a row, really fast.

DG: Smacksmacksmack

S: Ha Ha mom.

DG: What?

S:  You're smiling.

Site seeing for dummies

Hubs and I are planning a trip to Japan in the fall. The extent of our planning is as follows: let's go to Japan. Yes, great idea. Let's.

Last time I went to Japan, as a visitor, rather than as a resident, was for 10 days in the fall of 2005.  I spent the whole time in Osaka. Ten days wasn't nearly long enough for all the things I wanted to do, so I prioritized. I hung out with friends, ate at Mr. Donuts, and walked around my old neighbourhood, following a favoured route that meanders past old-style Japanese homes, a teeny train station, and up a small mountain toward a local temple.

I had planned to go to Kyoto, site see a bit--I was officially a tourist after all--but never got around to it.  Travel to Japan, for me, is all about friendship and memories.

This time, however, we will have to site see too and as I scan a several year old Lonely Planet guidebook, I panic at the thought of having to combine tourism with memories and friends, which is why the extent of our plans so far is the above.

Let's go to Japan. Yes, great idea. Let's.

The other consideration, of course, is Sproglette. She will shape our visit just as much as Hubs' presence will.  When we went to Paris and London at the end of March this year, with plans to go here, there and everywhere,  we, brand new parents, soon realized we had to tone down our itinerary. In the end, I just wanted to go for walks in London's famous parks.  Look at the ducks and daffodils and cherry blossoms. Plus, it's just easier changing a diaper on the grass, even if the grass is wet.

More importantly, we wanted to visit the friends we have in both those cities, so full on site seeing just wasn't an option.

And I was ok with that.

More than OK, actually because, if truth be told, I don't really like site seeing.  I'd rather go for a walk and stumble upon a site--oh, hello, this is where the Millenium Eye is, this is where the Eiffel Tower is (hard not to stumble upon those, I guess)--than plan to visit them, get off at the correct tube/metro stop, wrestle open a flimsy map (hey hello I'm a tourist!) and make a direct beeline for the must see structure, ignoring all the other wacky things or people you might see along the way.

Speaking of stumbling upon, I stumbled upon this blog post by Stanley Fish in the New York Times today. I'm not quite as adverse to travel as he is, and I certainly wouldn't have his ailments in countries like Ireland and New Zealand, except maybe strategic fatigue (although I usually only get that malady in suburban shopping malls) but I could kind of relate to what he was saying. I'm not the best traveller in the world, either, in the sense that I just do not want to see all the places I should see when I visit a country.  I'd rather just hang out at a cafe, away from all the other tourists like me.

Or go to a park and people watch. (Or let's face it, duck watch).

Or best of all, visit a friend who might happen to live there.

In all fairness to Doha

To be fair to Doha, it's not its fault it's a hot, dusty, desert city, unbearable in the summer, somewhat palatable in the winter. It didn't asked to be turned into a suburban wasteland, all malls and SUVs and no sidewalks and indifferent public transportation. (Hey wait a second, says Doha, we're adding new bus shelters. And buses. So, cut it out, Dongurigal).

Doha certainly didn't invite Dongurigal to live here and blog about its flaws.  She's a wannabe tree-hugger anyway and the whole idea of Doha is poison to tree-huggers, both committed and wannabe.

But while Dongurigal is a big whiner, she's also capable of seeing the good side, if pushed. And she's being pushed.

And who's doing the pushing?  Why Dongurigal herself. There's only so much moping one can do.

So...(and back to first person singular.)

The best thing I can say about Doha is that it is one of the most child-friendly places I've ever lived in. Or noticed, now that I have a sprog. Kuwait's probably much the same.  I can bring Sproglette out for some fine dining or a fancy tea. We can go to a five star restaurant at an internationally renowned five star hotel. Sproglette can moan and bitch and generally be a big pain in the arse--she is a baby, after all--and it just doesn't matter. No one pays attention, not the Qataris, not the wait staff--except, and I'm not joking, to take your flailing, let-me-play-with-that-knife-now! baby out of your arms and tickle and cuddle her so that you can eat in peace. Not even do North American or European expats, who would not hesitate to tsk tsk you for bringing your sprog to the exact same hotel in downtown New York or Paris, pay attention.

They're not allowed to tsk tsk. Their kids are behaving like monsters themselves.

I mean where else but in Qatar (and another Gulf State country perhaps) would you have to fend off a balloon sword attack from a menacing 6-year-old European boy while you're eating your fois gras on toast and roasted red pepper and tomato bruschetta?  You can't get mad at the kid, either. Sproglette's been wailing for the last half an hour and you and Hubs haven't done much about it except take turns giving her a cuddle (where is that damn waiter!) and promising to get her back home to nap, eventually.

Take her out into the lobby or to the bathroom to settle her down, away from the other patrons. Nah. For that reason alone, balloon boy knight gets away with it while his parents gulp down plate after plate of buffet delights.

Bonk bonk bonk. Boing.

Should I pop it?

Speaking of the five star wait staff--who hail from all over the world, but mainly the Philippines, Indonesia, and India--they just seem to get it when it comes to the sprogs. When I am served a scalding cappuccino, it is always, without fail, placed in the middle of the table, within arms reach of me, but not of Sproglette. Soup too. Steak knives, as well.

When I return to my so-called real life in Paris or Canada, a life I've been craving since I wrote this blog post nearly two and a half years ago, I'll probably remember my life in Doha with rose coloured glasses as someone is sure to make me feel very uncomfortable for daring to bring a squirmy sprog to Bob's Grill & Diner or Pierre's corner brasserie.

We can just forget about the Ritz Carlton.

Conversations with the Sprog (a la Cartoon Lounge)

SPROGLETTE:  Mom, mom, mawwwwwwwm, would ya look up from your blog for a minute and pay attention to me. Look, I'm chewing wires.

DONGURIGAL:  Gah, you're chewing wires!!! No no no no. Sit here.

S: When are you going to learn that you can't take your eye off me for even one minute, mom. I'm crawling now.

DG: You call that crawling? It's more like a cross between a baboon walk and beached seal.

S: Ya, but I'm fast.

DG: Ok, fine, you're fast. But it's not full on crawling. Gawd, you're only 6 and a half months old. Slow down already. I don't want you bonking your head on the TV stand like you did last time.

S: Ya, I'm fast, alright. Woohoo. That'll teach you for not watching me 24/7.  Look at me go. Zoom zoom. Vroom vroom....... Grrrrr.

DG: You seem tired. You wanna have a nap.

S: No. No way. I'm not tired.

DG: But you're growling.

S: So?

DG: And you're rubbing your eyes.

S: Yah? So?

DG: And you're yawning.

S: Soooooo?

DG: And your head keeps dropping to the floor.

S: Whatever, mom.

DG: Did you just 'whatever' me? Save it for your teens, kiddo. You're napping. Here I'll give you a cuddle first.

S: I like cuddling you, mom. You have soft boobies.  I got a question though, are you going to pull that Cry It Out crap like you've been doing the last couple of days?

DG: You betcha. Haven't you noticed how tidy the apartment looks right now. Even dad's noticed.

S: I don't get it.

DG: Well, I'm not all that heartless. It's not like I can go read a book or hang out on the internet while you're crying. 

S: And? I still don't get it.

DG: So, I tidy. Wash a pot. Get the dishwasher unloaded. Put in a load of laundry. Wipe the counter. And anyway, I always come into your bedroom after a few minutes to soothe you, so what are you whining about? And, chicken, I got a question for you, too: what's with not napping or  going to bed for me, but going to sleep immediately when your dad puts you in your crib? Huh, what's up with that?

S: Well, he's furry, mom. It makes me sleepy.

DG: But you're already sleepy.

S: But he's like one of my toys.

DG: Is that so.

S: It is so.

DG: Ok, sweety, we're done cuddling. Have a good nap. I love you.

S: Hey, hey, hey, haaaaaaay.

DG: Don't even think about it. It won't work. You know me, sleep's something I do not compromise on. And you are much nicer after a two hour nap. You just are.

S: Grrrrrrr.

DG: No really, you are. Smiley, happy, You don't growl or whine. You play. You crawl. If I let you get away with this, you'll be a basket case all day. And so will I.

S: Grrrrrr.

DG: I'm going to load the dishwasher.

S: Grrrrr. I'm going to cry. I will. You know I will.

DG: Whatever, kiddo. You'll fall asleep eventually.

S: Did you just 'whatever' me, mom.

DG: Yep, I sure did.

If you build it, they will come. Except the grizzlies, don't invite them.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm itching to get out of this apartment and go for a walk with Sproglette. Trees, ducks, ponds, pathways, fresh breeze, dog poo. I'll even take dog poo.

My friend J, the one married to S, sends me random links from time to time to keep me entertained and well read as I sit in this fusty apartment. It's fusty because Hubs, Sproglette and I fart a lot and we can't open our windows. They just don't open. And the four tiny ones that do open are never opened because of the dust and the incredible heat. So, while it's a perfectly nice apartment, it's fusty, ok.

The latest link J has sent me is this silly faux interview between Dubai, the person, and the New Yorker's Cartoon Lounge. It's funny because it's so fucking true. If you consider that Doha is Dubai's little brother in all things flashy, then Doha must have an even smaller penis than his big brother across the pond. That's a pond without ducks, I might add.

Dubai even has an indoor ski dome and I just read on that indoor ski dome's website that another one is being built. Two ski domes in the middle of the desert and the second one promises to have polar bears! I drive an SUV and don't eat local these days so I'm not going to even bother discussing the environmental, animal abuse atrocity this is.

But Big Brother Dubai and Little Brother Doha, I have one request. Just one. Since you're both in total denial that you are a desert and since you're going all out spending mula on building the biggest, the flashiest, the coldest, the glassiest, the obnoxiousist structures in the world, how about a massive, fuck off botanical garden. I'm talking acres and acres of boreal-forested, pathway- crisscrossed, squirrel-inhabited land under a gigantic dome to protect it from the desert sun.

Go on, I challenge both of you. Then maybe I'll shut my whining cake hole for once and get to go for a walk, in the middle of the day, in July.

Just leave the grizzlies behind, will ya.

Wasting away (I wish) my summer

I have a confession to make. It's not all that exciting or secret. In fact, it's a yawner, but still. It took me nearly 2 hours of Sproglette's nap time to figure out how to upload the Catalogue of Sproglette's Chew Toys, so that all the funny quips I had wanted to write under each picture, had left my brain, only to be replaced by a repressed, grumbly rage. 

When Sproglette naps, the last thing I want to do is spend 2 hours trying to upload a few photos. It's my free time.  I want to do something more productive, like watch an episode of CSI (Crime Scent Investigation) Las Vegas.

Something is wrong with TypePad's photo editing options, so I finally uploaded all of them through Flickr and that's what I'll do from now on.  Much easier, and then I can get back to watching TV.

I used to think, and sort of still do, that watching TV during the day was akin to drinking before noon. A real problem. A sign of a disorder. But now, I could care less. It's 40 plus degrees out, humid, and the thought of lugging Sproglette in and out of an SUV, the insides (and the outside for that matter) heated like an oven on high, has me shivering. A veritable shivery shudder. Ooowoooh.

The other day, at the Four Season's Hotel, where Hubs and I and some of his colleagues were chowing down at a 5 Star buffet, I looked out the window at the grounds, all green foliage, pleasant walkways, birds diving and swooping and further on, the placid Arabian Gulf waters, and said, that scene is a real cock tease. It's inviting you out, but once out, the scene is all, get away from me, go back inside, don't even think of coming near me. Then the scene turns away and waggles its bum.

It reminds me of the time I was in Regina one summer. The mosquitos were so bad you couldn't go outside for more than a minute before every inch of exposed skin was covered in red welts.  I remember driving into the small town where my parents used to live. It was the middle of a beautiful, sunny day and not a single child was playing in tag in the streets nor jumping through hoses in a front yard. It was such a waste of a summer, just as being here, in this place, is such a waste of a summer.

That's Canadian-think, I guess. We treasure our summers.

-----

And on to other rantable topics.  (Sproglette is still sleeping and if truth be told, I'm a bit CSI'd out).

Oh never mind, she's awake. I'll save it for another time.

A catalogue of Sproglette's favourite chew toys

Gift giving for the teething baby need not be difficult, nor expensive. Here is a catalogue of Sproglette's favourite chew toys. Hope it helps.

Sophie the Giraffe. Every French child must have one.

Blue Raspberry teething thingamajig

The multi purpose bathtub book. She chews. She reads. Brilliant child.

The television remote. Batteries not included.

Playstation wires.

High chair wheel. Make sure it's dusty.

Mom's big toe and the corner of an ugly brown and beige rug.

Best of all...the box cover of a pirated copy of CSI Las Vegas. Look closely: that's CSI, Crime Scent Investigation. Oh, it's a crime scent around here on a daily basis, that's for sure.

You just don't understand how much your life changes

Last night, or rather, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Hubs and I had one of those moments where we can smuggly say to our child-free friends, ooh, you're life changes so much once you have a sprog, you just don't understand, your frizzy perm just doesn't compare, sorry.

And then press our lips together, raise our eyebrows, and go u-huh.

Sproglette wakes up, as per usual, for a nibble, but her diaper is so wet, I decide to change her first. Normally, I let her stew because I'm protecting the environment. It's all about the environment, folks, and not my laziness, my bad mom-ness. (Ok, yes, I use disposables at night and I drive an SUV).

I place her on the change table, remove the diaper, hold her down with one hand as I reach over for a cloth wipe (ha, environmental, ha, heh). Her Squirminess manages to flip over under my vice grip, but she doesn't fall off, I've got it under control even though I'm in a fog, half awake, half asleep and the room is dark.  I reach below for a fresh diaper and place it on the laundry rack, ready to go.  I begin to wipe her nether regions when I realize the entire table is sopping wet. Not only is it sopping wet, but Sproglette has her face pressed into the vinyl cover and is lapping up her own urine.

SHIIIIIIIT! Sproglette. Stop it! Gross! Shiiiiiiii.....

At that second, faster than a speeding bullet, really much faster than a speeding bullet, Hubs must have flung himself out of bed and flown into the diaper changing/laundry room to find out what had happened. I hadn't even finished  whispering the second Shit. See, here's the thing, I was stage whispering, not yelling, not screaming. Hub's has got new dad radar. He usually sleeps through all this fuss and muss of feeding, diaper changing (if I do that) and putting back to bed. He sleeps through all my farting. But one sound of distress and he's out of bed like a naked, cape-less Superman.

The rest of the story is the same for all moms and dads out there. Put a urine soaked Sproglette under the faucet, wash her down with cold water, put the clean diaper on, nurse her, and place her back in the crib, pull the stringy neck of one of her singing toys to help her fall asleep again, and then back to sleep for us for a few hours till the next hungry cry.

I have to say, though, that I've found my face pressed into my own vomit back in my early 20s--maybe life doesn't change all that much after all, at least when it comes to gross things you can do with bodily fluids.

Uh, what to do? How about ice skating?

NB: Sproglette's lungs are clear, she's just a reincarnated yoga master, that's all.

A while back, Hubs asked me, somewhat hesitantly, to have sex. No, I'm kidding. He asked me if it would be ok to host a young colleague of his and his girlfriend for a few days.  He thought, not without reason, that I'd get all stubborn and all no way, what an imposition, blah blah blah, but I was all for it. This is the hot season in Doha after all and without a kick in the pants, or a visitor who needs some guiding around while her boyfriend is at work, I'm prone to do not much at all except take Sproglette down to the pool and watch pirated copies of CSI Las Vegas even while Sproglette is awake. Bad mom, bad mom! But hey, she likes the opening track.

Who are you, who who who who....

It's illegal here to have premarital sex, so Hubs' colleague, who lives in the company's single guy camp (no visitors), needed a place to stay with his girlfriend as they wouldn't be allowed even to stay in a hotel without that little piece of paper that proves they tied the knot. Basically, Hubs and I are accessories to a serious sexual crime. Oh dear. Should I be confessing this on my blog. Maybe we'll get deported. (Ahem, go ahead, deport us, I won't complain.)

But back to the purpose of this post which is to lament the fact that the only touristy thing I can think of to do right now with our visitor is take her to an air conditioned mall. That is really embarrassing. I feel like such an ignorant ass about this country we live in.  That, and Sproglette's sporadic napping schedule means that any plans we have, like let's go to the Corniche for a walk at 6:30pm and watch all the women in abayas power walking, get thrown out if she chooses to sleep when we want to head out the door.

It's not that Doha doesn't have places to go, people to see--actually, probably the coolest aspect of visiting a Gulf State country is people watching, especially at Starbucks--it's that it's too hot to bring a sprog out (except to malls) until the evening and by the evening, she's a cranky bum.  She'd be a cranky bum at that time of day in Paris, in a camp in the middle of nowhere in Vietnam, in the Saskatchewan city that rhymes with fun, but at least you'd be able to go outside during the day, so it wouldn't matter.

Today's tour is a visit to Villagio Mall. It has a faux river running down one side with gondoleers from the Philippines gondoleering up and down. You can ride one for a small fee. The interior of the mall looks like a theatre set of a small Italian city, minus the laundry flapping on lines out the window. The mall also has a skating rink, so if it's open to the public when we're there, maybe we'll go skating.  It's 42 degrees outside right now and very humid, so yeah, ice skating. In Doha. In the summer.

Why not.

Yeah yeah your life does change

Sproglette's asleep, but for how long is anyone's guess, least of all her own.  She naps twice in the morning and each nap takes between 15 minutes and two hours. As for an afternoon nap, that all depends. But on what, neither of us knows.

We go to the doctor today for her 6 month vaccinations and to find out why she inhales like a yogic master whenever she squeals and coos. Is this a speech phase or is she developing asthma? I prefer to think that she enjoys forcing breath down her windpipe. Maybe it gives her a dizzy high, her own personal laughing gas. That's what I hope. Hubs just hopes she isn't sick.

I hate going to doctors and usually ignore my symptoms until they vanish or get so bad I have no choice, but I have spent many hours already in the pediatric ward of Al Ahli hospital since arriving in Doha. It's different with a baby. I have no clue what her problem is: Why is that red mark so bumpy and, well, so red? What are those cuts on her tongue? How high is too high a fever? What are those spots? Why does she cry when she's breastfeeding? I second guess myself all the time and it just feels safer to have a doctor reassure me than my own gut feelings.

Ten days ago, my gut feelings were wrong. She had a fever.  I thought she was teething. Turns out she had Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. Hence the drooling, the crying while breastfeeding, the spots all over her legs, arms and pootsalaka.  She's fine now. The spots are gone, only remnant scabs, like blackheads. They'll disappear soon too. 

Your life changes when you have a baby. I used to hate hearing that. It such an obvious statement--just as your life changes if you move cities or buy a house or switch jobs or get your hair permed--and at the same time it is condescending, as if the person who doesn't have a child has no clue what it's like, couldn't possibly understand, couldn't possibly empathize. I still hate hearing it and try not to say it to people without children, but I can't believe how true it is, on so many levels, not just the blatant.

Hanging out at hospitals, even five star ones, is just one of things in my life that has changed.