Dongurigal

Conversation with Sproglette at a train station in Japan

Sproglette: Mom, mahm, maaaaaahm

Dongurigal: Yes sweety

S: He's not looking at me.

DG: Who's not looking at you?

S: That man sitting right next to you.

DG: So?

S:　But I'm smiling.

DG: So?

S: And I'm going gooooogah.

DG: So?

S: And I'm flapping my hands.

DG: And?

S: Well, doesn't he know that I'm a cute gaijin baby? Hey YOU! Look at me! I'm a MECHA KAWAII GAIJIN BABY. Gooeeeeeeeeeey.

DG: Ha! He's ignoring you. First old fart in Japan to ignore you, eh. Heck, first person in Japan to ignore you. Too funny.

S: Hey Look at me you old fart you. Look at me. Goooeeeeeeeeeggggoooooonyan. Flap flap flap.

DG: He's not looking at you. Like he is totally ignoring you. Like studiously ignoring you.

S: Ok ok mom, jeez. You're hurting my feelings. He's hurting my feelings. I'm mecha cute. Doesn't he get that? Why isn't he taking my picture with his camera phone. Hello? Hello. Gaaaaaa flap flap flap.

DG: I think you're cute honey. Daddy thinks you're cute, don't you daddy.

Hubs: Looks up from playstation. Yes dear.

DG: See we both think you're cute.

Group of Japanese office ladies: GAAAAAH. MECHA KAWAIIIIIII YAN. MITE MITE. NINGYO MITAI NA. KAWAIIIIIIII. KYU-TO. KYU-----TO. SHASHIN TOTTE II? GAIJIN BABY. KAWAIIIIIIII. CLICK CLICK. SNAP. FLASH.

DG: And, uh, they think you're cute too. Now, RUUUUUN....aaaaaaah.

Hubs: Looks up from playstation. Woah, gaaarrrrgh.

Hakujin no oshiri

If you happen upon a hotspring blog published by a 60-something Japanese obasan, you may get lucky and see my--that is, Dongurigal's--lily white arse. That's right. My lily white arse. Why?  Because the above woman thought nothing of snapping my photo as I was entering an outdoor cedar tub. Buck naked, of course.

She was buck naked too but did I take her picture? No. Why? Because you don't bring your camera into a Japanese hotspring, that's why. Uh, hello. It might get wet. Not only that, but I should be getting paid big yen for a nude photo of me.

Maybe grandma doesn't have a blog and I have nothing to worry about because really what do I care if she and her buddies back home have a good ole laugh at the big fat gaijin's butt.

With the pimple on the left cheek.

Life is beautiful

The beauty of being a foreigner in Japan, which, incidentally, is where I am right now, is that you can buy an embarrassing item such as a package of pads for incontinence rather than for periods and the cashier is going to think, "dumb foreigner has the wrong pads but I won't be able to explain to her that it is the wrong thing because she won't understand a word I'm saying" instead of thinking oh gross, that foreigner pees her pants.

Which, incidentally, is exactly what I've been doing since giving birth.

Peeing my pants.

Self Control Safes

If Hubs wants crepes with nutella in the evening, he'll have to bring the nutella to work then bring it back home at the end of the day, otherwise I'll eat it.

Have some self control, he'll say. Clearly, he doesn't understand women and chocolate.

But it doesn't mean that I don't wish I had more self control. There are a few areas in my life where control is seriously lacking. Eating an entire jar of nutella, spoonful by spoonful, in under one hour, is one.  For that reason, I just don't buy it anymore. We can have jam on our crepes.

The other major area of lack of self control is the internet.  When I'm bored, when Sproglette is sleeping, or playing quietly, or sitting in her playpen, diaper soiled, starving and bawling her eyes out, when I'm stuck inside all bloody day long, I go on the internet.

(What? I was kidding about the playpen already.) 

The internet is just something to do when I'm home, I guess. It's not like I don't like reading. I love it. I just don't get to it all that often because I'm on the internet.  It's not like I don't like mucking about with paper mache. I just don't get to it all that often because I'm on the internet. It's not like I don't like taking long walks in the rain. I just don't get to it all that often because there's no fucking rain here. Oh, sorry, off topic.

There's a lot I don't do because of the internet.

Or rather, because of my lack of self control when it comes to the internet.

So, I've come up with a brilliant idea. I even checked online (using the internet) to see if my brilliant idea is out there, but I couldn't find any evidence of it.

The Self Control Safe.

You know when you stay at a hotel, there's a safe in the closet. The safe's door is open, you put your valuables in there, key in a password of your choosing, close the door and it locks. The Self Control Safe would work on the same principle only, instead of keying in a password, you would key in a time frame. (Of course, because it's your safe, you'd have to open it with a password anyway).

Are you following me? Good.

Right. You open your Self Control Safe, place your modem, internet cable or heck, the entire laptop, as well as the jar of nutella into it. You key in a time frame, say, 5 hours, then close the door. You will not be able to open that safe until the 5 hours are up, just in time for dessert.

The beauty of this safe is that it you can still eat some nutella, maybe one or two spoonfuls, or check your email and your favourite forum for an hour, but then when you're done or when Sproglette's diaper is disintegrating, the computer gets put away for as long as you think is necessary to change the diaper and finish up your paper mache Christmas ornaments.

For me, it's the internet enabling devices and nutella that would go in the safe. For another person, her credit card. And for Charlotte, her rabbit vibrator.

Have some self control, someone--not necessarily Hubs--will say. Ha.

That's what I want for my birthday or Christmas. A Self Control Safe.

Thank you.

The Devil with buck teeth

Sometimes I think the great mythological half-man, half-beast creatures such as the Sphinx or the Minotaur were invented by a mother, a mother watching over her baby as he or she roars like a lion, butts his head like a stag, and crawls (and stalks prey) like a Komodo dragon.

That's our Sproglette,a great mythological beast-man. Part human, part goat, part Komodo dragon, part Canadian beaver. Put those pieces together and the image you get is the Devil with buck teeth.

I spend way too much of my free time (free, ha) reading forum posts on motherhood because it's almost like watching reality TV and eating bon bons without all the guilt associated with that. I am READING afterall.

In one post, a woman wrote she was sure her awful mother let her cry it out because,as evidence, there were teeth marks all over the railing of her crib, which for some reason her mother still has lying around the house. (Where's my crib, mom?!)

Teeth marks on railings equals crying it out therefore mom was cruel.

No, sorry. The logic just does not follow. Teeth marks does not necessarily equal cruel mother. It could just as easily equal the fact that the child is part beaver. Sproglette is definitely part beaver.  When she's crying, she's not gnawing at her crib post. She's crying. But when she's gnawing at her crib post, by golly, she's gnawing and it sure feels good. Or so it seems.

Some uber-observant manager at a certain five star hotel is going to be lamenting the deliquent behaviour of kids who scratch furniture with an inkless pen. Sorry, bud, them's teeth marks. The 'scratch marks' on our furnished apartment coffee table. Teeth.

Sproglette gnaws any piece of wood she can get her teeth on, so it's too bad that Qatari toy shops are only filled with plastic goods. I found a little wooden plate that I let her get at, but otherwise, it's her crib railing, coffee table top or the table legs she finds most satisfying.

But when it comes to her teeth--of which she now has nearly 6--I'm sure glad she's part beaver and not part piranha. But it's not for lack of trying. She attempted being a part piranha on my nipple, twice. She hasn't since.

Afterall, her mom is part screech owl.

Of Goats and Jackasses

When we were in Jordan, we saw a lot of jackasses, not of the Toyota Landcruiser variety, but of the animal variety. They'd be crossing the highway or clip clopping down the shoulder. I'd yell, hey look out, a jackass and think I was pretty damn funny. Actually, I'll give credit to my friend who started the whole silliness when she shouted 'Jackass!' and as my eyes scanned the road, I said, in a panic, Where? Where's the Landcruiser?

We also saw a lot of goats, especially as we drove down Mt. Nebo where Moses looked longingly at the Promised Land, just beyond the Dead Sea (I imagine he looked longingly as this was after 40 years of wandering the desert looking for it in the first place. And then God wouldn't let him go. What a meanie.)

Sproglette is a goat, I think. Today I caught her eating a piece of cardboard. Giving it a good chew. She smiled up at me while I dove toward her, forgetting all the rules about never jamming your finger into the mouth of an infant to remove a foreign object, to do exactly that, jam my finger in her mouth and dig around. I couldn't find the dime-sized morsel she had bitten off. It had been swallowed.

This from a girl who will not eat carrots, will not eat avocado, will not eat, oh, just about anything I steam, boil, grill, chop, or mash for her.

She prefers the taste of cardboard.

A word on this blog post--it has been interrupted 3 times already by a nine-month-old goat who is refusing to nap even though she needs it.  But I'm not letting her out of her bed. I have a system now. It's called grab my book, sit down next to the crib, press my hand down on her butt or her back and rub it until she falls back asleep, all the while reading the book and ignoring her protests.  She doesn't really want to sleep, but she needs to because she's got a cold and if there's one thing I hate, it's when people who have colds don't take care of themselves properly and by that I mean, sleeping. That includes babies. They should just know better.

I'm such a meanie.

Just like God.

Walking, yes indeed, I'm walking

Hello Blog. How are you?

Sorry I haven't written. Sproglette and I were in Jordan for 6 days to visit my friends and then when we came back to Doha, another friend, who lives in Egypt, came to visit.

Sproglette is going to wake up from her nap soon, I just know it. For that reason alone all the topics I'd like to blather on about have escaped from my brain only to be replaced by this one mantra: she's going to wake up. She's going to wake up. She's going to wake up.

I bet this is the one time Sproglette decides a good 3 hours is what she needs.

Little bugger.

But you know what? Doha is cooler now. We can go out at, um, 4:00 pm or we can go out in the morning and stay out until 8:00 am. I'm just really happy about that even though I'm still in my summer time routine of staying indoors. It's time to shake things up around here, make some  walking-during-the-daylight-hours-on-the-Corniche plans.

Speaking of walking, we did a whole heck of a lot of it in Jordan.

Conversations with Sproglette #6

Sproglette:  Mom, mom, maaaahm, this is a yummy banana.

Dongurigal: Oh, I'm so pleased you ate half a banana. You're such a good girl. It's been so hard to get you to eat solids, but now look at you, an eating machine. Oooh, you're my sweet little chicken...... Uuuuuh, what do you think you're doing?

S:  I'm going to smush it into the chair.

DG:  Yeah, uh, can you NOT do that, we're in a shopping mall. Other people might want to sit in this chair. Aw, hon, NO. NOOO. NOOOOO. Give me that. Oh, God, there's banana everywhere.

S: Now I'm going to smack your boobs.

DG: No, wait, don't smack me with those sticky hands. Do you know how hard it is to wash banana out of clothes? Do you? Just wait till I wash your hands off. Just give me a minute, I gotta open my purse and find the wet wipes.

S: With your pinky?

DG: Well, yeah, I've got banana all over my hands now.

S: You're going to rummage through that monster purse of yours with your pinky?

DG: Yes.

S: And you think I'll wait for you to find the wet wipes? You think I'll just sit here quietly while you rummage through your...

DG: Yes, yes, please, yes, sit quietly. I'll just be a minute.

S: Forget it! I'm going to smack you and smear this bit of banana into the chair some more. That's what I'm going to do.

DG: Ok, fine, I'll lick my fingers so that I can rummage faster.

S: Ha. Mom, you can't lick your fingers. It's Ramadan. It's Xtreme Lent. Plus, it's illegal in Qatar to eat during the fasting hours. Oh, man, it would be so cool if you got arrested for licking banana off your fingers.

DG: Look, I have to lick my fingers anyway because the wipes are at the very very very very bottom of my purse. So, I'm going to lick my fingers once this guy in a dishdasha walks by. Right, I'm looking left. I'm looking right. No one's around. Ok, it's safe to lick my fingers now.

S: HEY EVERYBODY, MOM'S LICKING BANANA OFF HER FINGERS. HEEEEEEEEY HEEEEEEEY. LOOK OVER HERE! SOMEBODY CALL THE COPS.

DG: Stop it. Do you want to get me arrested?

S: You got banana on your lips.

DG: Bugger.

S: Caught red-handed.

DG: Would you cut it out.

S: Mom, duh, why didn't you have the wipes ready before you gave me the banana. Sometimes, you just don't think do you?

DG: I know, l'il miss smartypants. I know, ok.

S: Basic, mom, basic. Guess it's time for you to enroll in Motherhood 101.

She says, hey babe, take a walk on the construction site

Seeing as the temperature has turned down a notch and seeing as it was nearly 7 am Friday morning, the day of rest, so no school rush of SUVs to navigate around, Sproglette and I decided to go for a stroll in our neighbourhood.

On leaving the parking lot...

and turning the corner...

...we thought we saw a snake. False alarm. Just some chewable tubes and wires.

We saw some pigeons...

and cranes...

...and a truck with a flat tire.

So close and yet so far. The City Centre shopping mall, the one just a few minute's walk from our apartment. Too bad it's not open at 7am on a Friday morning because we might actually be able to cross this normally busy road without being flattened by a Landcruiser.

Heading home, we walked down this lovely tree-lined street, made even lovelier by Flickr's colour editing palette.

We saw some driftwood, too.

Finally home. After all that fresh air, we think it's time for a nap.

Eavesdropping

So, like, I was at the private beach club of a certain 5 star hotel with a friend of mine and our sprogs, when I noticed a group of young men and women pretending to be Bay Watch lifeguards. They were having fun, laughing, snapping photos, and dissing each other.

They had the bods for it, too. The women were buff, the men even buffer. It was then that I also noticed that their backpacks were exactly the same, all sporting a desert fatigue pattern.

Aha, I thought, US soldiers on R & R from Iraq, most probably. 99.9 percent most probably.

Later, while I was kicking my legs in the hotel pool while pushing Sproglette in her inflatable beer lounge chair--my main form exercise these days and Sproglette's main form of watching the world go by (all she needs is a Molson Canadian to complete the 'look')--we passed the same group of soldiers.  They were hanging by the pool now chatting about what to do in the evening.

Soldier 1:  What time are we not supposed to go out again?

Soldier 2:  After 1800 hours.* I guess the driving is insane here, especially during Ramadan.

And I'm thinking to myself, yes, yes, there are multitudes of jackasses who drive the ubiquitous Landcruiser like it's their own personal tank here, but hello, YOU'VE JUST COME FROM IRAQ. There is nothing to worry about.

(The guy really did say 1800 hours, not 6 pm, like us civilian folk would.)