Lack of sleep

My friends say that sex after a child becomes faster and quieter. And I would add, less important than sleeping.

Daniel's bed has been in our room until now and (for my single friends) no, we did not have sex while he was awake. Mainly because it is impossible. Imagine, just imagine, sex with a baby crawling on your face. Not sexy.

Daniel has been sleeping in our room until now because of the books we read. Apparently, the latest trends in child bearing are very critical with the old methods, variations of the "let him cry until he sleeps", which, my friends say, works really nicely. But "The Books" compare it to dog training. So, because we want to be modern and enlighted parents, we let him sleep with us, and we hold him when he wakes up in the middle of the night, and lately we wake up at five a.m. every day to feed him a yogurt because he gets hungry.

I do wonder, of course, whether these zombie walks at such unholy hours will have any benefit in the long term. He is unlikely to remember, and I'm unlikely to keep proof of the bruises I sustained trying to reach the fridge while sleepwalking. Like with so many baby-related things, there is not an approved protocol. You are pretty much in your own. We are in our own, and sleepy, and desperate. And we don't have so much sex, which seems to be the biggest problem for my dear husband.

Cultural diversity

Martin's family thinks that if he ever lost his job we would starve to death. The possiblity of me working somewhere more sofisticated than an H&M shop baffles them. The fact that we both have the same level of studies and working experience is largely ignored, and that baffles me. It should be obvious, since we met in university. But that, my dear, is called "cultural diversity". That's the real thing, not having a smiling black woman in the company brochure.

Martin's family recently celebrated a family gathering. I was way overdressed and underbriefed for the event. The women run around the kitchen while men (and I) sat in the living room. Alcohol could be smelled from outside (literally) and jokes flew around the fact that Martin was carrying the baby as opposed to his cousin, who was fishing while his wife delivered his son. An uncle held out to me an empty glass and (ignorant me) I attempted a toast, when he was actually asking me to go to the kitchen and get him a refill. Huge laugh.

So, of course, Martin's family thinks I am a spoiled decorative wife, happy to meet such husband material and I think it's time for them to get back into their machine and report to the medieval tavern they must have come from. In the meantime, I imagine my son going one summer from Sunday-church-Valladolid to Back-in-communist-time-Mohelnice, and I worry thinking the kind of questions he is going to raise. But that, natürlich, is called "cultural diversity". Unfortunately you don't really get ready for it in the corporate trainings. I can smell a business opportunity there.

Teta

Daniel might have said his first word today.

It is tricky, this first word thing. One second he would look lovingly in your eyes and pronounce loud and clear ma-ma, and the next, before you can squeeze him and kiss his chubby cheek, he turns around, look at the ficus and say ma-ma. But today, he said loud and clear te-ta (breast in Spanish) and I have reasons to believe he really meant it.

I am so glad he chose Spanish for his first word... it's like he acknowledges the time and effort mummy has put into reading "Rafa la jirafa" and gives me hope the whole family will not have to learn esperanto to comunicate at the dinner table.

It is also a big step towards speaking. People keep on saying, every kid speaks sooner or later, but I can't help thinking he might just decide it's not worth the trouble choosing between hungry or hambre or hlad or Hunger, since he is fed in regular intervals anyway.

By the way, teta also means aunt in Czech, but I'm going to dismiss the possibility that my son was playing this joke on me. He is fifteen months old, after all.