Author / Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Reflections on Ramona: 18 months

I’m still having trouble adjusting to the idea that, as of next week, I’ll be the mother of an 18-month-old child. I’ve been calling her a toddler for a while now – mainly because she toddled at 11 months – but there’s something about the magical one-and-a-half-years-old mark that brings it home to me: she’s growing up.

Alright, we’re a few years away from driving lessons and visiting universities, but she is now, unmistakeably, a little person, and not a baby. Her personality, striking from the outset, is now very clear, and as she ramps up her communication with us, it’s simply staggering realising how much she’s learning every day.

Talking came on very suddenly; a few weeks ago she blurted a word here and there, and now you can’t stop her chattering away. Understanding is far from foolproof, of course. She may yammer away, but much of the time it’s incomprehensible, apparently random. Still, it is undeniably exciting and weird to have conversations with her. She’s particularly talkative in the car with me, when she babbles from the back seat. She’s always liked itemising everyone she loves (“Yiayia?” “She’s at home.” “Pappou?” “He’s at home.”) as if knowing that everyone’s where they should be gives her an anchor; maybe it does. Now she likes me to tell her that everyone loves her. And sometimes she really makes me laugh.

R: Yiayia?
Me: Yiayia loves you very much.
R: Pappou?
Me: Pappou loves you very much.
R: Capper? (Casper, our cat)
Me: Casper… well, he thinks you’re okay.
R: Capper wuvoo? CAPPER WUVOO?
Me: Casper loves you very much.
R: Yes.

Or, a few days later:

R: Yiayia?
Me: Yiayia loves you very much.
R: Pappou?
Me: Look. Everyone loves you. You’re the best!
R: YES.

Ash also gets in on the act:

Ash: Are you happy?
R: Yes?
Ash: Are you okay?
R: Yes? Sad?
Me: You’re sad?
R: Yes?
Me: Why are you sad?
R: Yes?
Ash: Are you a traffic cone?
R: Yes?

Both sets of grandparents are industriously teaching her things she can parrot, but not possibly understand, but that’s fine. Learning by rote has a bad reputation, and certainly I can’t see any point in endlessly repeating something you don’t understand when you’re an adult, but that kind of pattern-matching is incredibly useful when you’re very small. Constant repetition – I’ve had to hide certain books, so sick am I of reading them to her, and I NEVER thought I’d get sick of a book! – is the name of the game.

On the subject of books, we do all love a set of books published by Parragon that my in-laws got her for Christmas and Channukah. Based around simple emotions, they help children express happy, sad, angry, shy, proud, brave… absolutely lovely. She’s too small to embrace naming most of the emotions other than the first two (her gurning in response to ‘happy face!’ ‘sad face!’ is hilarious), but she’s started to memorise sentences and associate words. So if I read “I feel happy when I’m with…?”, she’ll gleefully shout back “Mummy!” and it’s basically the very best moment of my day, no matter what else has happened.

I can’t find the books on Parragon’s website, but I imagine some of their other board books are also excellent. They came as a stack of mini board books in two long boxes with carry handles that she took to slinging into the crook of her arm and strolling around the living room with until they collapsed under the onslaught of toddlerish prodding.

I’m slightly terrified of what happens next, because between incomprehensible shrieking tantrums – often related to teething, which is a truly evil thing – and scarily sudden progress, I’ve once again got to that stage when, just when you thought you knew the lay of the land, the goalposts have shifted again.

For example, she’s always been great at night and is a joy to put to bed; despite my refusal to try controlled crying when she was smaller she has not developed any sleeping hangups. On the contrary, since she feels secure she’ll now go in awake and quietly soothe herself to sleep, rarely waking up unless something out of the ordinary (sickness and New Year fireworks) disturbs her. But on the flip side she’s recently, quite suddenly, gone back to being absolutely random about naps when she’s not at nursery, sometimes sleeping for ages, sometimes not, sometimes early, sometimes late. I thought we’d left that unpredictability behind a few months ago. But hey, I’ll swap complete routine confusion during the day, which is perhaps inevitable when you’re with different people through the week, for a near-flawless routine at night.

Well, for as long as that lasts, anyway.

Oh, Ramona. You’re usually so busy asking me about everyone else that I have to remind you about Mummy. Mummy definitely, positively, unquestionably loves you very, very much.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

The Artist: Yes, it’s that good

Last week, Dogs Trust was chosen as the recipient charity for a special screening of The Artist, in Leicester Square. Uggie the dog, the film’s main canine actor, came along to be charming in front of the cameras (something he found effortless) and hang out with Freddie, our CEO Clarissa’s ‘granddog’.

When you have a toddler it is, in any case, always a treat to get to go to the cinema, but it also means you can feel you need to justify the night out by seeing something good. (This is silly of course; spending the night out is justified by the fact that you have a toddler.)

In any case, I found The Artist to be exactly as good as the gushing suggests. It’s better if you know less, rather than more, going in, but the general premise (a silent movie about silent movies) is pretty widely known. It’s wonderfully deft; a clever idea made lovingly with an excellent cast and beautiful attention to detail. Oh, and the dog is in it a lot more than you expect.

If I had to drag out a criticism… oh, you know what? No. Of course there are flaws but since the successes are far more a) numerous and b) memorable, why ruin it by dwelling on them? I’m not reviewing this for a national, I’m chatting with my friends about it.

If you really want to know, ask.

But better still, go and see it.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

2012: The Year of Eating Beautifully

I’m not big into New Year’s resolutions. I used to make them (nickle-dime stuff like not biting my nails or largely uncontrollable stuff like getting people to love me), but not really believe I was going to stick to them because a) no-one does and b) if I cared that much about doing those things I’d just Do Them and not Resolve To Do Them.

So really what I’ve found is that rather than starting the year with a resolution, I might happen to finish a year with a move forward into something new and interesting that has just developed through being alive, and busy and interested. Last year it was running, and that was great until it stopped happening (I don’t want to talk about it). These past few months, I’ve developed a new obsession: food.

Now, obviously, I’ve always eaten plenty. I’ve even appreciated the difference between good and bad food, though clearly not enough to stop eating the bad food. And when I say ‘bad’ food, I don’t mean ‘bad for you’ (I don’t give food a moral status if I can avoid it; as Crowded House remind us, everything is good for you, if it doesn’t kill you), I mean actually bad: bad-tasting, badly-cooked, bad-looking and just plain bad.

I reckon I’ve had enough of eating bad food. A combination of reading Health at Every Size (and everyone should), cyber-stalking Great British Chefs, obsessing about MasterChef and a bit of hypnotherapy has had me, for the first time, actually paying attention to what I eat. I still eat hunched over a book, or in front of the television, or quickly before Ramona wakes up and tries to run off with my plate, but I simply don’t eat anything I don’t enjoy, or that I’ve already had enough of – when I’m concentrating enough to realise that.

Weirdly, I’m finding I’m enjoying things I thought I hated. After years of waxing furious about my hatred of meat and fruit eaten together, I found myself heaping chicken with cranberry sauce, until Ash asked who I was and where his wife had gone. I braised red cabbage (not very well, actually, but that’s cos I was impatient and tired). I created salads with chicory and freaking-delicious-made-up-as-I-went-along blue cheese dressing. I started saying things like “we’ve had enough rich food this week, let’s have something else”. Tonight I turned down one of my favourite fast foods, pizza, because I didn’t feel like it, and made strapatsada instead. You probably have to had had a similarly disordered and dysfunctional relationship with food to understand why that’s remarkable.

In the last month of 2011, I also had three of the best meals I’ve ever had. And now, a bit in the manner of my Dad who likes to itemise everything he’s ever eaten, I’m going to tell you about them. Come back another time if you’re looking for recipes. There are no photos of the restaurant meals because there are times when whipping out an iPhone and snapping away just isn’t right.

Best Meal Ever: Private Dining at Marcus Wareing @ The Berkeley

I have to admit, this one was purely jammy (pardon the food pun). Ash and I stood in for another person  who couldn’t attend, and enjoyed Dinner Menu D. Enjoyed it until we felt like exploding with the sheer delight of it. The wine-matching over the three hour meal was also lovely, as was the Aussie sommelier, who patiently responded to Ash’s questions about MasterChef and described her former boss, Matt Moran, as extremely good to her and strict only in the way that he had to be. Which was nice.

I won’t describe each course because I’ll end up sounding like a pretentious tool, but also because the three most charming things we had aren’t specified on the listed menu. The first was an amuse bouche of almost piping hot Jerusalem artichoke soup topped with a gorgeous cold sunflower cream and sunflower seeds. The second was a pre-dessert of the most beautiful, light white chocolate sorbet with frozen redcurrants. The last was an extremely clever non-dairy chocolate ganache slab.

And that doesn’t even touch on the deliciousness of milk ice cream, devoid of any sickly aftertaste and with a clean, pure, nostalgia-inducing taste.

Oh, okay, I sound like a pretentious tool anyway. But one that’s had a seriously good, bucket-list type meal.

Best Meal I’ve Cooked: Christmas Roast Beef

Here’s where I crow a little, but seriously. I cooked Christmas lunch for the first time in 2010, stepping into the breach to rescue a flu-ridden Mum from the stovetop. It was good, but I didn’t feel like I’d really got the roast beef just right.

This year I planned to take the helm, and I got the roast beef 98% Just. Sodding. Right. (I dock 2% from myself for not browning it better before roasting, cos it was still a little tiny bit browner around the edges than I’d like and for not cutting it thinly enough). But it’s still really good.  Don’t take my word for it; look at it.

(The photo at the top includes my mother’s outstanding chicken liver, mince, chestnut and pine nut stuffing, which I admit looks like cat food but tastes like heaven. There are also goose fat roast potatoes. And there weren’t just peas, it’s just that at that point people stopped taking damn photographs and ate.)

Best Romantic Meal Since Ramona Was Born: The Cinnamon Club

Okay, that’s a dodgy title. But it’s not the best romantic meal ever (our first anniversary at Asia de Cuba nabs that). Still, it was a really lovely meal, and what was wonderful was actively craving a mainly veggie meal and knowing that I was in good hands – if you can’t get a good vegetarian meal from an Indian restaurant something’s gone badly wrong.

Mainly veggie except for the astoundingly kick-ass masala chicken livers which I just had to finish all on my own because Ash doesn’t do liver. The gorgeous crusty mushrooms, the fulsome cauliflower parcel, the amazing Jerusalem artichoke and red onion side, and – also not veggie – the perfectly cooked sea bass bites I cadged from Ash… well, they were all delightful. Also, you’ve got to love eating in a converted library.

And yes, since you’re not asking, I paid.

So there it is; not my New Year’s resolution, but my New Year’s adventure. To cook food. To enjoy food. To obsess about it, for the first time in my life, the right way.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Food, glorious food

I don’t know whether it’s having read Health at Every Size for the second time or my ongoing fascination with ZOMGMASTERCHEFOZ, but ~I’m completely, relatively uncharacteristically obsessed with cooking – and not just baking – at the moment. Particularly cooking vast quantities of vegetable-packed, warming, hearty food that can be portioned off into the freezer for lunches or quick dinners. Hmm. I wonder if winter hibernation has a role to play here, too.

Anyway, I started my experimentation by packing the fridge with my favourite vegetables and having at them. First I made a vegetarian chilli in two parts – one with paprika and hot spices for us, and one with more fragrant spices for Ramona.

It went something like this:

– Finely dice carrots

– Add to boiling water along with a stock cube and two bags of pre-cut root vegetable cubes (sold for mashing).

– Boil until al dente. Divide into two batches.

– Fry half an onion in sunflower oil until softened. Add spices (for us an Old El Paso mix, for Ramona a heaped teaspoon each of cumin and dried coriander and a level teaspoon of cinnamon). Add, roughly in this order, giving each a chance to cook slightly before adding the next: a couple of slugs of tomato puree, sliced mushrooms, a can of kidney beans, half a can of cannelini beans, the boiled veg, half a can of chopped tomatoes.

– Cook until tasty looking / smelling / tasting.

– Repeat with the other half of the ingredients for the second batch.

Having decided that this was actually quite successful, I branched out into following actual recipes. The first was gorgeous Aussie chef Donna Hay‘s chicken breasts with halloumi, lemon and honey (pictured), which sounds like a cold cure and it is, in a manner of speaking.

Her original recipe – at least, as I scribbled it down from the TV – was for two chicken breasts which I’ve quoted below, but I made 8 breast fillets so I added about 50% more of everything rather than quadrupling it which would have been a bit much.

2 chicken breasts
1 packet halloumi thickly sliced into four
1 tbsp honey
1 tbsp olive oil
Zest from one lemon
6 sprigs of lemon thyme

Lay the chicken and cheese in a baking tray, drizzle over the oil and honey, then chuck in the zest and thyme. Bake at 180 for 18-20 minutes or until browned (I actually found they needed quite a bit longer for a bigger dish as I wanted the cheese to burn around the edges – more like 35-40, but as always KYO: Know Your Oven. The mixture keeps the chicken breasts beautifully moist).

Thereafter I headed on to the land of red lentils, and cooked up a sort of stew-dahl hybrid with the remaining pack of diced root vegetables, lots and lots of spinach and some fresh green and red medium-strength chillies. You wash the lentils, bring them to the boil and keep them there, boiling rapidly for ten minutes, then simmer for another ten before adding the veg and cooking until everything is soft. This needs a little stove-watching as too much liquid and it’ll be runny, too little and it’ll be burnt stodge. Some of that liquid need not be water or stock but could be chopped tomatoes or passata.

The 1kg bag of basic red lentils from Tesco is less than £1 and stretches forever (the batch I made with less than half of that has filled up five takeaway-sized plastic boxes in the freezer.

I’m feeling really good about all this. I might be imagining it but even Ashley has commented that my hair seems thicker, my skin looks better – especially given the weather – and I seem to be fighting off all manner of nasties having succumbed to loads earlier in the season. And it’s nice to know Ramona is eating lots of fresh, nutrient-packed food as well as the snacks and sandwiches she also eats; I’m no perfect organic earth mother (most of the veg was from the value bin).

And now, with the help of Vefa Alexiadou and my mother, I’m off to make a classic Greek karidopita (walnut pie), because dessert is virtuous too, damn it.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

A Casper update: the most tolerant cat in the world

I was looking at some of my blog categories the other day, and I realised I’ve neglected to talk about the fourth member of our family much recently. Casper’s settled into being an only cat with rather more ease than is entirely polite (eight months after the fact I’m still inclined to get a bit sobby about Snaffle’s death, even though he never liked me) and it also means that although I’d like an entire tribe of feline companions I’m unlikely to try and introduce another one if it would rock the boat for this one.

He’s made the transition to outdoor cat beautifully and now spends all day poking at things outdoors and and all night poking at our feet between comfy sleeps on the end of our bed. I’m excessively grateful he’s only brought one other living thing into the house and it was a) still living and b) apparently undamaged. I set said creature – a tiny bird that was tweeting IN HIS MOUTH before I made him drop it – free, and pretended that it was probably fine and didn’t do what mostly happens in these cases which is, distressingly, to die of a heart attack shortly afterwards.

It’s been a long time since I specifically wrote about cats and babies, though. I rambled on at length about how a cat shouldn’t get its marching orders during a pregnancy, but I was still curious to see how the cats would cope with the baby human once it made an entrance. Snaffle was spooked, but sadly did not live long enough to get much past giving her a wide berth, but Casper was curious from the outset, and – despite being a nervous sort – has turned out to be supremely tolerant where Ramona is concerned.

Naturally, for both their sakes, we oversee each interaction carefully, but now she’s 15 months old and very quick on her feet, she has been known to potter over and ‘stroke’ him before we can stop her, which usually results in a few strands of fur between her fingers. I should stress it’s loose fur – she’s not actually grabbing his skin and he is clearly not in any discomfort. She’s just really cack-handed at stroking, which I think is fair enough at her age.

His reaction to this 99 times out of 100 is either to go back to sleep (if cats could roll their eyes…) or simply leave. She understands ‘leave Casper alone’; when commanded to do this she waves her finger at him and announces ‘no’, which is what she does with anything she realises she’s not supposed to touch.

Just once he did react, which was a very light tap  from his paw onto her hand. She laughed, then looked affronted, then mock-cried, then ‘no-no-noed’ at him when we simply moved her away saying ‘leave Casper alone’. And she did.

And so their friendship develops. He tolerates her suddenness and loudness, and occasionally headbutts her, or goes and flomps down a foot or so away from her if she’s napping on the floor, thereby joining her for a companionable sleep. For her part she’s constantly asking about him; “eh Capi? Eh Capi?” is a regular refrain, especially when she’s out in the garden. (“Where’s Casper?” in case it wasn’t obvious.)

I remember talking to the vet about this when Casper went for an annual checkup and jabs, and said vet saying: “Oh yes. Cats have a mental category called ‘human kitten’. She’ll get away with things you never could.”

I’m very proud of my human kitten for responding to our training around the cat so well; she does seem to be starting to respect him as a real creature, not a toy.

But I’m even prouder of our Fat Kitten*. Well done, Casper. We love you.

*Our nickname for him. He’s not actually fat – we checked with the vet – just very, very large and powerful. And a total wuss. It’s brilliant.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

A Lovely Day

No, not that proposal video that’s doing to rounds. To be honest I find that really cringey and would hate the attention and pressure of such a proposal. But that’s a story for another day. A less lovely day.

Today was a really lovely day.

After getting Ramona up and sorted and handed over to her eager grandparents, I had a leisurely morning to do little more than shower, dress and fart about on the Internet. I gently strolled up to the station, got a train quickly, headed into town and killed some time around Liberty, where I also managed to have a rare celeb sighting. I say sighting; I elbowed the poor woman before I managed to get upstairs, via the stunning Christmas Shop, to meet the gorgeous CupCate.

It was such a luxury to be able to spend two hours over lunch, enjoying Cafe Liberty‘s delightful salmon fishcakes (me) and chicken, pancetta and blue cheese pasta (Cate). A cup of tea each, some laughs, and some great relaxed time with a funny, interesting friend were all just perfect.

Having wandered to Covent Garden we went our separate ways, and I spent a thoroughly relaxed hour and a half or so just pootling semi-aimlessly around the piazza and drifting up and down side streets. I found a lovely orange dress on sale in Joy. I footled in and out of Cybercandy and L’Occitane, picking up a crafty spritz of their Green Tea Eau de Toilette, which I love, and spent an indulgent ten minutes just hanging around like a spare part in the Disney Store, listening to What’s This? from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

At one point my serene, contemplative stroll was marred briefly by a woman charging into me, tripping over my foot and then giving me a foul look when I immediately asked her if she was alright and held out my hand to help her. Oh well, she won’t stop me being concerned the next time someone collides with me, whether it’s my fault or not.

But back to ambling I went, circuitously ending up back at Tottenham Court Road. To home, where I had an hour to do sweet nothing, before my daughter came home, and offered me the kisses and cuddles that simply mean everything to me.

There are days to be busy. To focus on work, or personal interests like writing. There are productive days, and they are important.

And then there are days to remember the sweetness of a sheer lack of particular direction, where meandering as the mood takes you is nothing short of therapeutic.

For one afternoon, I forgot all else and was just… Alex.

Lovely.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Make it a merrier Christmas for women and children at Refuge

As November kicks off, I’m beginning to see evidence of the Advent shopping extravaganza to come. Christmas lists are beginning to be spoken of, and malls are defying the ever-worrying financial climate to start filling up with tinsel, sparkles and shoppers.

Some of us, perhaps because of that financial climate, are beginning to wonder what we really need, and what we merely want. Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting, but somehow waste doesn’t seem as acceptable as it used to.

In the midst of all this commercial to-ing and fro-ing, comes a plea. On Refuge‘s Facebook Page today, I saw this message:

Have you started to buy your Christmas presents yet? Please help to make sure that every woman and child in our refuges gets at least one present this year by supporting our Christmas gift list appeal:

https://www.johnlewisgiftlist.com/ list number 478985.

Gifts start from just £1.50 so please give what you can to help bring some happiness to women and children escaping domestic violence this Christmas. Thank you.

Right now, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather buy a present for.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

On Poundland and Twitchforks

I watched with interest this little storm in a Twitter teacup this morning. (I couldn’t bring myself to write Tweacup. Oh, look, I just did.)

To be honest, I found the whole thing pretty disquieting.

Now, generally speaking I wear a poppy. Even when I don’t, I still give to Poppy Appeal at this time of year. I do not lack respect for what the poppies stand for.

But the attacks levelled at Poundland today through social media really disturbed me. “People died for your freedom!” (to be told what to do by a baying mob). “I bet you’d let a Muslim wear a turban!” (Actual, distressingly bigoted and hilariously inaccurate statement on the Poundland Facebook Page that betrayed what, for this man at least, the argument was really all about).

I rarely talk about my faith, or my beliefs, or anything else that is largely a private matter, but I can tell you this: if my work uniform policy told me I couldn’t wear a symbol of support for something that is personal to me, I wouldn’t think twice about removing it. Because symbols are only external props; they do not take away what’s within. And what’s within can also be kept private; not wearing a poppy is not an act of disrespect.

When it comes to charity symbols, I think that they’re a perfectly valid and enjoyable fundraising tool: from badges and pins to Twibbons, people like a way to indicate their adherence to a particular cause and in our private lives I think it’s lovely that we have that opportunity. But, as grateful as I am to generations of soldiers, I don’t see why one symbol should be an exception when others are not. Poundland’s policy was simply to have their chosen charities’ symbols visible, but no others.

To many, the moral of today is that if you kick up a righteous stink, your wishes will be granted. And that’s true. But, at the risk of sounding like Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben, with great power comes great responsibility. When we march upon anyone waving our pitchforks over something like this, how long before it all stops being taken seriously at all? I can’t help feeling that if Poundland had dug their heels in, everyone would have forgotten about it shortly anyway (and, really, if they hadn’t gone making statements about it in the first place hardly anyone outside Lisburn would have heard of the story), and they would have discovered that it might not have been as big a crisis as they thought.

I really love that people power has been given a new lease of life through social channels. I just think that when you compare this to using social channels to organise a revolution, we might want to think about whether we’re mindlessly abusing the privilege – and whether we’ll be the Tweeters that cry wolf.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Free papers: a masterclass in misogyny

I gave up women’s magazines years ago. It’s not that I have any vast objection to most of their subject areas, because, you know, I dress appropriately for work, I quite like pretty jewellery and the odd makeup tip for creating a desired look is handy. But I have no time for publications that are going to airbrush women to within an inch of their lives and then tell me that it’s the only acceptable way to look. Furthermore, I don’t like the suggestion that man-pleasing sexuality, obsessive dieting, and dressing ‘for your body shape’ are the only ways to live, especially as that’s not required for men.

So, I gave them up. And for the record I’m probably slimmer, better dressed and more successful than I ever was with their help – and certainly more confident.

After a year’s maternity leave, I returned to the world of commuting and therefore free newspapers and magazines, morning and afternoon, in vast variety and abundance. Mostly these do a useful commuter public service, giving us all something to pretend to be gawping at while we’re watching the person opposite pick their nose, and they can be a useful way of getting to know about events, TV shows, etc etc.

But oh boy. I just don’t think I can read them anymore. I can’t even find it in myself to be all that angry about it all, but twice now I’ve garnered funny looks from forgetting myself and literally facepalming on the Tube. (It’s quite a good way to get some more breathing space).

In the last 24 hours alone, I’ve seen the following:

  • A huge letters page, complete with illustration, with no less than three letters from men all making the identical point that Theresa May’s proposed plans to notify women about violent partners are ‘sexist’ because they assume men aren’t victims of domestic violence. This was much more space than was devoted to the original article about the plans, and is accompanied by letters about how if women get a bit narked for being treated as weak and feeble they should ‘smile and say thank you’ because that’s just chivalry and we HAVE TO ACCEPT IT. (Because they were purposely excluded and this has nothing to do with the fact that this is designed to tackle a situation where ONE IN FOUR women will experience domestic violence, so it might just affect them more.)
  • A woman’s article about her partner staying at home to raise the baby and how she possibly feels a bit bad about this, so feminism should be careful what it wishes for. (Presumably because every woman must feel like she does, and those of us who are able to find a shared childcare model can’t possibly exist.)
  • A comment about the possible pregnancy of a famous actor’s wife which comments that because he already has three daughters he ‘must’ be keen on having a boy this time. (Because girls smell?)
  • An article about famous people from a particular ethnic group. For the three women, the comments were purely focussed on their bodies: one was ‘luscious’, one was just a backside and one was only interesting because she posed nude. For the two men (both of which have been sex symbols), it was strictly about their work. (If it’s not necessary to objectify men – and it’s not – then… Oh, I don’t even have the heart to continue explaining.)

And that’s me just sitting here remembering what I’ve been reading. I don’t even have the papers in front of me to pick through them.

What’s really scary is how much of this is just considered matter-of-fact discourse, and can’t even be put down to people trying to be misogynist. They just think this is how life is. Men are serious achievers, women are frivolous decorations. Men must want to populate the world with other men.  When help is offered to women who suffer disproportionately because of their sex, it must have been done to leave men out and victimise them.

Seriously, if you were having a conversation with someone about your issue and they kept talking about themselves, wouldn’t you just feel exhausted by it all?

So, I’m downing tools and giving up the papers again. I lived perfectly happily – happier – without them, after all. And maybe this blog will convince one other person to consider doing the same. And then maybe, as Wayne’s World once told us, they’ll tell two friends and they’ll tell their friends and so on and so on.

Cos really, I’ve seen from one campaign after another that writing to these papers and trying to explain why this is Not Good doesn’t work. Sometimes it’s appropriate to stay in the room and try to yell louder to be heard over the background noise. Sometimes you just figure you should leave the room and let other people make their own decisions.

Toodle pip.

 

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Reflections on Ramona: 14 months

Looking back at the 13 month mark, I’m astonished that there’s so much more to note in such a short space of time. People wonder why toddlers have tantrums, but seriously: can you imagine learning so many things in such a small space of time and not getting a bit cranky?

Leaving aside the leaps in physical co-ordination that are happening, it’s language that’s really astonishing me. I suppose because it’s so obvious all the time, and because it’s allowing me an inlet into communication with my daughter. Because one of the toughest things about being a parent is trying to understand and make yourself understood when there is no common language – except for body language, which is so easy to misread – between you.

So, to mark 14 months, as we dart inexorably on to 15 since I’ve been so late with this update, I give you Whiffle’s Baby Glossary. Or: things wot my kid says.

  • Family: Mummy, Daddy, Yiayia (Greek: grandma), Pappou (Greek: grandpa), Ouma (Afrikaans, grandma), ‘Gamps’ (Gramps), ‘Cabbi’ (Casper, the cat), ‘Aki’ (Alex, the cousin). Occasionally she attempts ‘Ramona’, and gets ‘amona’, which is not bad going for someone with six teeth.
  • Animals: ‘Giger’ (tiger), ‘Ca’ (cat), ‘a pi’ (pig). For ‘dog’ she just strokes the picture and goes ‘aaaahhhh’, and all black cats are ‘Cabbi’.
  • Objects and responses to questions: ‘App-ul’ (apple – tomatoes are also apples, apparently), tea, ‘tthhh’ (teeth), ‘appy’ (nappy, said when a change is needed), ca-ca / poo (likewise), ‘out’ (in response to ‘where did you go?’ or ‘in and…?’), ‘up / cup’ (cup), ‘a boo’ (book), ‘up-ah’ (to be picked up – my mother taught her that!), ‘tah’ (star), ‘baw’ (ball), ‘beh’ (bear).

I’m sure I’ve forgotten more than a few, and those are just the regular ones; often she’ll say something once and then put it away for a few days to be hesitantly brought out again later. I guess being around grandparents speaking two different languages and the varied, positive environment at nursery plus having two parents that don’t shut up is having something of an effect on her.

Incidentally, as I’ve said before, I’m really writing this for my own sake, so I can look back at how she was when she was a tot. I’m not tracking her development, or comparing her to others, and for all I know she should have done all this stuff months ago. I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m just a parent, who, just like most other parents, is fascinated by their own child.

Here’s to every single one of us just happening to have the coolest, smartest kid in the world.