It might have been the video quality on Skype or maybe I have my new best friend Touche Eclat from Yves Saint Laurent to thank for that. Anyhow, although I am secretly a little bit jealous of babies that sleep 13 hours in a row, I have actually no idea how often she feeds at night. The first thing I re-packed was the alarm clock. After staring at it during one night (with my thoughts going something like this: "Oh no, only 1:30, I have only slept for two hours. What? Four o'clock, that's not even three hours she has slept! Six o'clock? I hope I can sleep some more before Jonny needs to get up"- you get the idea), I decided that I didn't want to know. I realise I still have the luxury to be able to have a nap during the afternoon most days and I also know that it will get better. Until then I relish the night time moments Beatrice and I have together.
We are well on our way with establishing a night time routine: bath time with Jonny (I hear lots of singing, giggling and water splashing whilst I am busy doing something in the kitchen), then a book, a feed and then bed. Our perseverence paid off and by night three she was okay to fall sleep in her own cot. As opposed to our arms. Or the sofa. Somehow she still ends up in our bed somewhere during the night. Which is probably also against the 'rules'. Each morning we are met with the biggest grin ever. She looks at me, then looks at Jonny, then at me again, to make sure we are both there. And then she wees. In her potty.
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It is now getting colder here. Not European cold, but with sub-ten in the morning and 18 degrees in the afternoon it is colder than 35 degrees. Cold enough to put the heating on and cold enough for me not to want to go outside unless I have activities that take me outside. Today I had no things planned and decided to do some baking for the pot luck for the Christmas party from the international baby group tomorrow. But we did not have enough eggs left for both the brownies ánd the white chocolate fruit cake I wanted to make. And I couldn't choose between the one or the other. So with Beatrice in the sling I ventured outside to the little corner shop down the road to see if they sold eggs. They did, so I asked for six eggs and got them in a bag. Chicken poo and feathers still on them, so I knew they were real eggs.
Meanwhile Beatrice was undecided between giving the telly her attention or the Syrian shopkeeper who was cooing at her. In the end she decided on the shopkeeper and grinned back at him. As a thank you he added a slice of chocolate cake to our order. For the baby. "Is good, yeah?" Don't worry grandparents, I have not given it to her. Yet. It has so many additives, that it will still be okay by the time she is weaned and ready for it. In fact, I don't know what to give her first. The chocolate cake or the Rolo she was given by the Bahraini couple in the Beirut hotel. ;-)-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Having children in the Middle East is great. Apart from the unsuitable sweets Beatrice is given that is. People here love little children and she is constantly talked to, smiled at and carried around. I can't think of many places in Europe where other customers in a top-end Japanese restaurant wouldn't bat an eye-lid when a group of people with a baby and a toddler in tow arrived. Beatrice gets her mouth wiped by the shop owner of the Kodak store, is told by the maid from the neighbours that she loves her and carried around by the driver from the club. And she thrives with all the attention. We have been told that she is the smiliest baby ever, which is really nice to hear!
Last week was the first time I dressed her in a pair of jeans. And proudly mentioned the fact to a woman I met that day. She looked us both up and down and told me how a friend of hers warned her of the danger of having daughters and how you dress them identical to yourself. Only then I realised that we were both wearing a stripey top and blue jeans..-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeans and a basic top seems to be my uniform these days. I can't find much time to dress up and heels are slightly uncomfortable when carrying a baby around. Friend A. will be glad to hear I am wearing normal underwear again though. On the more embarrassing side was Jonny's question last night how long I had been wearing my top inside out. That is twice in two months. With the first time being worse, since I was in Jonny's office when one of his female co-workers inquired whether inside out tops were the new fashion. Argh.
How do other new mothers find time? I can't even find time to sit down and reply to all my email (sorry L., R. and M. that I have not replied yet, I will, promise!), unpack the last boxes, let alone write a post every day (like J.) or even twice a week (like V.). Maybe I should finally learn how to speed type. If only I had time!
After breakfast we stopped off at a shopping mall to get our retail therapy. Shops in Lebanon are pretty good and the shopping malls certainly as good as European ones, which helps explain how the Lebanese manage to look so well dressed and manicured. However, the prices in the shops are very expensive, noticeable more so than back in the Netherlands. For a country that does not have a great deal in the way of natural resources, it makes you wonder where the inhabitants get their money from? It was at the mall where we indulged in a couple of great coffees.
Before departing back to Syria, we popped into a supermarket to stock up on items that are difficult or expensive to find in Damascus (mainly pork products and alcohol... Lebanese beer and wine are both pretty good). The journey back was uneventful and the return boarder crossing went smooth, taking less than half an hour. I'm certainly glad that we visited Beirut, but given the stress of the boarder crossing and the drive (and the cost) I'll want to stay for a few nights next time. It will be nice to return early summer and sit on the beach and there are plenty of nice places to visit outside of Beirut, with great walking and cycling opportunities.
