Your Number 1

Mothers are really concerned about bodily functions.  
Just think about it. They are forever asking you about the 'go'.

"Do you have to go?", "Did you go?" Or even, "How was the go?"
They want to make sure you are "regular" and they are always really concerned about the state of your underwear.

Parents usually went to great lengths to ensure their kids' bodies were on schedule.
Remember that bi-yearly purge?

If your parents were anything like mine, you were mandated to drink that God-awful senna concoction in January, right after the Christmas holiday, and just when you started to regain the use of your taste buds, you had your second dose, at the end of August break, in preparation for school in September.

To give mothers their due, there is a lot to be learnt from stool but this little lesson today is not about number 2, it's about number 1. 
Urine, piss, pee...a rose by any other name would be just as gross.

But according to my mom, a sprinkle of tinkle has some powerful uses.
It can be used to cure Thrush. Thrush is a white rash often found in baby's mouth and tongue. It can be painful and make swallowing difficult. But with the power of pee from the baby's diaper, (the cloth kind, not Huggies,) you can help get rid of the infection. Yes, it sounds disgusting, but according to my mother, rubbing the wet diaper onto the thrush rash will help.

Another painful ailment is Conjunctivitis, more commonly know to us as Red-eye or Pink-eye. 
In babies, it can cause vision problems so it is not something you want to play with.  Just like with thrush, wiping the baby's infected eye with the wet diaper is supposed to help with the painful redness and swelling as well as the build-up of mucus in the corner of the eye, symptomatic of Red-eye.

Don't be too grossed out by these, pee-pee had many household uses throughout history, including drinking.
Just be glad that there are caffeinated beverages and flavour additives available now so the disgusting things you put into your mouth today generally taste great.

Hiccup flick-up

Hiccups are generally harmless.  Everyone, who is anyone, has battled these bouts at one time or another, maybe before some food or after some drink. They are involuntary contractions of the diaphragm muscles. And really, they are usually nothing to worry about. 

Everyone has a remedy: drink a glass of water upside-down, suck on a lime, take a deep breath and hold it or, for the adventurous, have those hiccoughs scared out of you. I even heard that a warm bath was the best way to smooth away the hiccups. Personally, I just wait the buggers out, they usually come to an end all on their own.
(However, if they persist for more than three hours, it is advised that you visit your doctor.)

Some people even say that hiccups means one is gaining some weight and for a baby, a little weight gain is not a bad thing.
However, when your one week-old baby starts to hiccup so violently that her tiny six-pound body is racked by endless convulsions, then they don't seem nearly as benign as you always believed. In that case, you usually find yourself standing helplessly by and panicking about the permanent damage that is no doubt being inflicted on her fragile body (you can already visualise them), followed by the  almost-creepily intensive staring session while you wait for these terrifying tremors to stop.

Now, I am not saying that those other remedies won't do the trick, and if you aren't partial to the baby then, by all means, scares the hiccups away. But I had grown a tad attached to my daughter so, no could do.
Luckily, my mother knows what to do to stop them. You simply take a piece of thread, suck on it for a bit, then stick it onto the baby's forehead. Make sure the thread comes from the baby's clothing, apparently, it's the clincher.

Or, take an unlit matchstick or two and put them into the baby's hair, above the soft spot at the crown.
However, just between you and me, here's the quickest cure for baby's hiccups that I know: milk.
While breast may be best, bottles have worked for ages, so run with that if you have to. Simply stick a teat of some kind in the baby's mouth and before you know it, no more hiccups.

Yeah, baby, suck on that!

Mirror mirror

When my daughter began toddling, she developed this habit of standing in front of the mirror and kissing her reflection. She would go "goo-goo-gaa-gaa" over her eight-teeth smile and I would go "goo-goo-gaa- gaa" over her.
I thought it was just the cutest thing ever, until my mother put in her two-cents.

According to Mother Knower, a baby should not watch his reflection in a mirror because the father "will not 'mine' the child", meaning he would not take care of him financially. 

Listen up all you single mothers and all you deadbeat dads, despite the convoluted Sociological and Psychological explanations being tossed about, the real reason for your problems is that your baby played with a mirror!
Isn't it great to have all the answers?

If my mind was not blown enough, she added that children who spend a lot of time in front of the mirror have frequent nightmares. And that is because the spirits of the dead can be seen in the looking glass and children are sensitive enough to be disturbed by them.

My mother was never twisted enough to insist that we cover all mirrors in the house, though it has been said that when a loved one goes to that great, big playground in the sky, his family should cover all the mirrors in the house for the next three days so that the spirit does not get drawn into one and stay trapped on earth. I am not sure if we dodged that bullet because Mama did not believe it or because no one in our house died so we never had to put it to the test.

I am not telling you to believe in all of this hocus-pocus, but I can honestly tell you  something - and no judging! - for years, my daughter would awake crying from the bad dreams that she had had; and her father is as dead a beat as possible without becoming an actual beet or some other vegetable.

Coincidence?
Let me find out:
"Magic Mirror, on the wall...."

No black, Yes black

When my daughter was about eight years old, she went through an 'Emo' phase.
Was eight too young for a phase?  Maybe, I blame cartoons.
Anyway, she came home from school one day, bubbling over with excitement, because her class was going on an outing to the mall and, of course, she had 'nothing to wear' so there was a shopping trip in our future.

No matter what anyone tries to tell you, the power of cute packs quite a punch and somehow she ended up with an adorable black blouse and black jeans. Because the outing was at the mall (where those people seem to forget that Trinidad is a tropical island and should never be 17° C) she needed a jacket. Luckily, I happened to own a tapered black blazer with a long tail which fit my baby like a trench coat. Her hair was a jumble of twists and curls which were surprisingly easy to manipulate into something resembling a faux hawk.
 Can you picture it? 
Absolutely gorgeous!

At least I thought so until my mother saw my daughter on her return from the outing.

At no point did she say that black was not beautiful - because we all know it is - but she said everything else.

'Why in the insert-colourful-phrase -here did I dress my child in all black?'
'Was I crazy?' 
'Was I blind?' 
'Did I not know how inappropriate it was to put a child in black?'

I tried to counter:
She was completely clothed.
According to my mother, I was still wrong.
No navel showing. I was still wrong.
No off-the-shoulder, no halter, no cleavage-baring, deep v-neck.
I was still wrong.
No miniskirt, no figure-hugging sheath. (I had decided that she was not allowed to have a figure).
She was with her teachers, not on a date.
She was not wearing any makeup. (Although some black nail polish and eyeliner would have been the perfect compliment and tied the hold 'Emo' thing together)
Guess what? I was still in the wrong!

Just between you and me, to this day, I am still not completely sure what unforgivable hanging offense I had committed by dressing my child in a perfectly decent and beautiful suit of clothes but based on my mother's completely over-the-top and totally irrational reaction, it was a doozy!

But there was no way to win against my mother so, no to black.

One day, I think it was after a funeral or the death of a family member, my mother told me to make sure we turned our  underwear inside-out  before bed to keep out the wandering spirits.
That's not the strangest part.
She said we needed to wear black undies to bed. Yes, black!

After almost having my head bitten off, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated, why would buy my child any more black clothes?

I am not sure why I brought it back up but I opened my mouth and verbal vomit spewed forth.

'Are you not the person who forbid me, under the threat of grievous bodily harm, to dress my daughter in black?'

I don't know if her response knocked the smart or the stupid out of me but when she said, in her brook-no-argument tone of voice, that "This was different."
I said nothing...absolutely nothing.

'Chook' her tongue

Pacifiers were banned in my house; my mother said they caused cock-teeth. Sucking finger was also a no-no which meant that my daughter had to be a little bit craftier when it came to self-soothing, she sucked on her tongue.

And while you and I would probably chalk it up as a harmless little habit, my mother said it would cause 'O-mouth'. This basically meant that her mouth would not close properly and leave her with (how do I phrase this delicately?)  that 'elevator-not-quite-reaching-the-top-floor', 'lights-on-nobody-home, short-yellow-bus type of finish.

But fear not, because, according to my mother, there is a simple way to dissuade a baby from sucking her tongue, you simply take a pin or a needle and 'chook' her tongue.
Now before you fly into a justifiable rage and call in child services and the big guns, please note that I put my foot firmly down where that was concerned. There was no way in hell that I was sticking a needle into my child - immunizations and ear piercings were bad enough. 

But apparently, in the olden days, it was all the rage to slightly abuse your baby under the guise of training...

Apart from this needle play, if your toddler showed too much interest in the stove or any open flame, you were to burn her finger and in this counterintuitive manner, you teach your offspring about the dangers of fire.
And if your baby sucked finger, smearing aloes or chicken droppings on the digit was supposed to break them of that habit.

Now, it' s in writing, that I don't have the cojones to stand up to my mother (mainly because she hits) but I stood my ground and won my case this time.

"Why?" You may ask ... and that's a very good question.
Well, my mother may be the expert on all things baby, but...my little sister sucked her thumb all thorough secondary school.
Yep, that's right.
My mother had tried that aloe trick, my sister simply lathered, rinsed and repeated a few times before sticking her thumb right back into her mouth.

Yeah, Mama...'chook' that!

Bald spot

When my daughter was about six years old, I almost did hard time for murder.

I was all set to commit, not just a homicide, but Matricide. I thought about various ways to get rid of the body, but where would I get a wood-chipper? I realised that I would definitely go down because this time, my mother had gone too far this time and gave my child with a bald spot.

Let me tell you the story and you will see why no jury on earth would convict me.

My baby was born with a full head of curly, black silk which quickly and inexplicably became a high top. It took close to two years for her hair to full back in but when it did, it became one of those thick, voluminous masses that half of us hate and the other half envy. I was still in that rainbow stage, you know what I mean, no bubbles or clips or ribbons could escape.

 One day, while not playing in my baby's hair, I noticed a bump, a 'button' on her scalp. Slightly concerned on the outside and completely panicking on the inside, I wondered aloud about its origin while thoughts of maldew (malju), dirty comb and God-knows-what-else passed through my mind.

 "It's eczema" says my mother, "you have to cut the hair around it".
How I resisted the immediate urge to scream, not just ‘No’, but ‘Hell Frigging No!’ at the woman who gave me life should be taken as proof of God's love and mercy. Instead, I almost politely disagreed and declined.

Instead, I parted around the bump and rubbed medicated lotion and powders onto it. About a week later, while combing my baby's hair (as good hygiene dictates, not because I had bought new bubbles or anything) I saw that the bump had gotten bigger and looked angry and inflamed.
Only slightly worried, not uncontrollable or anything, I mumbled and grumbled about this stinky, 'dutty', 'good-fuh-nuttin' button and the horse it rode in on.

"It's eczema", my mother says, "You have to cut the hair around it".
Again, I politely declined. 
(Okay, fine! I was a little rude but ‘no’ means ‘no’.)

One day I was out and about, maybe smelling daisies, I can't remember, but when I returned home, my daughter was sporting a brand-new, shiny bald spot around the bump. Shades of The Pig's Tale ran through my head.
"I warned that Mom, Your Honour. Your Honour, I warned that Mom."

Long story short, I did not kill my mother ...but I was really angry.
And it had nothing at all to do with the fact that within a week that eczema had dried right up, apparently, the hair around it needed to be cut. 

Go figure.