World Prematurity Day and a New Nephew

This is my brand new nephew, born on Wednesday 13 November. He has arrived about six weeks too early and looks much bigger in this picture than he actually is. Actually you cannot grasp how little he is until you pick him up, all 1,8 kg of him. He's all skin and bone and wrinkly as anything. He seems far too fragile to be out here.

Perhaps with a nod to making the right entrance, he decided to put in an appearance during World Prematurity Week. Today, 17 November, is World Prematurity Day, celebrated around the world to improve awareness of premature birth and how it can be prevented. Millions of babies are born prematurely every year of which 1 million die, about one baby in ten. It has become the leading cause of newborn deaths. (Premature babies are babies born before 37 weeks.)  Simple care like warmth and feeding support are essential to improving the chances of survival of these babies.

Giving birth is such a common occurrence that we tend to forget what a miracle and blessing it is that everything proceeds without a hitch. In spite of his early arrival, he has all the reflexes for survival and here he is holding onto his father's thumb for dear life.

And here he is three days old, already looking a little more handsome.

May he and all the other preemies go from strength to strength and live long and productive lives. 

Knit One, Purl One

In my day we learned to knit and sew at school, producing garments which hid a multitude of sins beneath the uniform exteriors presented for marking. The wool was of the cheapest acrylic you could buy from OK Bazaars and the fabric was stiff, government-issue. The products of our labour were not meant to be worn proudly.

Luckily, my creative side was not totally killed off. I was surrounded by women who were skilled crafters. My paternal grandmother’s fingers flew over her crochet work – churning out intricately designed bedspreads which supplemented her small pension. My maternal grandmother was renowned for her annual stall at the church bazaar which she stocked with everything from cushions and tea cosies to knitted baby clothes and adult-sized jerseys. My mother could knit up a storm. She preferred knitting smaller items for children so family and friends alike were treated to the fruits of her busy hands.

It was as a university student that I really got over my first awkward attempts and started sewing my own clothes. Later on I proudly produced clothes for both my children, with fun fabrics bought from the Naartjie outlet up the road. I also became a prolific knitter (although none of my children benefitted from that phase – they had granny). As students we were into pure wool, hand-spun and naturally dyed which we had to roll into balls before we could begin to knit. Together we sat between lectures with our thick needles and brightly coloured yarn, comparing life experiences and the jerseys we were knitting for boyfriends. And then slowly without any conscious decision, I stopped.

This flood of nostalgia was brought on by popping into the Knead restaurant a little while ago. I was eager for one of their roasted aubergine pizzas (yum!). Right at the door was a basket overflowing with fluffy, bobbly wool and knitting needles. “Knit a row and go” said the sign next to it. I didn’t need a second invitation. So while I waited for my order, I took a trip down memory lane.

The “Knit a Row and Go” campaign is a drive to get 1 000 blankets for orphaned babies launched by Me-a-Mama. Look out for wool, needles and instructions at cafes, waiting rooms and hairdressers.