You must always check a silence, not because the baby might have choked, but because it is in the middle of destroying something, thoroughly and slowly, with great and secret pleasure. It is important to remember this — you run back to the room, not to see if the baby needs resuscitation, but to save your floppy disks. Once you realise where the balance actually lies you can free yourself from the prison of worry. I know this. I am an expert. Some people, as they mount the stairs, might listen for the sound of a toy still in use — to me, this was the sound of the baby randomly kicking buttons in a sudden choking or epileptic fit. I used to read the ‘Emergencies’ section in the How to Kill Your Baby books all the time. The How to Kill Your Baby books are so popular that I assume some part of us wants to do just that. If the unconscious works by opposites, then it is a murderous business too, giving birth.
How to Kill Your Baby: A List:
Too much salt, fungally infected honey, a slippy bath surface, suddenly jealous pets, permanently jealous siblings, a stupid or pathological babysitter, the stairs, a house that goes on fire while you are ‘outside moving the car’, a child-snatcher, a small plastic toy, a playful jiggle that is as bad as a shake, an open cutlery drawer, a necklace, a string, a plastic bag, a piece of burst balloon, an electric cord, a telephone cord, a lollipop, a curtain cord, an inhaled sweet, an accidentally suffocating pillow, a smoky room, the wrong kind of mattress, an open window, a milk allergy, a nut allergy, a bee sting, a virus, a bacterial infection, a badly balanced walker, a bottle of bleach, all kinds of weedkiller, both on the lawn or in the bottle, pesticides, miscellaneous fumes, all carcinogens including apples, a failure to apply sun cream, the lack of a hat, battery-produced eggs, inorganic meat, cars. You might also have Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy without knowing it, so it is a good idea to check yourself for this, from time to time.
As far as I can see from the news reports, one of the most dangerous creatures in a child’s life is a stepfather, but the books don’t seem to mention them. They warn against mothers’ endless sloppiness with dangerous domestic objects, but they never mention their taste in men.
When the baby is eight months old, she cries every time I move out of sight. This separation anxiety can get quite wearing — it is so large and so illogical. Besides, I don’t need to be reminded that I’m not going anywhere, I am with this baby all the time. But I wonder if part of the problem isn’t my own anxiety when I leave the room. Will she still be alive when I get back? I picture the court case.
‘And why, pray tell, did you leave the baby?’
‘I . . . A call of nature, your honour.’
He pauses. A ripple of sympathy runs through the courtroom.
‘Well, I suppose even the best mothers must er um,’ though you know he thinks we shouldn’t. ‘Case dismissed. I suppose.’
Mothers worry. Fathers worry too, of course. But mothers are supposed to worry, and fathers are supposed to reassure. Yes, she is all right on the swing, no, he will not fall into the stream, yes, I will park the buggy in the shade, oh, please get a grip.
Is it really a gender thing? Maybe the people who worry most are the ones who spend the most time with the baby, because babies train us into it — the desperation of holding, walking, singing, distracting. Babies demand your entire self, but it is a funny kind of self. It is a mixture of the ‘all’ a factory worker gives to the conveyor belt and the ‘all’ a lover offers to the one he adores. It involves, on both counts, a fair degree of self-abnegation.
This is why people who mind children suffer from despair; it happens all of a sudden — they realise, all of a sudden, that they still exist. It is to keep this crux at bay perhaps — that is why we worry. Because worry is a way of not thinking something through.
I think worry is a neglected emotion — it is something that small-minded people do — but it has its existential side too. Here is the fire that burns, the button that chokes, here is the kettle, the car, the bacterium, the man in a mac. On the other side is something so vulnerable and yet so huge — there is something unknowable about a baby. And between these two uncertainties is the parent; completely responsible, mostly helpless, caught in an ever-shrinking circle of guilt and protectiveness, until a kind of frozen passivity sets in. There is a kind of freedom to it too — the transference of dread from the self to the child is so total: it makes you disappear. Ping! Don’t mind me.
The martyred mother is someone uplifted, someone who has given everything. She is the reason we are all here. She is also, and even to herself, a pain in the neck.
I think mothers worry more than fathers because worry keeps them pregnant. To worry is to possess, contain, hold. It is the most tenacious of emotions. A worry — and a worrier — never lets go. ‘It never ends,’ says my mother, ‘it never ends,’ meaning the love, but also the fret.
Because worry has no narrative, it does not shift, or change. It has no resolution. That is what it is for — not ending, holding on. And sometimes it is terrible to be the one who is held, and mostly it is just irritating, because the object of anxiety is not, after all, you. We slip like phantoms from our parents’ heads, leaving them to clutch some Thing they call by our name, because a mother has no ability to let her child go. And then, much later, in need, or in tragedy, or in the wearing of age, we slip back into her possession, because sometimes you just want your mother to hold you, in her heart if not in her arms, as she is still held by her own mother, even now, from time to time.
Anne Enright, ‘Worry’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 177-79.
Vaikus peaks alati valvsaks tegema, mitte seepärast, et laps võib olla midagi kurku tõmmanud, vaid seepärast, et ta võib olla parasjagu mõne salajase hävitustöö kallal, tehes seda suure mõnu ja põhjalikkusega. Seda tasub meeles pidada. Vaikust kontrollima tormates tekitab suuremat muret diskettide saatus kui see, kas last ehk elustama peab hakkama. Kui õpime olukorda õigesti hindama, pääseme murevanglast vabaks. Ma tean seda. Ma olen muretsemises ekspert. Mõni võib trepist üles kõndides kuulama jääda, kuidas laps mänguasjaga mängib – minu peas tähendas see hoopis, et last oli tabanud ootamatu lämbumis- või epilepsiahoog, mistõttu ta on hakanud suvaliselt nuppe taguma. Kunagi oli mul kombeks lugeda sarja „Kuidas tappa oma väikelast” „Hädaolukorra” peatükke. See raamatusari on niivõrd populaarne, et tekib tunne, nagu mingi osake meist just seda teha tahakski. Kuna alateadvus toimib teatavasti vastandite kaudu, võib ka sünnitamist pidada mõrvarlikuks tegevuseks.
Loetelu võimalustest, kuidas tappa oma väikelast:
Liiga palju soola; seeneeostega mesi; libe vannipind; äkitselt armukadedaks muutunud lemmikloomad; püsivalt armukadedad õed-vennad; rumal või maniakaalne lapsehoidja; trepid; maja, mis läheb põlema, kui oled “õues autot ümber parkimas”; lapseröövlid; väike plastikust mänguasi; mänguline väntsutamine, mis on sama halb kui raputamine; avatud söögiriistasahtel; kaelakee; nöör; kilekott; katki läinud õhupalli tükk; elektrijuhe; telefonijuhe; pulgakomm; kardinapael; sisse ahmitud maiuspala; õnnetul kombel lämmatav padi; suitsune tuba; vale madrats; lahtine aken; piimaallergia; pähkliallergia; mesilaspiste; viirus; bakteriaalne infektsioon; logisev käimistool; valgendi; igasugused umbrohumürgid nii murul kui pudelis; pestitsiidid; erinevad aurud; kõik kartsinogeenid, sealhulgas õunad; päikesekreemita või mütsita õueskäik; puurikanade munad; mittemahe liha; autod. Samuti võib juhtuda, et hakkate lapsele haigusi välja mõtlema – ka selles osas tasub oma mõttemustritel silma peal hoida.
Uudistest on mulle jäänud mulje, et üks kõige ohtlikumaid inimesi lapse elus on kasuisa, aga raamatutes sellest ei räägita. Raamatutes hoiatatakse meid, kuivõrd hooletult käivad emad ümber erinevate ohtlike koduste esemetega, kuid nende meestevalikut ei mainita kunagi.
Kaheksa kuu vanuselt hakkab laps nutma iga kord, kui ma silmapiirilt kaon. Selline lahusolekuhirm võib lõpuks üpris kurnav olla – see on niivõrd suur ja loogikavastane. Samuti pole mulle vaja pidevalt meelde tuletada, et ma siit kuhugi minema ei pääse. Ma olen alati lapsega koos. Vahel mõtlen siiski, et probleem võib seisneda ka minu enda ärevuses, mis mul toast ära käies välja lööb. Kas mu laps on naastes endiselt elus? Näen vaimusilmas kohtuistungit.
“Ja jumal hoidku, miks te lapse üksi jätsite?”
“Ma… Loodus kutsus, teie ausus.”
Kohtunik teeb pausi. Saalist käib üle kaastundelaine.
“Noh, eks juhtub ka kõige parematel emadel…”, kuigi on ilmselge, et tema arvates ei tohiks seda juhtuda. “Kohtuasi lõpetatud. Mis muud.”
Emad muretsevad. Isad muidugi ka. Emad aga peavadki muretsema ning isade ülesanne on rahustada. Ei, temaga ei juhtu kiikudes midagi, ei, ta ei kuku vette, jah, ma jätan vankri päikese eest varju. Palun võta ennast kokku.
On see tõesti sooline erinevus? Ehk muretsevad peamiselt ikkagi need, kes lapsega enim aega veedavad, sest lapsed õpetavad meid seda tegema – neid peab pidevalt hoidma, nendega jalutama, neile laulma ja neid lõbustama. Väikesed lapsed vajavad kõike, mis meil anda on, ja mõnes mõttes isegi enamat. Nad vajavad nii liinitöölise masinlikku tähelepanu kui ka armastaja jäägitut pühendumust. Mõlemal juhul hõlmab see endas teatavat enesesalgamist.
Seepärast vaevlevadki inimesed, kes lastega tegelevad, meeleheite küüsis. Äkitselt saavad nad aru, et ka nemad ise pole kuhugi kadunud. Me muretsemegi sellepärast, et selle äratundmise eest pageda. Muretsemine päästab meid sellesse süvenemisest.
Ma arvan, et muretsemisele ei pöörata suuremat tähelepanu, sest arvatakse, et see on kitsarinnaliste inimeste pärusmaa. Sellel on aga ka eksistentsiaalne külg. Ühelt poolt kimbutavad kõrvetav leek; ohtlik nööp; veekeetja; auto; bakter; kommionu; teisalt on lapse juures midagi tundmatut – midagi niivõrd haavatavat ja samas niivõrd vägevat.
Ja nende kahe ebamäärasuse vahel asub lapsevanem, kes on täielikult vastutav, suuremas osas abitu, keda lämmatab süütunne ja vajadus last kaitsta, kuniks mingi passiivsus end sisse seab. Selle juures peitub ka teatud vabadus – enda hirmude lapsele ülekandmine on niivõrd täielik, et me ei karda enam iseenda, vaid ainult lapse pärast, ja niiviisi haihtume. Pauh! Olengi läinud.
Märter-ema on rõõmsameelne inimene, keegi, kes on loovutanud kõik. Ta on põhjus, miks me kõik siin oleme. Ta on ühtlasi ka – isegi iseenda jaoks – igavene nuhtlus.
Ma arvan, et emad muretsevad rohkem kui isad, sest muretsemine on justkui jätkuks lapseootele. See muretsemine väljendub kontrolli omamises, liigses kaitsmises ja hoidmises. See on kõige jonnakam emotsioon üldse. Mure – ja muretseja – ei lase kunagi asjadel minna. „Sellele ei tule iial lõppu,“ ütleb mu ema, „Ei iial,“ viidates armastusele, kuid ühtlasi ka pabistamisele.
Kuna murel puudub narratiiv, siis ei saa see muutuda ega selle fookus vahetuda. Sellele ei ole lahendust. Mure olemus seisnebki selles, et tal ei ole lõppu; ta kestab edasi. Mõnikord on kohutav olla see, kelle pärast muretsetakse, ja enamasti on see lihtsalt ärritav, sest lõppude lõpuks ei ole mure objektiks ju meie ise. Me hääbume viirastusena oma vanemate mõtteist, jättes nad klammerduma Millegi külge, mida nad kutsuvad meie nimega, sest emad ei suuda oma lastest lahti lasta. Ja siis, palju hiljem, olgu siis hädas, õnnetuses või lihtsalt vanemaks saades, naaseme ema hoole alla, sest vahel soovime kõigest, et ta meid hoiaks – kui mitte käte vahel, siis südames – just nagu teda hoiab veel praegugi vahetevahel tema enda ema.
You must always check a silence, not because the baby might have choked, but because it is in the middle of destroying something, thoroughly and slowly, with great and secret pleasure. It is important to remember this — you run back to the room, not to see if the baby needs resuscitation, but to save your floppy disks. Once you realise where the balance actually lies you can free yourself from the prison of worry. I know this. I am an expert. Some people, as they mount the stairs, might listen for the sound of a toy still in use — to me, this was the sound of the baby randomly kicking buttons in a sudden choking or epileptic fit. I used to read the ‘Emergencies’ section in the How to Kill Your Baby books all the time. The How to Kill Your Baby books are so popular that I assume some part of us wants to do just that. If the unconscious works by opposites, then it is a murderous business too, giving birth.
How to Kill Your Baby: A List:
Too much salt, fungally infected honey, a slippy bath surface, suddenly jealous pets, permanently jealous siblings, a stupid or pathological babysitter, the stairs, a house that goes on fire while you are ‘outside moving the car’, a child-snatcher, a small plastic toy, a playful jiggle that is as bad as a shake, an open cutlery drawer, a necklace, a string, a plastic bag, a piece of burst balloon, an electric cord, a telephone cord, a lollipop, a curtain cord, an inhaled sweet, an accidentally suffocating pillow, a smoky room, the wrong kind of mattress, an open window, a milk allergy, a nut allergy, a bee sting, a virus, a bacterial infection, a badly balanced walker, a bottle of bleach, all kinds of weedkiller, both on the lawn or in the bottle, pesticides, miscellaneous fumes, all carcinogens including apples, a failure to apply sun cream, the lack of a hat, battery-produced eggs, inorganic meat, cars. You might also have Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy without knowing it, so it is a good idea to check yourself for this, from time to time.
As far as I can see from the news reports, one of the most dangerous creatures in a child’s life is a stepfather, but the books don’t seem to mention them. They warn against mothers’ endless sloppiness with dangerous domestic objects, but they never mention their taste in men.
When the baby is eight months old, she cries every time I move out of sight. This separation anxiety can get quite wearing — it is so large and so illogical. Besides, I don’t need to be reminded that I’m not going anywhere, I am with this baby all the time. But I wonder if part of the problem isn’t my own anxiety when I leave the room. Will she still be alive when I get back? I picture the court case.
‘And why, pray tell, did you leave the baby?’
‘I . . . A call of nature, your honour.’
He pauses. A ripple of sympathy runs through the courtroom.
‘Well, I suppose even the best mothers must er um,’ though you know he thinks we shouldn’t. ‘Case dismissed. I suppose.’
Mothers worry. Fathers worry too, of course. But mothers are supposed to worry, and fathers are supposed to reassure. Yes, she is all right on the swing, no, he will not fall into the stream, yes, I will park the buggy in the shade, oh, please get a grip.
Is it really a gender thing? Maybe the people who worry most are the ones who spend the most time with the baby, because babies train us into it — the desperation of holding, walking, singing, distracting. Babies demand your entire self, but it is a funny kind of self. It is a mixture of the ‘all’ a factory worker gives to the conveyor belt and the ‘all’ a lover offers to the one he adores. It involves, on both counts, a fair degree of self-abnegation.
This is why people who mind children suffer from despair; it happens all of a sudden — they realise, all of a sudden, that they still exist. It is to keep this crux at bay perhaps — that is why we worry. Because worry is a way of not thinking something through.
I think worry is a neglected emotion — it is something that small-minded people do — but it has its existential side too. Here is the fire that burns, the button that chokes, here is the kettle, the car, the bacterium, the man in a mac. On the other side is something so vulnerable and yet so huge — there is something unknowable about a baby. And between these two uncertainties is the parent; completely responsible, mostly helpless, caught in an ever-shrinking circle of guilt and protectiveness, until a kind of frozen passivity sets in. There is a kind of freedom to it too — the transference of dread from the self to the child is so total: it makes you disappear. Ping! Don’t mind me.
The martyred mother is someone uplifted, someone who has given everything. She is the reason we are all here. She is also, and even to herself, a pain in the neck.
I think mothers worry more than fathers because worry keeps them pregnant. To worry is to possess, contain, hold. It is the most tenacious of emotions. A worry — and a worrier — never lets go. ‘It never ends,’ says my mother, ‘it never ends,’ meaning the love, but also the fret.
Because worry has no narrative, it does not shift, or change. It has no resolution. That is what it is for — not ending, holding on. And sometimes it is terrible to be the one who is held, and mostly it is just irritating, because the object of anxiety is not, after all, you. We slip like phantoms from our parents’ heads, leaving them to clutch some Thing they call by our name, because a mother has no ability to let her child go. And then, much later, in need, or in tragedy, or in the wearing of age, we slip back into her possession, because sometimes you just want your mother to hold you, in her heart if not in her arms, as she is still held by her own mother, even now, from time to time.
Anne Enright, ‘Worry’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 177-79.
Vaikus peaks alati valvsaks tegema, mitte seepärast, et laps võib olla midagi kurku tõmmanud, vaid seepärast, et ta võib olla parasjagu mõne salajase hävitustöö kallal, tehes seda suure mõnu ja põhjalikkusega. Seda tasub meeles pidada. Vaikust kontrollima tormates tekitab suuremat muret diskettide saatus kui see, kas last ehk elustama peab hakkama. Kui õpime olukorda õigesti hindama, pääseme murevanglast vabaks. Ma tean seda. Ma olen muretsemises ekspert. Mõni võib trepist üles kõndides kuulama jääda, kuidas laps mänguasjaga mängib – minu peas tähendas see hoopis, et last oli tabanud ootamatu lämbumis- või epilepsiahoog, mistõttu ta on hakanud suvaliselt nuppe taguma. Kunagi oli mul kombeks lugeda sarja „Kuidas tappa oma väikelast” „Hädaolukorra” peatükke. See raamatusari on niivõrd populaarne, et tekib tunne, nagu mingi osake meist just seda teha tahakski. Kuna alateadvus toimib teatavasti vastandite kaudu, võib ka sünnitamist pidada mõrvarlikuks tegevuseks.
Loetelu võimalustest, kuidas tappa oma väikelast:
Liiga palju soola; seeneeostega mesi; libe vannipind; äkitselt armukadedaks muutunud lemmikloomad; püsivalt armukadedad õed-vennad; rumal või maniakaalne lapsehoidja; trepid; maja, mis läheb põlema, kui oled “õues autot ümber parkimas”; lapseröövlid; väike plastikust mänguasi; mänguline väntsutamine, mis on sama halb kui raputamine; avatud söögiriistasahtel; kaelakee; nöör; kilekott; katki läinud õhupalli tükk; elektrijuhe; telefonijuhe; pulgakomm; kardinapael; sisse ahmitud maiuspala; õnnetul kombel lämmatav padi; suitsune tuba; vale madrats; lahtine aken; piimaallergia; pähkliallergia; mesilaspiste; viirus; bakteriaalne infektsioon; logisev käimistool; valgendi; igasugused umbrohumürgid nii murul kui pudelis; pestitsiidid; erinevad aurud; kõik kartsinogeenid, sealhulgas õunad; päikesekreemita või mütsita õueskäik; puurikanade munad; mittemahe liha; autod. Samuti võib juhtuda, et hakkate lapsele haigusi välja mõtlema – ka selles osas tasub oma mõttemustritel silma peal hoida.
Uudistest on mulle jäänud mulje, et üks kõige ohtlikumaid inimesi lapse elus on kasuisa, aga raamatutes sellest ei räägita. Raamatutes hoiatatakse meid, kuivõrd hooletult käivad emad ümber erinevate ohtlike koduste esemetega, kuid nende meestevalikut ei mainita kunagi.
Kaheksa kuu vanuselt hakkab laps nutma iga kord, kui ma silmapiirilt kaon. Selline lahusolekuhirm võib lõpuks üpris kurnav olla – see on niivõrd suur ja loogikavastane. Samuti pole mulle vaja pidevalt meelde tuletada, et ma siit kuhugi minema ei pääse. Ma olen alati lapsega koos. Vahel mõtlen siiski, et probleem võib seisneda ka minu enda ärevuses, mis mul toast ära käies välja lööb. Kas mu laps on naastes endiselt elus? Näen vaimusilmas kohtuistungit.
“Ja jumal hoidku, miks te lapse üksi jätsite?”
“Ma… Loodus kutsus, teie ausus.”
Kohtunik teeb pausi. Saalist käib üle kaastundelaine.
“Noh, eks juhtub ka kõige parematel emadel…”, kuigi on ilmselge, et tema arvates ei tohiks seda juhtuda. “Kohtuasi lõpetatud. Mis muud.”
Emad muretsevad. Isad muidugi ka. Emad aga peavadki muretsema ning isade ülesanne on rahustada. Ei, temaga ei juhtu kiikudes midagi, ei, ta ei kuku vette, jah, ma jätan vankri päikese eest varju. Palun võta ennast kokku.
On see tõesti sooline erinevus? Ehk muretsevad peamiselt ikkagi need, kes lapsega enim aega veedavad, sest lapsed õpetavad meid seda tegema – neid peab pidevalt hoidma, nendega jalutama, neile laulma ja neid lõbustama. Väikesed lapsed vajavad kõike, mis meil anda on, ja mõnes mõttes isegi enamat. Nad vajavad nii liinitöölise masinlikku tähelepanu kui ka armastaja jäägitut pühendumust. Mõlemal juhul hõlmab see endas teatavat enesesalgamist.
Seepärast vaevlevadki inimesed, kes lastega tegelevad, meeleheite küüsis. Äkitselt saavad nad aru, et ka nemad ise pole kuhugi kadunud. Me muretsemegi sellepärast, et selle äratundmise eest pageda. Muretsemine päästab meid sellesse süvenemisest.
Ma arvan, et muretsemisele ei pöörata suuremat tähelepanu, sest arvatakse, et see on kitsarinnaliste inimeste pärusmaa. Sellel on aga ka eksistentsiaalne külg. Ühelt poolt kimbutavad kõrvetav leek; ohtlik nööp; veekeetja; auto; bakter; kommionu; teisalt on lapse juures midagi tundmatut – midagi niivõrd haavatavat ja samas niivõrd vägevat.
Ja nende kahe ebamäärasuse vahel asub lapsevanem, kes on täielikult vastutav, suuremas osas abitu, keda lämmatab süütunne ja vajadus last kaitsta, kuniks mingi passiivsus end sisse seab. Selle juures peitub ka teatud vabadus – enda hirmude lapsele ülekandmine on niivõrd täielik, et me ei karda enam iseenda, vaid ainult lapse pärast, ja niiviisi haihtume. Pauh! Olengi läinud.
Märter-ema on rõõmsameelne inimene, keegi, kes on loovutanud kõik. Ta on põhjus, miks me kõik siin oleme. Ta on ühtlasi ka – isegi iseenda jaoks – igavene nuhtlus.
Ma arvan, et emad muretsevad rohkem kui isad, sest muretsemine on justkui jätkuks lapseootele. See muretsemine väljendub kontrolli omamises, liigses kaitsmises ja hoidmises. See on kõige jonnakam emotsioon üldse. Mure – ja muretseja – ei lase kunagi asjadel minna. „Sellele ei tule iial lõppu,“ ütleb mu ema, „Ei iial,“ viidates armastusele, kuid ühtlasi ka pabistamisele.
Kuna murel puudub narratiiv, siis ei saa see muutuda ega selle fookus vahetuda. Sellele ei ole lahendust. Mure olemus seisnebki selles, et tal ei ole lõppu; ta kestab edasi. Mõnikord on kohutav olla see, kelle pärast muretsetakse, ja enamasti on see lihtsalt ärritav, sest lõppude lõpuks ei ole mure objektiks ju meie ise. Me hääbume viirastusena oma vanemate mõtteist, jättes nad klammerduma Millegi külge, mida nad kutsuvad meie nimega, sest emad ei suuda oma lastest lahti lasta. Ja siis, palju hiljem, olgu siis hädas, õnnetuses või lihtsalt vanemaks saades, naaseme ema hoole alla, sest vahel soovime kõigest, et ta meid hoiaks – kui mitte käte vahel, siis südames – just nagu teda hoiab veel praegugi vahetevahel tema enda ema.
Translation Commentary
Elisa Aru, Moonika Põldvee, Gäroly Rohelsaar, Linda Tender
While translating Anne Enright’s text Worry into Estonian, we stumbled across many difficulties. We found that since the two languages are quite different as to how the sentences are structured and which expressions are used, it can be rather challenging at times to transfer the same meaning over to the translation without completely changing the wording or the structure of the sentence. The first problem arose already in the very first sentence - how to translate the word baby. In Estonian there are many words for baby but none of them seemed to give off the same meaning as the original. We decided to stick with the word laps, which would be directly translated as a child or a small child. This was the best suited word because otherwise it would’ve had a positive and sweet connotation. We tried to keep it more impersonal, rather than talking about your own child.
One of the most common issues in translations is the usage of gender-based pronouns. In English there are he and she. Such a thing simply does not exist in Estonian. Instead, we use the word tema, which is not identified by any gender and can, in this case, make the translation process more difficult. Mostly because this can result in word repetitions or in a clumsy sentence structure since the pronouns describing different people are limited. A good example of it would be the following sentence: ‘’Yes, she is all right on the swing, no, he will not fall into the stream, yes, I will park the buggy in the shade, oh, please get a grip.’’
Already in the second paragraph there is a list of things that can happen to your baby and that may result in killing them: ‘’Too much salt, fungally infected honey, a slippy bath surface, suddenly jealous pets, permanently jealous siblings, a stupid or pathological babysitter, [...].’’ Even though such a list looks natural in English and is easily read, it is not the case for the Estonian translation. In some cases, we had to unravel the description of the ‘’killing thing’’ which meant using additional commas. That’s why we decided to replace the commas with semicolons to avoid the confusion and to keep it more reader friendly.
In English it is natural to use the pronoun you. For example, in sentences like ‘’You must always check a silence, [...],’’ ‘’Once you realise where the balance actually lies you can free yourself from the prison of worry,’’ and many more. While translating sentences like that, we decided to replace you with either an impersonal form or the first-person plural pronoun we. Otherwise, it would sound unnatural for the reader since such sentences are usually avoided in Estonian.
In addition, we came across many words and expressions that were difficult to translate using similar wording to the original. For example, ‘’failure to apply sun cream, the lack of a hat’’ ‒ this can be hard to translate into Estonian as the ‘direct’ translations of the nouns failure and lack would be nouns derived from verbs, which in Estonian can sound unnatural and unnecessary. We decided to use verbs instead (for example a failure to apply sun cream becomes ‘forgot to put on sun cream’).
Another example would be inorganic meat, which sounds extremely unnatural in Estonian. As we were doing our research, we found that people prefer using the term non-organic when talking about meat, and inorganic when talking about compounds. The reason why these words sound unnatural to us is probably because we see organic meat being mentioned quite a lot, but everyone knows that other meat is not organic so there is no need to specify it. Another example can also be pray tell found in the sentence ‘’And why, pray tell, did you leave the baby?’’, which we decided to translate as Jumal hoidku. Jumal hoidku is not a direct translation (rather means ‘may god watch (him/her)’, but does help convey the sarcastic undertone of pray tell.
Luckily for us there were not many difficulties concerning the cultural differences between the original text and the target language for the translation. Or maybe only one that we could point out in the sentence ‘’I . . . A call of nature, your honour.’’ In court in Estonia, this would not be used. Judges are not addressed with a specific title. Nevertheless, because the book is written in a different cultural environment and the Estonian reader knows this and the expression your honour, we decided to translate it (as we have seen it translated in other places). In conclusion we can say that most of the difficulties appeared to be differences in expressions between the two languages and in the sentence structure. We often had to stick to indirect translation to adapt the meaning of the text to the grammar and structure of the Estonian language.