This Season’s Must-Have Accessory

While mothers-in-law can be intensely irritating and are a legitimate target for blogging abuse, grandmothers are absolutely indispensable and must be celebrated.

Like certain exotic breeds of marsupial, they are at their best at night when they are especially good at tapping on the door of the pumpkin at 2.00 a.m. and asking to “borrow” the baby – as if they just happened to be passing by and were seized by a sudden urge to hang out with their screaming grandson.

And despite their often out-dated theories on infant development (don’t let them keep their knees bent or else they’ll turn out bow-legged) they have street cred. One certainly cannot navigate the labyrinthine childcare bureaucracy of this country without an abuela.

In Peru, while most vaccinations are available in private clinics and can be easily obtained at a price, the very first one – which has to be given before the child is 20 days old – is only administered in the public hospitals. It is probably the State’s way of keeping tabs on births. In order to obtain this vaccination, which is only dispensed at 8.15 a.m., three days a week, one has to travel to the centre of Lima at the crack of dawn to “hacer la cola”.

Queuing is a way of life in Lima and there are individuals that make their living at it. They get up early and stand in whatever line they think will be most profitable and then sell their place to desperate latecomers. Others arrive early, convince the person in line in front of them to hold their place and then go and have a leisurely breakfast. Thus, you can arrive at a reasonable hour and join a reasonable length line only to have 5 or 10 people suddenly appear in front of you just as the doors are opening. This is seen as perfectly legitimate and draws not a murmur of protest from either the people in the queue or the police keeping order.

It is advisable to arrive in el centro well before 8.15 a.m. because vaccinations are dispensed until they run out and those remaining in the queue have to start all over again on the next available day. Of course no one but an abuela knows these things. I arrived with mine just after 7.00 a.m. and joined a line of what appeared to be three mamas but which we discovered upon canny inquires by my mother-in-law, was actually a line of seven.

All the mamas were equipped with the essentials: 1) a large bundle of blankets; and 2) an abuela carrying a bottomless Mary Poppins-like handbag out of which they produce at intervals thermos flasks of hot water, tins of formula, baby wipes, diapers, hats and more blankets. Those few mamas not fortunate enough to be in possession of an abeula bring along nervous husbands who busy themselves fiddling with their cell phones or pretending to look for parking spaces for their non-existent cars.

Having established your place on the pavement the baby-comparison ritual begins. As the morning chill gives way to the standard light fog of dust that settles over Lima daily, layers of blankets are cautiously peeled back, a smorgasbord of baby heads emerge and the chorus begins. “¡Ay que preciosa!” “¡Pero que bonito!” “¡Cuanto tiempo tiene?” “¡Que muñequito!” The mamas try to look modest while the abuelas proudly compare statistics.

My mother-in-law is delighted that Smuggitos is the smallest baby in the queue.

“He was born even tinier” she says with perverse pride, “2.750 kilos and only 47 cm!”

His nearest rival – also newborn – is swathed in a dense cloud of pink blankets, the first layer of which when removed reveals a large round face the colour of brick topped by an impossibly thick thatch of black hair which starts at the bridge of the perspiring nose. This kid is several weight divisions above Smuggitos.

Once the doors are opened the tyranny of the enfermeras begins. The vaccination department is run by a team of diminutive nurses who swiftly separate the mamas and the abuelas. The mamas are packed in an orderly manner onto a row of benches while the abuelas are banished back to the pavement. The mamas are given a brief lecture: “wait your turn, it will take about 10 minutes each, be sure to have your vaccination cards with you. Can’t tell you if there are vaccines available, you’ll only find out once you get into the inside room.”

The abuelas stand outside on the pavement and fret.

“But I have to give the leche.”

“The baby needs another blanket, ¡mucho aire!”

“I have to carry the baby. My daughter had a C-section. They cut her from hip to hip and look at the size of the child. She weighs a ton!” says the grandmother of the pink cumulus nimbus, with some justification.

Inside, the mamas, bereft of their shepherds, are being bullied by the enfermeras.

“Señora, how old is that child? Six months? And you are only now bringing him for his shot?”

“Where is his vaccination card? What do you mean you have to ask your mother? You don’t know? It’s your baby!”

“What do you mean the clinic told you to bring him for la vacuna now? Forget what the clinic says, you must take the child to the centro de servicios medical in your district.”

The enfermeras reserve a special degree of contempt for mamas who turn up with prescriptions or ordenes from a private clinic.

“What is your baby suffering from? Nothing? She must have something wrong with her if the clinic gave you this piece of paper just to get a vacuna. Typhoid? Polio? Does she have a fever? I don’t care if your doctor says she’s healthy. There must be something wrong if you have a prescription for a vaccination. No, your mother can’t come inside and explain to me. Wait over there.”

Occasionally, when the security guard at the door is distracted, an abuela will dart in and attempt to assist their bewildered offspring. They are quickly shooed away and return to the pavement where they compare notes. This is where all the essential information is obtained: which public hospital has the surest supply of vaccinations and what time you need to turn up there. Which clinics charge the most and what the new reglas are with regard to a variety of state services. “Did you know that the ID card office has moved to Av Javier Prado opposite el Banco Nacional? Sí, about 6 months ago, and now you have to go between 8.00 a.m. and noon to apply and it takes a week but you can give the official 10 soles and he’ll do it for you de una vez. Go on a Wednesday, the line is shorter.”

There is no number to call or webpage to visit to find out this stuff. It is only available on the abuelanet and if you don’t have one you are, as the Peruvians say, jodido. So the next time my suegra gives me one of her backhanded compliments (“How nice you look today, but hija, don’t ever wear that jumper again.” “Your hair looks great, now that’s how I like to see you!”) I will smile serenely and silently thank whichever deity sent her.