Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

Angst

Butcher's girl

My husband is a gentle sort of character. A teetotal, poetry-writing chap who would - no, has - crossed a road to rescue a stranded caterpillar. A man who brings me flowers almost weekly, who runs up two flights of stairs to see me and the children in the evenings, who looked after me every step of the way through two difficult pregnancies and a miscarriage, bringing me supper and breakfast in bed, while making endless cups of tea, a man who allows my mother - his mother-in-law - to be a daily part of our family. However, our otherwise idyllic relationship has hit a stumbling block.

It's about diet. He is a committed vegetarian. Since having Button in July I have become a carnivore. I need lots of meat. Not just the odd bacon sarnie. But roast chicken, lamb and steak. Sausages. Burgers. Slices of ham. Daily. For the protein and iron? I don't really know. I just know I MUST HAVE MEAT. Like a junkie needs a fix. The cravings are as bad as in early pregnancy. When I wanted peanut butter, fruit and nut chocolate and strawberry milkshakes. Sometimes together. When I ate mushroom papardelle every night for a fortnight, Washed down with the aforementioned milkshake. Urgh, I feel sick just remembering.

Now I absolutely must have steak. At least every other day. Maybe it's the breastfeeding? Which, by the way, is going well now. After a shaky start. When it hurt so much my tears of pain and frustration were dropping onto poor Button's head.

The problem, well, no, not problem, but, let's say, the dietary challenge is that husband is a veggie of firm principle, unshakeable in avoiding all meat and fish. Shellfish actually makes him violently ill. And he can't bear animal suffering. For years now I've eaten the same veggie diet as him. Mostly for convenience. I can hardly remember the last time I cooked chicken or ate steak, except in a restaurant.

But now I need to produce two meals each evening - one veggie, the other with meat. New for me, and not as easy as it sounds. I am but a novice in the world of carnivores, as events yesterday proved.

It was with some trepidation that I yesterday manoeuvred the three-wheeler buggie containing Button into our local butcher's shop. We passed what I think were probably a brace of dead grouse (well, maybe not, they might have been pheasants, hard to tell; as I said, I'm no expert in the subject, but some manner of colourful, dead feathery birds, anyway). The smell of blood, meat and animal made me want to retch. Again, a happy reminder of early pregnancy.

Bits of guinea fowl, partridge, venison, veal, wild boar, haggis, black and white puddings lay in front of me, wrapped in plastic, the blood seeping to the edges of the packets.

"Can I help you?" asked one of the several men in bloodied uniforms behind the counter.

"Well, the thing is I need some more iron in my diet. But my husband's vegetarian...."

Cue hysterical laughter from all four men behind counter.

"So you've come here to buy him some meat?"

Mentally I cursed my tendency to talk too much when nervous. But found myself unstoppable.

"No, I haven't. It would need to be something you could serve for one. For me."

"How about a nice piece of liver," said one of the younger of the men. He held up something that looked like a human placenta.

"If you can stomach it," he added, concessionary.

"Errrrr...It's not really my thing, to be honest."

Another female customer piped up with a suggestion. My God. The whole shop was taking an interest in this ridiculous inquiry.

"How about beef stock? You could drink it? Or add it to a vegetable risotto"

Yuck! I thought. Plus, it wouldn't really be a vegetable risotto, would it, if it had beef stock in it? I mean, strictly speaking, Trades Description and all that.

But, brought up in Edinburgh, I said nothing and resorted to my polite laugh. The one that really means she's got to be taking the proverbial. No way am I replacing Twinings English Breakfast with some vile concoction of ground-up cow flesh. No way am I deceiving my poor vegetarian husband into consuming the same. I wanted to talk more about what she meant, but felt we had both the wrong venue and subject for a girly bonding session.

The first, older butcher produced a metal hook from behind the counter, the kind pinning the grouse/pheasants/patridges to the wall, which he waved in front of my face. I really wasn't sure where he was going with this gambit. Then all became clear.

"You could have this. Plenty of iron in this," he guffawed, pleased at his own wit. Oh, for goodness' sake.

Clearly, I have spent too much time with other new mothers, sensitive and thoughtful types who have forsaken high-flying careers for motherhood and take nutrition seriously. I had no idea how to respond to the hook's appearance. No repartee came to me. My hands were shaking. My only ally in this horror of blood, guts and border-line misogyny (or misplaced attempts at humour) was Button. Though only three months old, I sensed a mute sympathy from her. She gave me her crafty sideways look that seemed to say: "Together we're strong enough to get through this difficulty". Anyway, I felt better for looking at her.

I also looked at the other female customer, Beef Stock Woman, expecting a brief eye-meet between us, expressing shared horror at the medieval attitudes of these people, but nothing came back. I lowered my gaze. I couldn't help but suspect she was offended at my lack of warmth in response to her beef stock sally. And, although she could not have been in more than her mid-thirties at most, she had a shopping trolley with wheels by her side. Yes, one of those trollies. Like the ones people's grannies used to own. An indicator, just perhaps, that she and I might not see eye to eye on humour.

"Perhaps I'll just have some fillet steak," I said, injecting an artificial jollity into my voice, pride forcing me to try and preserve the pretence that I was in control of the sitation.

"Aye," said the older butcher, nodding as if I was a teenager who had seen sense at last, bowing to parental widsom on the dangers of late nights, bad boys and lentils. "How much would you like?""

We settle on a slab that would fill half a large frying pan.

I pay. But by this point I am so flustered by being plunged into this alien world that I drop some of my change. My eyesight is especially poor at the moment and I feel even more panicked than before. But, somewhat to my surprise, it is the first, older butcher, the one who thrust the hook in front of me, who insists on coming out from behind the counter to help me look for the missing coin. Even though it takes some minutes, and I suspect his eyesight isn't much better than mine, he sticks with the search until we find the money. All 5p of it. I feel relieved by the man's kindness. The world is a better, nicer place than I was beginning to suspect.

As Button and I (finally) reverse out of the shop, I catch another glimpse of the grouse/pheasant/indeterminate birds, still hanging on the wall where they were when we came in, having failed to attract any takers. Not only dead, but unwanted too. Oh dear. But perhaps I had more allies in the shop than I first feared. For was it my imagination, or did one of the birds give me a wink as I wheeled the buggy past her? Help comes in unexpected places, at unexpected times. We exit. I breathe deeply.

Posted 30 October 2008 14:51 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Angst Breastfeeding Edinburgh Etiquette Food New baby

This writing life

In the end, it was my two-year-old daughter who best summed up this week's crisis at my publisher. "Book!" cried Beanie, clasping a copy of Catherine Rayner's Augustus and His Smile in her hand and advancing towards me, waving the desired item in the air. "Book!" she cried again, hoping I would read the story of Augustus' search for his missing smile to her. "Book! Book! Book!" Poor Beanie. Her father Va-vay and I were both too preoccupied to read to her. "Book!" she insisted. "No, Beanie, darling, not right now," I said. "Mummy and daddy are worried about something. We'll do the book later." I sighed. I put my head in my hands. Even Va-vay sighed. Va-vay never normally sighs. Self-pity, not his thing. He turned to me. "She's right, isn't she. Beanie's right. That's what all this is about. A book." He means my book. Not the one about Augustus, lovely though he is. A few days ago I discovered that my publisher has officially gone bust, owing hundreds of thousands to all sorts of people. This is potentially a disaster for me, as it leaves me with a half-finished book (on later motherhood) and no-one to publish it. Three months before I'm due to have a baby. I keep waking at 4am in panic, unable to get back to sleep for worrying about how to recoup the time I've invested in writing. Thinking about the money I could have earnt if I hadn't been working on Fashionably Late. Embarrassed about all the women I've interviewed, women who have been so generous in sharing their stories and time with me, recounting deeply personal experiences of relationships, pregnancy and childbirth. They're expecting to see a book result from it all and I'm afraid I'm going to let them down. And when the 4am demons strike, I'm also mortified that the entire episode reflects badly on me and my judgement. The only glimmer of hope is that I've been assured that another publisher wants to buy my book. And is in the process of issuing a contract. Mean time, let's just say, Augustus isn't the only one round here who's lost his smile.

Posted 03 April 2008 21:40 | Number of comments: 25 | Comments

Angst Books Fashionably Late - the book

Other people's children

The friend of a friend has just given birth to her first child. "How did it go?" my friend asked Sharon. "Brilliant, just brilliant," said Sharon. "No drugs. I just had faith in my own body to give birth and being so positive got me through it." As I remembered my own childbirth experience (let's just say it involved a lot of drugs), I tried to remind myself that Beanie arriving safely was the important thing, that jealousy is a sin, that my delivery could have been much, much worse, but a sense of inadequacy crept over me.

Looking after Ben has proved a breeze, at least if Sharon is to be believed. "He doesn't cry. No, really, he doesn't cry. And he's slept through the night ever since he was born." My jaw fell open when I heard that and I had to fight the smirk that crept across my face. "Really?" I managed. "That's.... unusual."

"And how's feeding going?" asked my friend, adopting her most determined smile. "Really well," replied Sharon. "He latched himself on as soon as he was born and he's been feeding for up to an hour at a time. In the day. He's never hungry at night." Baby Ben woke up at this point, perhaps aware that his food intake was under discussion. His gusty cry somewhat belied what mother had said earlier, but we pretended we hadn't heard and said nothing. After all, she had just been through childbirth, even if it was a doddle and she really had given birth to a child destined to be the next Dalai Lama.

At the sound of Ben's cry, Sharon eyed him like one might a wild animal, picked him up, shuffled her bottom around, reached for one boob, then seemed to think better of it, yanked up her jumper on the other side and gingerly unclipped her nursing bra. As she did so, folds and folds of saggy stomach flesh fell out over her maternity jeans, and I began to feel sorry for her. After some seconds of further fumbling under her jumper, she extracted a disc of sodden tissue that she placed on the floor next to me, at some distance from herself and the howling infant. I tried not to look at it, in case it put her off what was proving to be quite a delicate procedure.

After all this, baby Ben, now very wide awake indeed, decided he wasn't really peckish after all and refused to latch on. But eventually, Sharon persuaded him to feed. An expression of intense pain flashed across her face. All bragging, indeed any talking at all on her part, ceased. About three minutes later Ben lost interest and detached himself from his mother's chest. I swear a roguish grin crossed his two-week-old face. As for his mother, a look of disappointment and guilt replaced the furrowed concentration on her face. "Feeding's going really well, but still, I'm thinking of going to a breastfeeding support clinic on Friday," she said. Truly, I am a horrible person. For at last, when I heard that, I started to warm to her.

Posted 13 March 2008 12:19 | Number of comments: 11 | Comments

Angst Breastfeeding Childbirth Childcare

Something in the air

One of the worst things about being an 'older' mum is the humiliation of being disabused of this fantasy that I am competent at the business of life. Having a daughter at the age of 38 has pushed me in new and uncomfortable directions. Take driving, for example. Before Beanie arrived I didn't drive. I never needed a car and I never much fancied having one. It didn't matter that I was a bad driver.

Now I need wheels to ferry Beanie around town. The problem is that I am still rubbish at driving. Actually, no, that's unfair, I'm being too hard on myself. I'm a reasonably good driver, though a bit slow. It's parking that's the problem. On the way home the other day I attempted to find a parking space in our street. No luck. So Beanie and I drove round in circles until I spied a small space in a lane next to a large stone wall. I tried and tried and tried and tried and tried and tried to park. Into reverse. Cue grinding of machinery. Back into first. Edge forward a few inches. Grind the gear back back down into reverse. And so on. The air stank of some vile mechanical malfunction.

As I craned my neck back to see where I was reversing I met Beanie's alarmed gaze. "Don't worry, Beanie, Mummy knows what she's doing," I lied. She wasn't fooled. I wedged the car so close to the wall the wing mirror was brushing against lichen and stone. I could feel the sweat trickling down my arms. Then a man appeared at my window. He seemed like a good guy, so I wound down the window. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Can I help?" You know that way when you've been holding tears at bay and a moment of unexpected kindness makes them flood out? Well, I started to cry. "I can't do this," I said. "Are you trying to park or to get out?" he asked. "To park," I snuffled, as I noticed for the first time a group of people standing around watching my parking, looks of concern on their faces. I was half in and half out but couldn't move either way. "That's my car behind you," he said, and I thought, "Oh my God, I really hope I haven't scratched it." He must have seen the look on my face because he said: "No, don't worry, it's fine. Would you like me to move my car? Would that make it easier?" So he moved his car, but somehow by then I'd lost all confidence so I still couldn't park. Then the man said: "Would you like me to park your car for you?" And I said "Yes, please. Would you mind? Thank you". As he got in the car it crossed my mind this might be some ploy to steal Beanie from me and I said: "You won't drive off with my daughter, will you?" He said: "Oh my goodness, I hadn't realised you had a baby in the back." But he came across as a nice, trustworthy chap, and the onlookers appeared to know him, so I decided it was okay to let him park the car.

I got out and chatted to a couple of other people who'd come out of their houses. In different circumstances it would have been quite nice to meet the neighbours, but my legs were still shaky and I felt at a bit of a disadvantage after the fiasco they'd just witnessed. "Quite a smell of clutch fluid, isn't there?" said one, conversationally. "Is the clutch slipping?" I wouldn't even have known that was the smell and didn't know what he meant by 'clutch slipping' but nodded and rolled my eyes. I haven't felt that helpless and girly since I was a teenager. Beanie looked completely unpeturbed in her throne in the back as the neighbour reversed out with her. She looked less hassled with him than when I was trying to park, in fact. And the job was done in a couple of minutes. The next day, though, when I went back to check on the car there was still a smell of clutch fluid in the air.

Posted 19 February 2008 16:36 | Number of comments: 30 | Comments

Angst Car Daughters Home Older mother Buses

Weekend, or, what if you die?

Shedworking, one of my favourite sites, is running a theatre review I wrote for them about a production of Walden, a one-man show from Magnetic North about a man who flees civilisation to live in isolation in a hut in the woods. It was great fun going to the theatre (they even gave me a complimentary press ticket, something I haven't enjoyed in years) and because I went on my own I chatted to other people in the audience afterwards. Nothing to do with late parenting, but a mini-highlight of the weekend.

Somewhat closer to home, Va-vay, Beanie and I went to our local Home Birth Support Group at the weekend. Beanie was entranced when a pregnant lady stuck her tongue out at her (in a friendly way) - and revealed a rather splendid tongue piercing. I knew I needed the Support Group after I told a friend last week I was planning a home birth and he said: "What if you die?" Huh. It's one thing for me to criticise the NHS, but I don't like it when other people do. The Support Group nodded and smiled when I recounted all this, before bursting into tears, and said they hear this kind of thing a lot. They said that statistically home births are safer than hospitals. That people who are negative about you having a home birth are often just worried for you. Beanie beamed as I sat cross-legged on the floor, weeping, then made friends with a small boy wearing a T-Shirt saying "Born at Home". Although not yet two years old herself, Beanie loves pointing out "babies" she sees out and about, saying the word "baby" in great excitement, as if the child in question belongs to a different generation from herself. When in fact there's an age gap of twelve months between them. She spent the rest of the event cuddling the "baby". His mum was there too. Alive and well.

Other News

A friend is organising a fertility afternoon at the Aditi Yoga Centre in Edinburgh on Sunday 2 March from two till five. This is a chance to hear expert speakers on how to improve the chances of becoming pregnant, maintaining a healthy pregnancy and much more. Topics covered include acupuncture, chinese herbal medicine, homeopathy, mind and the body, natural ovulatory cycle, nutrition and yoga. Open to all. Donation £5 per person.

Posted 04 February 2008 11:01 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Activities Angst Childbirth Daughters Dilemmas Friends Fun Health Home birth Out and about Pregnancy

Twelfth night

Woke at 6.15am today, gripped by worry about something that seemed all-consuming at the time but that twelve hours later I cannot exactly remember. Might have been due to over-tiredness following a jaunt yesterday to 'the west coast' of Scotland, an epic journey for the three of us, since I've hardly left my bedroom in the past three months. People in Edinburgh refer to the 'west coast' in a way that makes the place sound like California - and just about as far away. That is misleading. For anybody not familiar with 'Glesgie', my sense is that parallels with Los Angeles are limited. Unless you get red-faced old men on the bus coming up to you in LA, speaking to you in incomprehensible accents, pawing at your child's pram and scaring the wits out of you.

The gentleman in question struck up a conversation with us from the other side of a bus. It was hard to tell if he was friendly, pissed, mad or a danger, because I couldn't understand half of what he said due to his accent, so I kept my head down and tried to ignore him, but this snatch came through: "Och, ah remember whit it wiz like maself, bringing up a wean," he told us. "Ah had a bairn oaff an Englishwoman. Ah wisnae there, like, ye ken, but I saw whit it wiz like fair her." Great - hands-on parenting from dad. As we were on a bus, attempts at escape seemed futile. I did consider jumping off but didn't know where we were, so decided to sit tight. When he got 'oaff' at the same stop as us and insisted on helping with the pram despite us repeatedly saying 'thank you' and 'goodbye' (I might be Scottish but can be so very English) I thought we'd never shake him, but he slunk off eventually as two policemen hove into view.

However, overall it was a good trip, we saw stuffed animals (Va-vay, being an animal-lover, flinched at the sight of them, but Beanie and I didn't let it put us off), Grayson Perry pots, and I taught Va-vay (an Englishman) how to pronounce Sauchiehall (as in the name of the city's main shopping street). The best bit? We came home happier than ever to be Burghers (as in Edinburgh), not Weegies, as denizens of each city are supposed to call themselves.

Later on at home that evening I want to know why Va-vay and I react so differently to 'incidents' like the one with Bus Man:

"I just feel annoyed someone's bothering us," says Va-vay. "Whereas you feel threatened. That's why you think about it for days afterwards. I don't think about it again after it's happened."

"Really? You really don't think about it for ages and ages after?"

"No, I really don't, I just forget about it," he says, looking surprised, before turning over and going to sleep.

"Errr... could you tell me how that works?" I ask, thinking that no way does he deserve to go to sleep while I lie there imagining all the 'what ifs'.

"No, I can't," he says. "Because you're female. And you wouldn't get it."

If I ever get the chance to come back in another life, I want to come back as a man.

Posted 06 January 2008 19:27 | Number of comments: 15 | Comments

Activities Angst

Coming over all McCall Smith

An incident last week involving the Noble Beast - our car - has proved what I've long suspected: my life is turning into something out of one of Alexander McCall Smith's books about Edinburgh. It was past midnight, my husband Va-vay was snoring lightly by my side, Beanie was asleep next door in her room - the 'Beanerarium’. I couldn’t sleep for worrying if I remembered to tether the Noble Beast properly.

In my defence, just after I stabled the Beast earlier that evening I got a bit flustered because as I was putting Beanie into her buggy - the 'Travelling Beanerarium’ - a large silver Mercedes drew up very, very close to us.

“Could you be careful! There’s a little girl here,” I shouted, pushing the buggy away as fast as I could. Unfortunately progress was slow on the uneven cobbles of the Edinburgh New Town.

The man wound down his window and drawled in a hateful, posh accent, as if he couldn’t be bothered if he mowed over an entire kindergarten: “I am fully aware of that.”

Still a bit upset about that, and busy thinking up pithy rejoinders it was too late to deliver, I couldn't sleep. So instead I lay there for another half hour, keeping myself entertained by running through the possibilities of what might happen to the poor Beast:

a) Drunken pub-goers break into car, urinate everywhere, trash her.

b) Car thieves steal the Beast and take her to Glasgow, where Lard McConnell, well-known Glaswegian crime lord and good friend of Bertie Pollock is waiting to take delivery of her

c) Insurers refuse to pay up because it was my mistake. S**t!!!!

"Va-vay," I say, quite loudly, in the darkness. "Va-vay, I think I forgot to lock the car."

The poor man gets dressed, stumbles out of the house looking half-asleep and heads back to the scene of the crime.

He returns twenty minutes later, gets undressed again, and climbs back into bed. All without saying a word.

"So, err... was it okay?" I say apologetically.

"Yes, all locked up." Within seconds he's snoring gently again.

Oh dear. A classic Irene Pollock moment.

Posted 03 November 2007 16:47 | Number of comments: 9 | Comments

Angst Car Edinburgh Out and about

Sharing a Shell

7pm: Before putting Beanie to bed, I read to her about the adventures of Blob, Crab and Brush - "three friends, sharing a shell". She listens with her customary eager, almost rapt attention, while fingering the glittery pictures and pointing at the seagulls wheeling overhead. I close the book and lower Beanie gently into her cot.

"Wwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh."

She allows herself the briefest of pauses.

"Wwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh."

To our dismay, she throws Mr Bear overboard in fury. When she does this, we know we're in real trouble. For where Mr Bear goes, Beanie goes too. Or, at least, in this case, would like to go.

Va-vay and I exchange looks of horror.

"She's not normally like this," I say despairingly, telling him what he already knows.

"What do you suggest we do?" he asks, putting down his briefcase for the first time since he got through the door from work and looking, momentarily, defeated.

"Leave her for a bit? See if she settles?"

"Into what?"

A warning that would have them running for the air-raid shelters in seconds is 'what'. A sonic assault on our ear-drums that would have Health and Safety round in a trice if it happened in the workplace. Try as I might, I feel a familiar mixture of sorrow, love, sympathy - and irritation.

"Better go and change out of my work clothes," says Va-vay, in a tone of forced jollity that alerts me to how tired and strained he really is.

At Beanie HQ the bombs could be dropping any minute. National emergency. Briefly, I wonder what the neighbours must think.

Prepare supper while trying not to listen to daughter-turned-police-siren wailing.

Take it in turns to ask each other: "Is it wrong to leave her to cry like this?"

Abandon plan to 'let her settle'. Impulsively climb into Beanie's cot to help her sleep. She is delighted at this unusual turn of events. But refuses to settle. After her eyes close, admittedly against her will, I attempt to clamber out again, waking her in the process. Drat. Admit temporary defeat and regroup in kitchen, carrying through a triumphant and flushed Beanie in her sleep bag.

Administer milk, calpol and teething gel.

9pm: Grinning with delight, Beanie, propped up between her parents, settles down to watch Spooks. Shield her eyes from scenes of torture, shooting, kidnap and bubonic plague. It doesn't leave much left over. Beanie remains scarily indifferent throughout, except for shooting the odd delighted glance towards me and Va-vay.

"Are you a little scamp?" Va-vay asks her fondly.

10pm: Grumbling but no longer shrieking, even Beanie has to concede the time has come to sleep. With little more than a token protest, for even an 18-month-old has her pride to consider, she puts her thumb in her mouth, clutches Mr Bear to her and curls up on her front for some long-overdue kip.

Midnight: Did I mention sleep? Between now and 2am Va-vay and I try, in no particular order: leaving her magic lantern on for reassurance/rocking/cuddling her/reading to her/sitting by her cot/singing in a way that put me in mind of this.

She falls asleep again. When she wakes later, somewhere in the chaos of the night, we skip all the above steps and bring her into bed with us. She quietens immediately, and seems happy to be sharing with us. Or maybe it's the long night that has finally worn her out. Whatever it is, after a brief, but unedifying struggle between me and Va-vay over the duvet, we all - finally - drift off to sleep. As I fall into sleep, comfortably aware of the sound of her breathing next to me, I hear Va-vay's deep voice saying from the other side of the bed:

"Three friends, sharing a shell."

Nobody stirs. Peace, at last.

Posted 26 October 2007 01:22 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Angst Books Daughters Domestic chaos Home Husband Sleep

Edinburgh Mum

One of the lovely things about my holiday was coming home and reading the nice comments so many of you left on the site. Thanks to all who commented while I was away. It made for a great welcome home. Another holiday treat was the chance to catch up on some reading, since I went cold turkey on blogging while we were away and left the laptop at home. One of the books I enjoyed best was Alexander McCall Smith's new book The Careful Use of Compliments, the latest in the Sunday Philosophy Club series. Chosen not (just) because it's set in my native Edinburgh, but for the back-cover promise of material on the challenges of late motherhood.

It was a surprise to find out that Isabel Dalhousie, the book's wealthy philosopher heroine, has just become a new mum. McCall Smith has always been coy on her exact age, but in previous books in the series, I imagined her to be in her 50s. Past child-bearing age, anyway. I mean, for goodness' sake! She drives a Volvo. A green Volvo. She has a housekeeper, (who does most of the child-rearing). She disapproves of her niece Cat's boyfriends and hassles her to dump them. It sounded like she belonged to a different generation to mine, and, well, I fear I'm at the outer limits of childbearing myself. So I jumped to the wrong conclusion.

At the beginning of Careful Use, McCall Smith drops a bombshell. We discover that Isabel remains disapproving of Cat's choice in men. But she has pinched one of the most attractive of the suitors, Jamie, a man 14 years her junior, for herself. And had a baby with him. A baby that arrives "under the bright lights of the Royal Infirmary." The same place where I had Beanie. Crikey!

Now, let me stress here that I am a huge fan of McCall Smith. In fact I pretty much idolise him. My good friend Iota has even suggested I could be a character in one of his books. But even so, I couldn't help feeling irritated about the (fictional) boyfriend-pinching. Part of the point about Isabel is that she's supposed to agonise with herself about right and wrong. Yet this is about the one area in her life where she doesn't bother with questioning or guilt about her behaviour. It doesn't even seem to occur to her that it might be wrong to get together with a relative's ex-partner.

Isabel's brush with motherhood comes off badly in the book, too. She gets huffy that the local mums and babies group doesn't welcome her with open arms and blames this on her decision to bottle-feed baby Charlie, after finding breast-feeding 'uncomfortable'.

McCall Smith explains: "She had been a member - briefly - of a mother and baby group in Bruntsfield and she had been given looks of disapproval by one or two of the mothers when she had revealed she was not feeding Charlie herself. Those women knew, she thought; they knew that there could be some very good reaons for it, but they could not help their zeal. And she had felt guilty, although she knew it was irrational to feel guilt for something that one could not help."

This must be testimony to McCall Smith's skills as a writer that I responded to this passage with such annoyance, as if this were real-life. I can't agree that people in mums-and-babies groups would treat Isabel like that because she wasn't breastfeeding. They might have raised an eyebrow after hearing about her copping off with a younger relative's partner. They might have wondered why the housekeeper looked after the baby, rather than Isabel.

They might also have been a bit strange towards her due to sleep deprivation since, unlike Isabel, they didn't have a housekeeper to look after their babies. And they might also have wondered about Isabel's decision to spend her baby's early months investigating fraud in the Edinburgh art world, instead of caring for the little boy. But objecting to her bottle-feeding?

Still, I agreed with McCall Smith on the subject of maternal modes of transport. "The mothers in the expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles were the worst, [Jamie] had decided. Why did they need these fuel-hungry contraptions in their urban lives? To barge their way past other, smaller cars, or to make a statement about who they were and what they had?" Judged against that, Isabel's Volvo doesn't look so bad after all.

Posted 08 October 2007 21:59 | Number of comments: 21 | Comments

Angst Books Breastfeeding Daughters Edinburgh Etiquette Older mother Work vs mothering

Bad mother

It's a tricky business, being a mum and an individual. This morning I did something bold and daring, something few mums dare to do - I did something for myself. It wasn't easy, but I persevered, despite all my torment and guilt.

My first crime: taking the phone from my daughter so I could make the necessary calls.

An attempt to placate Beanie by offering her the TV remote control fails.

She simply gives me a look that said: "I'm no fool, you know. I see straight through you. I know you're trying to fob me off with some silly pretend phone."

I feel crushed, though no words have been said.

I remember how only an hour or so earlier she kicked her legs in delight when I fetched her out of her cot and beamed her best smile at me, how she laughed and smiled so readily at me when I played peek-a-boo from behind the shower curtain, how she tried to feed me some of her breakfast, even though I had my own toast and marmalade.

But I really, really need the phone to book some tickets for a couple of Festival events this evening.

I make the call and all hell starts to break loose. Not only have I stolen Beanie's favourite toy, but (my second crime) I am ignoring her and I think she might have also sensed my longer-term objective (third crime) of planning an evening out on my own while her dad babysits.

At first I hope she might settle down after a few minutes. Fat chance.

An attempt to buy on-line doesn't work any better and the computer freezes as I go to click 'submit'. By now tears are rolling down Beanie's face, and I feel like the worst mother in the world as I fight my own rising hysteria.

The guilt's almost unbearable and I force myself to remember how when I was pregnant I was so sick with nausea and joint pain I managed to go out roughly four times in the entire nine months. One of those occasions was an ill-fated trip to the Edinburgh Tattoo, which ended in me throwing up outside the Castle under the wary gaze of a soldier armed with a machine gun.

Someone once told me: 'The healthy mother takes time for herself'. Why can't I believe that's true?

Intermittent shrieking has intensified into one long wail, punctuated only with heart-wrending pauses to draw breath. Only ten minutes have passed, but it feels like eternity.

The computer creaks back to life. 'Your order is confirmed' flashes up on screen. Just as this happens a human being speaks to me on the phone. At least, I think it's a human being, though Beanie's screaming so hard it's difficult to be sure.

Then my brain clears and at last I know what to do. I pick up my daughter, cuddle her close to me and listen to her heaving sobs subside.

Will my guilt lend an extra piquancy to the festival events? Or will I sit there kicking myself for being so selfish? Who knows. She's sleeping now, as I write this. When she wakes up I'll give her my undivided attention - all afternoon.

Posted 22 August 2007 13:28 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Angst Books Childcare Daughters Edinburgh Festival Guilt Out and about

Leave us mums alone

The children of working mothers are more likely to be obese or overweight, says a new study. Around a quarter of the 13,000 children studied by the Institute of Child Health in London were overweight or obese by the age of three. No prizes for guessing who's allegedly to blame.

"Long hours of maternal employment, rather than lack of any money, may impede young children's access to healthy foods and physical activity," said the researchers.

The more successful mothers are, the worse the problem, which I find hard to believe. Children in households earning £22,000 to £33,000 were 10% more likely to be overweight than in households earning under £11,000.

In the last 25 years stay-at-home mothers have fallen from nearly 55% of the total to just 21%.

Reading studies like this, I wonder why working mothers seem to attract more flak than convicted criminals/fraudsters/estate agents.

What's behind these studies that attempt to guilt-trip hard-working and loving mothers, doing their best to keep a roof over their families' head?

Why don't we see reports criticising the government for lack of affordable, flood-free UK housing that would mean more mums could stay at home?

Or a study calling for better-paid, higher-status part-time jobs, with more flexible working, that would mean fewer parents have to work full-time?

Or more criticism of the food giants that make their money peddling fatty convenience foods to young kids?

Leave us mums alone, I say.

Posted 25 July 2007 12:51 | Number of comments: 21 | Comments

Angst Food Health Parenting gurus Work Work vs mothering

Breastfeeding blues

Next week sees the start of World Breastfeeding Week, now in its sixteenth year. This year's theme is the importance of breastfeeding in the first hour of a baby's life.

Educating women in the benefits of breastfeeding is only one part of the equation.

We need more health workers who can teach first-timers how to breastfeed, because I don't think it's an innate skill, despite what some people say.

"Every newborn, when placed on the mother's abdomen soon after birth, has the ability to find her mother's breast all on her own and to decide when to take the first breastfeed," say the organisers.

Sadly, it wasn't like that for me, nor for many of my friends, though most of us mastered breastfeeding in the end. The Bean was too busy trying out her lung capacity to do the "breast crawl".

I was ready to throw in the towel at various points in the early weeks and give Beanie a bottle. Only support from Va-vay kept me going. And stopping the 'nose-to-nipple' latch-on they taught me in hospital that made me dizzy with pain.

After that, everything slowly got easier. Until we got to the point where breastfeeding was actually enjoyable. But by that time I felt under almost as much pressure to stop as I did to start in the first place.

World Breastfeeding Week runs from August 1-7.

Posted 24 July 2007 15:41 | Number of comments: 16 | Comments

Angst Breastfeeding News

First-timer

Thanks to everyone who visited and commented on yesterday's posting on being an older first-time mum. You all cheered me up no end. So much so, I've climbed out of the slough of self-pity and hardly worried about withered ovaries or early menopause at all today. Okay, I jumped ahead a few decades or so. I admit it. It's just my 40th is coming up in a few months and there's nothing like a landmark birthday to make a person jittery...

There are big upsides to being a little bit older:

1. The Bean doesn't know she got landed with a late-starter. She doesn't care what age I am. As long as I'm not late in getting that milk ready.

2. After her first visit to our home, the health visitor never again asked if The Bean was "assisted" in her creation. For the record, she wasn't.

3. I've done the painful business of growing-up, even if it lasted well into my early 30s, so can now concentrate on helping someone else negotiate that.

4. The health visitor said I must be "very selective" to have waited until I was 37 to settle down.

5. Lighter sleep patterns = good for night-time feeds.

6. Healthier bank balance = less stress. More time at home.

7. Playing with The Bean makes me feel younger. It's fun!

8. After spending so many years wanting to be a mum, I don't mind the hard graft side of parenting too much. But the same is true of many mums... I read in people's blogs - certainly all the ones in my blogroll and others besides - of so much selfless hard work for their children, that they do without complaining or expecting anything much in return.

9. I wish I could add greater life experience to the list.

10. A better sense of who I am. Makes it easier to resist the latest fads in parenting.

Posted 17 July 2007 20:14 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Angst Daughters Fun Older mother

Naughty corner

Flying daleks hold few terrors for me nowadays. The only television that really scares me concentrates on small children with behavioural issues. Not many shows are more alarming for me than those featuring a 'naughty corner'. Luckily, The Bean is only 15 months old and, so far, reassuringly normal in her behaviour. When I see the 'corner' on telly I fear it as the possible shape of Things to Come.

The sight of Supernanny riding round America from one maladjusted mansion to the next in that ridiculous black cab of hers makes me worry that one day I might end up on one of these programmes. Obviously sans the ranch-style mansion. Or any decent parking for the cab. Plus up here people might try and hire it. Instead of marvel at it as a foreign novelty, as they properly ought. But with an uncontrollable child. While upstairs I act contrite as Supernanny tells me where I've gone wrong.

Watching these programmes I fear I'll appear on them one day, a husk, defeated by my own defective parenting. Sent to the parental naughty corner that is humiliation on national television. And made to stay there for a minute of every year of my age. Which in my case would mean nearly 40 minutes of advice from Mary Poppins.

Programmes like Supernanny make me fear that unless I get this parenting business absolutely right, then in a couple of years The Bean might win some kind of infant ASBO the government will have been forced to introduce, to combat the unruly pre-schoolers ruling the domestic roost. Perhaps called a BASBO. There, I knew I couldn't write anything about parenting without resorting to acronyms.

The ASBO for pre-school kids would be a kind of souped-up, institutional 'naughty corner'. Bans on hoods on the cardigans their grannies knitted. A large pacifier sign stamped on the front door to indicate naughtiness within. Community toddles to keep them from hanging round softplays with too much time on their hands. Curfews on drinking babycinos after certain hours. I can't see it catching on as a badge of honour in NCT circles.

When Supernanny US came on the other week, my husband did his utmost to make me switch channels, as he knows my fears well. I didn't listen to him and watched a restaurant owner and his wife meekly receive advice on the many errors of their slack parenting ways.

The damage was done. The next day I was a little bit stricter with The Bean than I'd normally be, thinking I'd better set some limits before Jo Frost's taxi arrived at the door. She was playing on the floor in the kitchen, while I tidied up. Sensing my attention was elsewhere, she made a beeline for a kitchen cupboard containing lots of precious china that we haven't got round to child-proofing yet. When we moved into our flat, The Bean hadn't arrived. So I didn't know back then it was a stupid idea to put china in cupboards at ground level when you have a child.

Just so you know I am not a complete spoilsport, I do allow her to put things in the washing machine. These range from tea-towels to toy bricks and nappy cream. She then enjoys unloading them, in a methodical fashion, before reloading them in the barrel of the washing machine. But I try to keep her away from cupboards where she could break the contents, or hurt herself.

"NO!" I thundered at her, louder than I normally would. "We do NOT go in that cupboard." All credit to her, she smiled up at me, quite unmoved, and went back to sucking on the packet of her Baby Bonjela teething gel. Her mother might deserve some time on the naughty corner. But she's doing just fine.

Posted 16 July 2007 00:13 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Angst Daughters Home Parenting gurus

Disemvowelling

I'm not a girl who's easily scared of acronyms - but it would have been nice to have some warning before I became a mum that my life as a parent, especially a blogging parent, would be dominated by them. Take your pick - are you a Stay at Home Mum (SAHM), Work at Home Mum (WAHM), or just plain sahd? We all have to be something, it seems.

No offence to my fellow blogger Stay at Home Dad, who's got a nice sense of humour and doesn't seem to take these things too seriously, but is this really how we're supposed to define ourselves as human beings?

It's almost enough to make me want to claim I'm a 'homemaker'. Another fellow blogger, Dooce, has a nice variation on what SAHM might stand for. I'm too inhibited to spell it out here.

Today I came across a new acronym - FTBCWM - for Full-Time By Choice Working Mother. Or EOE, for Embodiment of Evil, in certain circles. Fairly trips off the tongue, doesn't it?

I'm thinking of inventing my own title - PTBCAHWM. Part-Time by Choice at Home Working Mum. The hyphenation's a nightmare. But it fairly sums up my working day. And the world of the working mum is consonant-rich and vowel-poor, you see. My title could, alternatively, be a new transcription of a 5am seagull cry as the beast swoops on our rubbish bags.

Or it could stand for Poor in Time, Bewildered and Confused, At Home When Money permits. That could cover a lot of mothers, I reckon.

If you don't believe me about these titles then have a look over at Alpha Mummy, where a real old cat fight has broken out between stay at home mums and workers. The fights's got so nasty it's ended with one of the more vitriolic participants being disemvowelled - the first time I've ever come across this gruesome process outside medieval England. We were none of us overly endowed with vowels in this battle to start with.

It's not that I have a problem with acronyms in themselves. I mean, I fell in love with and married a paid-up geek. Don't laugh, but our courtship included word games based on car number plates we spotted as we strolled along. The Bean and I share our home with shelves of books with titles like XML Primer Plus, C# for Beginners, ASP.NET and XSLT. They give me indigestion when I so much as look at them. Don't even get me started on the stash of computing books in the bathroom.

But I could never tell anyone who asked me what I do: "I am a WAHM. A Work at Home Mother." It'd be like being some tragic pop groupie from the 1980s, in denial that George Michael was gay, bouncing about in leg-warmers, ra-ra skirts and feathered earrings.

But when did all this nonsense about parenting types start? And why do we need these silly titles?

Maybe we invented the titles to give ourselves a sense of identity. Just like we coined the phrase 'parenting' for the stuff our own mothers used to do with no other job description besides 'mother'.

When The Bean arrived 15 months ago, people stopped asking me what I did for a living.

Instead, they started saying: "And what does your husband do?" As if The Bean's beaming presence at my side meant I was out of the job market for a while, and if they wanted to know about our financial status they'd need to check on her dad's earning power.

Maybe other women had the same experience, felt the same way, and so dreamt up these titles to give themselves more status.

I don't know what the people who inquired about husband's job were hoping for, but when I told them he was in IT, their faces generally went blank and they'd change the subject. It was sort of a relief. I don't have much IT small talk. Obviously they didn't either. Maybe I should have said: "He's a Mobster dad. Come on, you know, M-O-B. Mainly Office Bound." Or MOB for Man Overboard. Now that would have been a bit more accurate for the crazy early months after The Bean arrived.

Posted 04 July 2007 21:06 | Number of comments: 28 | Comments

Angst Daughters Husband Parenting gurus Work Work vs mothering Work at Home Mum

All in good time

Set in stone My husband and I cannot agree on what “leaving in good time” means. Last week was our first parents’ evening at nursery – a momentous event in our small household. We built up to this for days beforehand. Somehow we still ended up half-running through Edinburgh’s early evening drizzle, sans umbrella. We arrived dishevelled, damp and out of breath.

When I'm not blaming my husband for our poor time management, I blame poor Granny. After she arrived to babysit for our big night, an hour slid by. We rifled through cupboards filled with small plastic containers, tidied away toys. I produced breadsticks, cereal bars, potted apple puree; lifted down boxes of formula. Made cups of tea; relocated the remotes, chatted, got daughter to bed, and there we were, time to go. Another ten minutes vanished looking for glasses, applying lipstick, brushing hair, smoothing on “product”. Whoosh.

Jack and I clattered downstairs, giddy with the freedom of a rare night out. Then we looked at his watch, and panicked.

“We should have left earlier,” I began.

“I was ready a good half hour before you,” he said, in a mild way.

“No, you weren’t,” I retorted, knowing what he said was true.

“I think you'll find I was. I was waiting for you but didn't say anything as I didn't want to rush you.”

"You should have said something!" I blustered.

We began half-running/half-walking along Edinburgh's cobbled lanes, skeetering in our haste over treacherous, uneven stones lying sleek and smooth with rain. Every so often Edinburgh Council erects huge tents over the road, digs up these cobbles, cleans them and replaces them to make road surfaces smoother. Within months they revert to the default of their old uneven ways, set, as it where, in stone. The butterflies in my stomach refused to settle. Not a product in the world could have stopped my hair frizzing.

We could have driven, but decided lack of both parking skills and spaces might make it quicker on foot.

“You can slow down. We’ve got a good ten minutes to get there,” my husband tried to persuade me.

“No! We can’t be late. We’ve got to keep going, it'll take at least ten minutes to get there,” I insisted.

Of course I caved. Ground to a halt. Wheezed.

“We should slow down. I don’t want to be all out of breath when we get there. I want to make a good impression. What will all the other parents think if we arrive like this?” I preached to my converted husband.

"Why do you care so much what other people think?" he asked.

I had no answer.

The grown-ups had reclaimed nursery for the evening. Someone showed us into a large room with drinks set out next to the Wendy House. We demisted our glasses. Under the felt-tipped airplane with pictures of children's heads pasted to the seats stood one mother. Over by the window stood another. That made four of us in the room. A nursery assistant brought us our drinks. Grimaced.

"Nice weather, isn't it? The other parents'll be along shortly I expect. Must have got held up by the weather."

Posted 06 June 2007 11:00 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Angst Car Dilemmas Domestic chaos Etiquette Husband Mistakes Nursery

Vicious circle

My heart sank this morning when I read in The Times about yet another pregnancy survey that will alarm many mothers and mothers-to-be. Apparently women who suffer stress in pregnancy transmit their anxiety to their unborn child from as early as 17 weeks. Stress levels in foetuses as young as four months old rise and fall in line with those of their mothers.

The Times quotes a midwife for Tommy's, the baby charity, saying: "What is now clear is that high levels of stress in pregnancy can in some cases be detrimental to the health of the baby and to remain as stress-free as possible is certainly important."

The researchers, though doubtless well-meaning, seem to have forgotten something important in all this - stress is part and parcel of being pregnant. At least, it is for me. Pregnant women are biologically programmed to worry about anything that might present a danger to them or their child(ren) - and pregnancy is a stressful time.

Professor Vivette Glover of Imperial College London, who carried out the research, has suggested previously that the greater the stress felt by a mother, the lower her baby's IQ. The babies of stressed mothers are also more likely to be anxious and show signs of attention-deficit disorder.

Medical staff have responded to the findings by asking the family, friends and employers of pregnant women to give adequate support and reassurance during their pregnancy.

Consultant obstetrician Pampa Sarkar who worked with Professor Glover on the research is quoted in The Times saying: "We do not wish to unduly worry pregnant women. It should be remembered that one of the best ways for people to avoid general stress is to lead a healthy, balanced lifestyle."

Pregnancy is stressful at the best of times, even with a supportive family. Will the baby be okay? How will I cope? Will I be a good mother? How will my relationship with my husband change? Will he still fancy me? What will the birth be like? What about my work? Will we be okay on one income? How will wider family politics change? What on earth have I got myself into? Will I ever get a good night's sleep again? Why has he got all the duvet on his side?

Posted 01 June 2007 09:36 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Angst Guilt Parenting gurus Perfectionism Pregnancy

Feminine mistakes

An article on the excellent News for Parents site reports that an American writer has stirred up controversy with a book arguing that mothers who don't work could be risking their financial security, as well as their happiness.

In The Feminine Mistake, Vanity Fair journalist Leslie Bennetts warns stay-at-home mums that their decision to give up economic self-sufficiency and rely on their partner could have disastrous consequences.

The book's title's an ironic nod to fellow American writer Betty Friedan's 1963 book The Feminine Mystique, the groundbreaking work credited with launching the feminist movement. The book attacked the idea a husband and children were all a woman needed for fulfillment.

The latest book's stirred up a hornet's nest in the US, where according to poor Bennetts, stay-at-home mums are "burning up the blogosphere denouncing me". Last time I checked there were no fewer than 68 heated reviews of the book on Amazon alone, most of them huffy and defensive, all defending the writer's personal choices on working or not working.

Bennetts, herself a working mum, insists she only wants to alert women to dangers in giving up work to rely on a partner's income, like divorce, or a husband losing his job. My fellow blogger Omega Mum over at 3kidsnojob can tell you all about the latter scenario in her entertaining account of what happens when a husband loses his job, in their case through no fault of his own.

Bennetts also says that women who take career breaks planning to get back to work once the kids are ready should know they will take a huge salary hit - and might not get back to the same level at all. And there's also the sense of self-worth that women can gain outside the home. Plus pension entitlement. I'll see what she says about part-time work-at-home mums, and let you know about that.

The report was mostly manna to my web-weary eyes after a sorry day filling up the depleted Mother at Large household coffers. But why do I need a US author I've never even met to validate my parenting choices? Why do I need to read this to feel okay about how I arrange my life? Am I the only mother who needs approval from a book I've not yet read for choosing to work? I'd like to see a time when women can make career decisions without reference to a battery of parenting experts. Then again, maybe most women already do.

Posted 30 May 2007 22:44 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Angst Childcare Dilemmas Home working Nursery Work Work vs mothering Parenting gurus

The parenting paradox

You just can't win as a parent. It was my health visitor who explained the parenting paradox to me. If you take your child to ballet/football then you're labelled pushy, she explained. If you don't, you'll feel guilty for not encouraging them. Know the sort of thing I mean? Whatever you do, you can't win.

Fellow Edinburgh blogger Littlemummy did an amusing posting the other week on Socially Recognised Parenting Standards. Reading it made me realise we parents will never achieve parenting perfection, because no ordinary human could ever attain the standards we set ourselves.

I started thinking about the never-ending series of exacting rules and parenting commandments that all contradict and conflict with each other. So even if you manage by some feat of superhuman stamina to meet one of them, then you'll be breaking another at the same time. I suppose the only way round this is to concentrate on what we each think is right, and ignore other people's ideas, however well-meant.

These are a few thoughts on some of the main parenting paradoxes

Breastfeeding

Any young mum can tell you of the immense pressure to breastfeed a new baby. Not so many people talk about how only a few months later there's similar pressure to stop. In hospital after having my daughter my boobs became public property, staff were so keen for me to learn this womanly art. Hands came from everywhere to latch the baby on. Someone even told me to follow the "nose to nipple" mantra - a policy that was to cost my poor nipples untold anguish. Then, just about as soon as I got breastfeeding going smoothly, it seemed to be time to stop. No sooner had we got past the toe-curling agony stage of nipple guards and Lansinoh cream, than people were saying things like: "You've got to wonder who's benefitting from this - the mother or the baby."

Mother-infant bonding

Pick up any of the legions of parenting books available now and you'll read about the virtues of responsive attachment parenting, that involves "baby wearing", baby massage, skin-on-skin contact, and breastfeeding. The idea is these practices supposedly promote a strong bond between mother and infant. Fast forward only a few months later and it's all about fostering a healthy sense of individuality and self-assertion on the baby's part, with dark looks cast at clingy babies. How much is a good thing? When does a good thing turn into something bad? How do you get the balance right? Well, it seems you can't, because the goal posts are always moving.

Work vs parenting

This works a bit like this: you're not quite recognised as a proper human being or accorded any status if, as a mother, you don't do some form of paid work, but if on the other hand you do work then you must also express conflict, regret and guilt for doing so. Truly, no-win all round.

Any mother who loves going to work because, as much as anything else, it means they can go to the loo alone never admits as much, but instead expresses stoical regret that her life has worked out this way.

There's more on this theme over at The Bad Mothers' Club. Any thoughts on other parenting paradoxes?