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Books
Edinburgh bookshop opens
Headed out in waterproofs last night to celebrate at the Edinburgh Bookshop launch party. The bookshop was a beacon of light, warmth and laughter amid Morningside's chill rain. It is the latest venture from Fidra Books, the publishers who specialise in reviving neglected children's classics and who have been making their mark in Edinburgh bookselling over the last couple of years. The Edinburgh Bookshop is just a few doors down the street in Bruntsfield Place from the company's Children's Bookshop, which has quickly become a well-loved institution for parents and children alike.
Each guest at the launch was photographed holding a copy of their favourite book from the shop's shelves. Fidra have great taste in books; stylish, eclectic, but with fingers on the pulse of what's happening in the market. Meaning we were spoilt for choice: one luminary of Scottish publishing was spotted with Jurassic Towel Origami, the book that teaches readers to make dinosaurs out of towels. Another was snapped holding How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read. That might have been useful before last night's launch party, at least for me. Someone else chose Scotland's Lost Houses, by Ian Gow. As for me, I chose The Creative Writing Coursebook by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs, despite being sorely tempted by the Hebridean Desk Diary. Topics of conversation included whether the ghost of Dame Muriel Spark, latter-day local resident and writer, might be tempted to do an author event, via seance, why one should never make the mistake of under-estimating scriptwriter skill on TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, how to make planes out of balsam wood, and, of course, the importance of blogging.
Plenty of local writers kindly turned out to give their support to the shop and there was real pleasure at the party in seeing an independent bookshop opening its doors. Especially one called the Edinburgh Bookshop, a name which has such happy associations for so many people. Other Edinburgh residents among you will almost certainly remember the original Edinburgh Bookshop that stood on George Street for many years. Here's wishing the new shop every success.
"How the cat purred and how the witch grinned"
Let me start by confessing that I was not expecting to enjoy Room on the Broom at the Pleasance anything like as much as I did. Being a grown-up and everything, I thought my only fun would be from watching my daughter's delight at this musical stage adaptation of the Julia Donaldson classic. How wrong could I be? I was bellowing with laughter all the way through this production from Tall Stories. It was a treat, from start to finish. Tall Stories are the same people who made hit show The Gruffalo a few years back. You might have seen it on DVD. Based on our experiences today, I'd be surprised if Room on the Broom doesn't enjoy similar success. Beanie's face lit up with delight when she recognised the characters from one of her best-loved stories. Together with the rest of a packed house, adults and children alike, I too couldn't hide my pleasure in a witty, fast-paced production. Somehow, it pulled off the feat of staying true to the fairytale spirit of the original book, complete with witch, dragon and flying broomstick. While making it work on stage. The show used puppets for the dog, bird and frog, a device which, if I'd heard about it beforehand, might have made me sceptical. Somehow, though, it worked. The show has a few differences to the book - there's comic bickering between the witch and her cat that doesn't feature in the book and the witch is even more scatterbrained on stage. The dragon is, inexplicably, Welsh. But it all rang true and author Julia Donaldson, who was in the audience at today's show, looked like she approved. She kindly signed copies of her books afterwards in the Pleasance Tipi. 'That looks well-thumbed,' she said kindly, preparing to autograph our copy of Room on the Broom. Then she posed for photos outside the Tipi with cast members and the 'truly magnificent broom' that they had just magicked up from the witch's cauldron half an hour previously. Beanie gazed in wonder at the actors playing the witch, cat and other characters and went over to say hello. They were lovely to her and she insisted on sticking around, watching them pose for photos on the broom, until I suggested it was time to go home. "No, Mummy," she said. "No, Mummy. I don't want to go home. I want to stay." "Come on, we've got to go now. Look, everyone else is going home," I said.
"Mummy, no. I'm staying. I want to see them go home on the broom."
Room on the Broom, Pleasance, Edinburgh, 2.30pm, daily, until 31 August. Tel: 0131 556 6550
Art of Blogging
Spoke on the Art of Blogging at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Wednesday afternoon. The event sold out. People laughed at my jokes. Nobody heckled. Phew.
I spent the night before pacing round the flat, drinking endless cups of tea and inflicting my speech on anyone prepared to listen. Even one-year-old daughter Button was not spared on the importance of having a niche for your blog. The day itself dawned. I felt sick. So decided to invest in getting my normally frizzy hair trimmed, blow-dried and straightened. That always helps give a bit of extra confidence.
After lunch Granny turned up to babysit, though before she got in the door she warned me she wouldn't listen to another speech read-through. I got dressed, after deciding on my new Levi jeans, jollied up by a jacket and smart shoes, and used up the last of my best Chanel foundation in honour of the occasion. As I headed out, the girls both looked heartily glad to see the back of Mummy, probably fed up with me reciting statistics at them about something called Technorati. But they both waved and blew kisses as I disappeared down the stairs.
I walked up the hill, terrified it would start to rain and all the hair straightening would be in vain. Then, as the tented village of the Book Festival in Charlotte Square Gardens came into view, my terror turned to excitement. I love the Book Festival - it's better than Christmas. Husband Va-vay and I made our way to the Authors' Yurt, which is actually more like a series of interconnecting yurts, decked out with Moorish rugs, divans and throws. I would have liked to stay there for ever. Staff gave us our passes, tickets and a goody bag with a free notebook. Best-selling fantasy writer Neil Gaiman arrived at the same time as me, for his event. Reassuring to see that he too looked nervous.
Lovely local crime writer Lin Anderson chaired the Art of Blogging event and I was lucky to have Caroline Dunford, another Edinburgh writer, as my co-panellist. I was meant to do a similar event last year, but since Button was only two weeks old and I hadn't even got out of my nightie and dressing gown at that stage, I reluctantly had to cry off. Good to be back in the saddle.
Toddlers: The Mumsnet Guide
The moment I knew for sure this book
wasn't for me? Stumbling on a piece of advice in the section on potty
training that counselled, in all seriousness: "Do not empty your potty
in your host's kitchen sink." In "Mumsnetiquette", a piece of writing which reads like it was inspired in the darkest
hinterland of social oblivion, the authors advise: "It is most
definitely not acceptable to empty potties down friends' kitchen sinks
when on playdates." Well, no, how true. But do I want to pay £12.99 to be told that? Readers are advised, earnestly,
that they should instead locate a bathroom or visitors' loo, then
"empty potty, rinse and dry (not on the guests' handtowel). Employ a
handy antibacterial wipe ... (but don't flush wipes down the loo, they
cause blockages). Wash your hands." The authors have plainly spent too
long on the internet and not enough time getting out and mixing with
other people. Especially other adults. I also suspect they might have
forgotten they were meant to be writing about toddlers and lapsed into writing for toddlers.
Toddlers: The Mumsnet Guide, Bloomsbury, £12.99
"Instructions Not Included", by Charlotte Moerman
It was the strap line of this book by fellow blogger Charlotte Moerman that got me intrigued (as all good strap lines should). "One mum, three boys and a very steep learning curve". Three boys - ah. You see, being the mother of two daughters, I have no idea what it's like to bring up a small boy - let alone three - and I have to admit to being curious. I'm happy to be a mother of girls - I always wanted daughters, and gave a great whoop of delight when the sonographer told us that's what we were having - but I do sometimes wonder what it might be like to knit things in blue. The front cover picture gave me some idea - it's of a woman with a blond bob hunched over her laptop. All around her is the chaos of toy diggers, waterpistols and general mayhem. Or, as the author puts it, "the ebb and flow of assorted plastic tat". Plenty of that round our way too. Only most of ours is pink.
This is a well-written book that succeeds in taking one person's experience of becoming a parent and weaving it into an entertaining yarn that speaks to many people. It's fair to say that Moerman maybe isn't in the league of some of the very best writers on parenting - say, Kate Mosse and Rachel Cusk - but she's not half bad, and her writing is well-observed, sharp and fresh. Moreover, she's funny. Here she is preparing her hospital bag for the birth of her first boy: "I must pack my hospital bag. I must pack my hospital bag. I must pack my hospital bag. I just wish it wasn't so off-putting. [...] For the labour, snacks, a big T-shirt you don't mind chucking afterwards and a pair of socks. Camera, huge paper pants that even Bridget Jones couldn't carry off and sanitary towels, each the size of a Magnum."
There are times the text jumps about in a slightly unsatisfying way that makes it easy to lose the narrative thread, and other times when you sense the writer has maybe had to self-censor on certain subjects (though I am only guessing here). But Moerman more than compensates for these quibbles with her skill in blending the universal experience of motherhood with the particular zeitgeist. This is, above all, a contemporary book, about what it's like to go from being a thirty-something career woman, holding your own with your husband, travelling and having fun together, to frazzled stay-at-home mummy, devoted to your boys but wondering what's happened to your identity. It's a book about the time in your life when your children get invited to more parties than you do. About discovering Gina Ford. About hanging with your NCT pals. It's fun. I've found myself returning to it several times over the past week or so.
I have two free copies of Instructions Not Included, £12.99, Virgin Books to give away. Please drop me a line at mail@motheratlarge.com by 31 March to be included in the draw.
'My Bump and Me', Myleene Klass
I was looking forwards to reading Myleene Klass's autobiographical account of her pregnancy, My Bump and Me. After all, the front cover bills the paperback as "The Sunday Times Bestseller", so I thought it must have a lot going for it.
The first fly in the ointment was uncertainty over the author's identity. "Is she an actress?" asked my husband. "Errr, don't know," I had to confess. "Who is she, then?" Now, admittedly, neither husband nor I are in the same age group as Klass. We both listen to Radio Four more than the music stations. We only watch reality television when seriously wrecked from sleepless nights with the babies. So maybe we don't fall into the target readership. But it would have been nice to get a brief run-down somewhere in the book of the author (she is a musician) and her credentials. It's possible I missed her background material but nothing leapt out at me.
Klass does, though, dwell on her exploits in the television programme "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here" and the quickie in a bathroom afterwards that resulted in her pregnancy. And, ultimately, this book. I was embarrassed for her when I read that part. I might have even blushed.
Reading My Bump and Me is not unlike eating your way through a box of Thorntons chocolates or watching hours of reality television. Pleasant enough at the time, but leaves you empty and disgusted at yourself afterwards.
It's the utter banality that gets to you. Not even knowing she's pregnant, Klass gets grumpy with her boyfriend, then is relieved to discover it's raging hormones that are causing the arguments. She is awed by the miracle of new life growing inside her, gets fed up with NHS maternity servies, is forced 'in desperation' to go private, debates baby names, reassesses her relationship with her own mother, moves house, gets in a tizz, needs to wee a lot, puts on weight and mentions her work modelling for Marks & Spencer about a dozen times too many.
When she poses almost naked for Glamour magazine (a nod to Demi Moore), a job for which she would surely have been paid handsomely, she describes the shoot as 'flying the flag for mamas'.
Her publishers brought in somebody to select and edit material for the book, but unfortunately much of the writing reads like one long text message.
She complains, in a mild way, about well-meaning but unwanted advice from friends, family and random strangers. This does not stop her offering her own tit bits of advice, (take drugs in labour if you feel like it, don't be forced into breastfeeding). But I suppose we're all guilty of offering advice when we would do better to say nothing.
Despite this, Klass herself comes across as a nice, cheerful person with a good heart. And she sounds like she'll make an excellent mother to her much-loved little girl. I wish I had more positive things to say about My Bump and Me. It does have a readable, compulsive quality (I read it in an evening) and it's innocuous; without anything upsetting or nasty about it. Unfortunately, I have to say I found the book a little bit vacuous. Not unlike the celebrity culture that created it.
My Bump and Me, Myleene Klass. £7.99, Virgin Books.
Neil Gaiman comes to Edinburgh
Sorry I haven't posted much of late, I've been concentrating on my lovely husband, Beanie and our baby girl, who is already twelve weeks old, and didn't want to forsake them - even temporarily - for the blogosphere. It's not just the time I would have had to spend writing posts, it was my fear that posting would lead to obsessive (no doubt unhealthy) checking to see if anyone had left a comment. So I didn't risk anything that would stick me behind a computer screen, instead of with the family, and had a complete break for a while. Also, let's be honest, I've been exhausted from the sleepless nights, though relieved and happy that our baby girl arrived safely. A few readers have kindly asked what it's like to have two children - I'll write more on this in future postings but let's just say for that I didn't know it was possible to love two little girls and their daddy as much as I love my lot. Life has been crazy (and wonderful too) but we're now more settled in our new roles as a family of hour (five, if you count Granny, bless her). Partly with that in mind I'm breaking radio silence to let Edinburgh readers know that best-selling fantasy writer (and ace blogger) Neil Gaiman, whose novel Stardust was made into the 2007 movie starring Clare Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer and Robert De Niro, is coming to Edinburgh next week to promote his new book The Graveyard Book. He'll be appearing at the Churchill Theatre on Tuesday, October 28, at 7pm. You can buy tickets (costing £5, redeemable against a copy of the book on the night) and find out more details here.
Paddington's Birthday
Any Edinburgh residents among you might be interested to know The Children's Bookshop is celebrating Paddington Bear's 50th birthday in the shop tomorrow. I am told there will be discounts on all Paddington books and free marmalade sandwiches available all day (bearing that in mind, we'll be taking some of these with us). There is also to be a colouring competition, the winner of which will receive a free copy of the brand new Paddington: My Book of Marmalade. written by 83-year-old author Michael Bond. If you get the chance, why not pop along and help celebrate a milestone in the life of a bear who must be Britain's best-loved illegal immigrant.
Appearing at Edinburgh Book Festival
All confirmed for my appearance at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Friday, August 15 from 2pm to 3.30pm. An advance copy of the brochure arrived by post this morning. Here is the blurb about the event:
Books, Blogging and the Internet
How can writers best use the internet to produce and promote their work? Ex-Sunday Times journalist Helen Fowler, who secured her first book deal after publishers stumbled on her popular blog (you're reading it now) guides you through social networking, turning blogs into books and the benefits of an online presence.
Tickets (£12, £10 concession) go on sale to the public from 20 June and the brochure is available from tomorrow, 12 June. Please come along if you're in the vicinity.
Like a dog, like a dog, like a dog.... the Kipper quiz
Like many families before us, we have become huge fans of the best-selling Kipper books by Mick Inkpen (by the way, here is good biography of Inkpen, who is also pictured below). This started me thinking - we all know people in real life who are a bit like the characters of Tiger, Kipper, Pig and his cousin Arnold. Have you ever wondered which character you're most like? Here's a little quiz to help you work out who you most ressemble. 
1. An overnight camping trip to Big Hill is suggested. It is your first night in a tent. You are the one who:
a) insisted on bringing toys from home
b) had the idea for the trip. But got scared and went home early
c) said little, but gritted it out until morning
d) stayed at home.
2. It is your birthday. You decide to celebrate by:
a) making a cake and inviting friends round. Co-ordinating the two events proves harder than anticipated.
b) asking for the latest, fanciest gadget. Which you find impossible to make work.
c) adding a new pet to your already extensive menagerie.
d) feeding the ducks.
3. Somebody gives you a pair of rollerblades. You respond by:
a) trying hard to master this new skill. With mixed results.
b) boasting to anyone who'll listen about how fantastic you are at rollerblading. Before falling into a bush.
c) practising, practising, practising. Until you get really good.
d) watching your older cousin and learning from his example
4. Your attitude towards your toys is to:
a) love, cherish and respect them. Life wouldn't be the same without old friends around.
b) put them in a rocket and fire them at the moon.
c) love them, but appraise them shrewdly.
d) who needs toys when you've got a cardboard box?
5. You are working on a project requiring great ingenuity. Something goes wrong. You respond by:
a) feeling a bit thrown but persevering in finding a solution
b) moaning and complaining amid great melodrama
c) your projects don't go wrong, you spend so much time beforehand preparing.
d) taking time out, then pulling off a piece of lateral thinking
6. You have done yourself a minor injury. You respond by:
a) applying a sticking plaster and moving on
b) insisting on sticking plaster, ointment, sling, painkillers and emergency trip to hospital. And, of course, moaning.
c) being grateful you were wearing safety kit that prevented the injury being any worse
d) sucking your thumb
7. You have made an error of judgement. Do you:
a) acknowledge your mistake, feel embarrassed and apologise
b) bluster and pretend it wasn't your fault
c) arrange an inventive win-win compromise that minimises the impact of your mistake.
d) approach someone else for advice
8. You are going for a day at the beach. Would you:
a) immediately start building a sandcastle
b) insist on setting up an elaborate base camp. With inappropriate kit
c) stun your friends by revealing hitherto unsuspected skills as a water skier
d) stand on your head. Perfectly.
9. As a friend you are mostly:
a) Popular with everyone. You are prepared to take the rough with the smooth and see good in most people, even the annoying ones.
b) Sometimes demanding and grandiose, but good-hearted and lovable.
c) A bit of an enigma. Not aloof, but you like to keep some distance between yourself and others.
d) Unobtrusive and loyal.
How you scored:
Mostly a) - you are Kipper. Popular and well-loved, hard-working and down-to-earth, you are able to see the cheery side of life, even amid disaster. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants to be you. Tell us your secret, please Kipper?
Mostly b) - you are Tiger. Sorry, but are you just a teeny bit full of your own importance? Come on, admit it! No? Not just a little bit? And you're not really as competent as you make out, are you? Don't worry, all your friends still love you. They know what a good sort you are underneath all that bluster. And you are often the one who comes up with the idea for adventures. Life wouldn't be as much fun without you around. Perhaps, though, you might try to rein in that grandiosity? A simpler life can often be more satisfying than pursuing complex ambitions.
Mostly c) - you are Pig. Savvy and secretive, you are the dark horse of the group. Although supportive to those around you, you tend to prefer to operate on your own, away from group restrictions. You have a highly developed sense of self-reliance and your tenacity allows you to succeed where others might give up. Few people understand you well and you are often lonely. You might consider trusting others a little bit more.
Mostly d) - you are Arnold. What a sweetie you are! And how did you learn to stand on your head so well? We wish we could do that too! The ducks cheer when they see you heading over to their pond.
The only advice we could offer would be to have more faith in your own judgement. You don't need to rely on Pig for everything.
With thanks to these good people, who sent us a stack of Kipper books.
While on the subject of children's books, Edinburgh residents among you may be interested to hear that The Children's Bookshop at Holy Corner, Bruntsfield, will be holding a weekly story-telling session every Tuesday at 10.30am from 3 June for the under-fives. The bookshop has a great range of books - with a well-chosen selection for grown-ups too - and a lovely atmosphere. It also runs regular author events for children and adults (you can sign up to an email subscription on their website informing you about upcoming readings). So do pay a visit if you haven't already.
Mystery of the Meme
I've been tagged by Vanessa of Fidra - (now that sounds like a book title if ever I heard one) - in something called a book meme.
The rules are:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.
Birthing from Within by Pam England and Rob Horowitz.
"The burst of energy that accompanies the onset of labour allows for last minute 'nesting'. Use this opportunity to take care of any unfinished business before settling into your birth place and the state-of-mindlessness sometimes referred to as 'Labourland'. In America, the image of women in labour lying down in a narrow bed, waiting and watching the monitor has become part of our idea of birth."
My brain isn't working well this morning - that 'state-of-mindlessness' thing kicking in already. I need to have a think about who I'll tag. Update follows later.
Book Festival Update
Edinburgh International Book Festival UPDATE
I'll be speaking on the subject of Books and the Internet at the EIBF on Friday August 15 at 2pm. The organisers have kindly agreed to give me a date that won't clash with my husband's 40th birthday - also mid-August. I don't want to over-promise: anything I know about Books and the Internet is what I've learnt from swapping notes with readers of this blog and other friends I've made on-line. But I'm working hard to pack as much information into the workshop as possible.
Edinburgh Book Festival appearance
Nicola Morgan, head of the Society of Authors in Scotland, and the Edinburgh International Book Festival have asked me to do a writer's workshop at the festival in August on blogging, social networking and books. Wonderful news, but I did feel honour-bound to point out that following the collapse of The Friday Project I don't currently have a book contract. I didn't want them to take me under false pretences. Were they sure they still wanted me? Not a problem, said the organisers. They already knew all about my publisher going bust (very sorry, sure something good would come of it) and could I please talk a bit to the audience about my experiences with The Friday Project? Well, fine. I can do that. Only other snag is that I'm due to give birth just six weeks earlier. But my friend Vanessa has offered to look after the baby in the refreshment tent while I do the workshop. So looks like we're in business. Anyone in Edinburgh in August, do please come along if you get the chance. I'll do my best to make it informative and fun.
Activities Blogging Books Fashionably Late - the book Out and about
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.
Labour of love
I am reading accounts of women giving birth the way I used to eat cashew nuts - unable to stop myself and always wanting more. Ina May Gaskin, Sheila Kitzinger, Kate Mosse, Lesley Regan, Zita West, Janet Balaskas
- their books form tower blocks next to my bed. I look forwards to bed
time the way I used to enjoy Friday nights after a long week at work.
It's my chance to read about how other women coped with pregnancy and
childbirth. This would be fine, were it not for the fact that I cannot
persuade my husband Va-vay to share my enthusiasm for these books.
Don't get me wrong, Va-vay could not be more supportive of my pregnancy
- in a practical, solution-oriented sense. He does lots of shopping,
cooking, cleaning, laundry and childcare. When Beanie woke last night
at 2.30am it was Va-vay who got up and searched for Calpol, then sat
with her until she fell back to sleep. At about 5am. It was Va-vay who
got her up two hours later, got her to nursery, took out the rubbish
and went to work.
In fairness to him, all that activity doesn't leave much time for
reading. But last week I did mention to him that since he's my birth
partner it would be nice if he could read up on labour. At the time he
became rather huffy. Accused me of accusing him of being
'unsupportive."
"No, Va-vay, that's not what I meant," I protested. "I'd just like us
both to be involved in the labour. For us both to know what's going on.
So you understand the emotional side too."
"I know all about emotions, living with you," he said.
I dropped the subject.
Then on Sunday I bought a book on potty training for Beanie and left it
in the bathroom - home to the potty training action. Later that evening
Va-vay came out of the bathroom, quite jubilant, and started quoting
facts from the book at me.
"Do you know what 'lifting' is?" he asked me.
"Errr, no. Why?"
"It's the practice of putting children on the potty last thing at night. Very controversial."
"Right. Well, thank you for letting me know that."
"If you want me to read any of those books on childbirth just leave
them in the bathroom too and I'll take a look at them," he said with a
jaunty air. No doubt he plans to quote salient facts back at me. He is
just not taking this seriously. My private bits are risking mutilation.
There will be pain, blood and gore - however well it goes. I don't want
Ina May and Sheila left in the bathroom - it feels disrespectful.
Bring on our birth preparation workshops. Then I will have him
discussing feelings. In a group. With people he doesn't know. Ah,
vengeance.
Spiritual midwifery
My copy of Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskin arrived yesterday from the Book Depository
after the pregnant wife of one of Va-vay's colleagues recommended it to
me last week. Many readers of this blog may already know of Ina May Gaskin,
(I have to confess I didn't) but for those who don't, she is a
'self-taught' lay midwife who has helped pioneer ideas we nowadays take
for granted in modern obstetrics, like fathers being present at births,
the usefulness of breathing techniques, and an end to routine
episiotomies. She was one of the first people to present pregnancy,
childbirth and breastfeeding from a spiritual perspective and is known as "the mother of authentic midwifery". I stayed up
till 2.30am last night reading Spritual Midwifery,
literally unable to put it down, fascinated by stories of women giving
birth at home in a hippy commune in 1970s Tennessee known as The Farm. Although the photos of beautiful, long-haired Madonnas and bearded husbands date the book to a vanished era, the book has a universality and timelessness that makes it as relevant today as ever. Inspirational and
uplifting.
Spooky
I have made up my mind about one thing. My baby will not be having a supernatural birth. Trawling through Amazon, I came across Supernatural Childbirth. It promises 'a practical and realistic look at God's promises for conception, pregnancy and delivery'. Supernatural Childbirth even includes a 'powerful teaching section on ex-planning [sic] the curse on Eve in the Garden of Eden.' As if labour isn't bad enough, who wants an exorcism to boot?
Call me a sissy, but Unassisted Childbirth isn't high on my list of preferences either. The blurb promises advice on giving birth without medical 'intervention', pointing out that women did exactly this for thousands of years. Curiously enough, the blurb doesn't mention that millions of women died in the process. You know, all that curse on Eve stuff that the supernatural crowd were going to remove. Am still aiming for a water birth at home - but if it doesn't work out that way, I'm not going to beat myself up with rolled-up copies of Unassisted Childbirth. As long as the baby is safe - surely that's all that matters?
And I'm certainly not planning on doing it alone. Please, no.
Afterthought
Friend at dinner on Friday: "Did you know that flats strong enough to take birthing pools command a premium in the Edinburgh property market? Estate agent particulars list them nowadays."
A funny old year
Some highlights - and some not-so-good bits - from 2007:
January - back to work for first time since having Beanie. It's like returning from exile in a foreign country. Painful to be parted from her. In more ways than one. Am still breastfeeding so by mid-morning my boobs are so hard I have to squirt out milk by hand in the loo to relieve the pain. My co-workers all seem young, slim and trendy. They're a nice crowd, but I bet none of them have ever even seen the structural monstrosity that is a nursing bra. It's hard to be hip when you're lactating. Am struggling to lose post-pregnancy weight.
February - builders rip our flat apart to investigate for dry rot. Fitted carpets (laid only a year earlier) are taken up, architraves ripped off the window recesses.There isn't any rot, as it turns out, but in darker moments I sometimes think there might as well have been, with all the mess, upheaval and expense.
March - pregnant again, after only the first month of trying. It happens so easily, the pregnancy feels unreal from the outset. Va-vay and I - both exhausted from last year's onslaught - are ambivalent. An air of unbelievability hangs over the pregnancy's entire (short) duration. I'm not sick, tired or dizzy. At the time, this seems a good thing.
Start this blog, following a chance encounter with a writer at an Edinburgh City of Literature evening. Unsure where it will take me.
April - Beanie's first birthday and our second wedding anniversary. Beanie walking. Reluctantly, I wind down breastfeeding, thinking I should concentrate resources on the new baby.
May - start bleeding, losing bright red blood. When we go for a scan the next day, the monitor shows the baby has no heartbeat and probably died several weeks previously. People quote statistics at me, telling me 'how common' it is. Despite my earlier ambivalence about the pregnancy, am wretched at losing it. Feel a fool as well.
June - Va-vay goes on reproductive strike. He wants a break over the summer from trying for a child. I am now desperate for another baby. Everywhere I look I see prams, babies and smiling mothers. Despite the statistics, I can't imagine any of them ever having a miscarriage. I interrogate friends on whether they're pregnant, dreading them saying yes. It isn't healthy, but I can't help it.
July - Counselling helps me start to come to terms with the loss - and I manage to agree to wait before trying again.
August - Edinburgh International Book Festival. Hear Ian McEwan, Benedict Allen, Colin Thubron, Janice Galloway, Kate Mosse, Simon Armitage, Antonia Swinson, Esther Freud and Kitty Aldridge speak. This is fun. Realise I haven't enjoyed going out and about like this since before I was pregnant with Beanie.
September - Scott Pack of The Friday Project signs me up to write a handbook for women who become mums 'fashionably late'. Looks like this blogging business is going somewhere after all.
October - holiday in France. Happy days.
November - turn forty. The event I've been dreading all year. Worse in the anticipation than the deed. A slap-up lunch with Va-vay eases the pain. I felt like this when I turned thirty - now I can't understand what the fuss was about.
December - difficult start to the month, with what would have been my due date. But good news follows. Can't say too much at the moment, but will keep you posted in 2008.
Time and Tide
Apologies for the lack of recent postings. I've only just realised
it's been six days since I managed to blog. Six whole days. Shameful
contrast to the high watermark of summer, when I set myself a target of
daily postings.
I'd love to blame the downturn on Christmas and being too busy with
shopping and partying to blog. But the truth is I haven't been too well
and have hardly left the flat. I'm also finding I need to put any spare
time into writing my book.
I've been busy reading around the subject of motherhood when not looking after Beanie and working on the book.
Regular readers of this blog might remember I'm a huge fan of Kate Mosse's Becoming a Mother. I liked it so much, I re-read it over the weekend, just to enjoy that feeling of companionship and support again.
I've also been reading Susan Faludi's Backlash - The Undeclared War Against Women,
which has got me energised with anger. She dismisses the infertility
scare stories of recent years as having little or no basis in fact,
blaming them on widespread resentment at women's new-found freedom to
work and decide when (or if) they will have children.
Reading Backlash
reminded how fed up I am with some of the unflattering descriptions
used for women who
have babies after 35. Is it not about time the medical authorities
thought up something less insulting than 'senile primigravida' to
describe a
first-time mother over 35?
I'm also losing patience with hearing healthy, blooming women in their late thirties and early forties described as 'older'.
When are we going to wake up to the fact that women in their
thirties
(and older) are in their prime? These are some of our most
productive and creative years. Calling us 'old' is part of the same
attempt to stigmatise any woman who shows some choosiness about when
and how she has children that also leads to bogus infertility scares
and 'man shortage' stories.
I
don't think of myself as 'old' or even 'older' - and that's because,
looked at in
absolute terms, I'm not. I was older than the average first-time mum
(29) when I had my daughter (at 38). But that doesn't qualify me for the zimmer
frame and slippers quite yet.
Come to think of it, I don't even consider my
mother, an energetic 67-year-old, to be 'old'. Though
she has qualified for a bus pass that Beanie regularly filches from her
handbag.
What do you think is a good substitute for 'old' or 'older' to describe new mums or mums-to-be over 35?
Blogging Books Dilemmas Fashionably Late - the book Older mother Paradoxes Work at Home Mum
Family Ties
A friend said: "Read this book. It'll make you cry." She handed me a copy of it then wandered off to look at something else. On the cover was a young mother with lots of curly dark hair holding up a surprised-looking baby, dressed in a stripey baby-gro, against the background of a blue, blue sky. I stood there in the bookshop and started leafing through Someday and sure enough, in seconds I was blubbing, tears were spurting out my eyes at the story of a mother who dreams of what the future might hold for her beloved daughter. "Va-vay, could you lend me your handkerchief?" I asked. "No," he said. The hankie was already dirty, he explained. I didn't care. Insisted he hand it over. He capitulated.
I didn't cry because the little girl had a particularly grim future in store, just because it made me aware of the fragile hopes and dreams we mothers have for our children, that we project far into the future, many of them unspoken or unacknowledged. "I didn't think you'd cry that much," said my friend in astonishment, when she returned from teenage fiction. "I know," I said apologetically. "I'm sorry, it's just, I find this sort of thing very, well, emotional."
After I bought my copy, (well, I felt I had to after my snotty-nosed outburst) and returned home, I read Someday again a couple of times (it's a quick read, which is just as well, given its effect on me). And cried again both times.
The mother in the book dreams of how her daughter might live her life to the full, leaving home for the first time ('Someday you will look at this house and wonder how something that feels so big can look so small'), diving into a lake, running and singing, experiencing joy and sorrow, herself becoming first a mother, ('Someday I will watch you brushing your child's hair') then in time a grandmother. It closes with the mother looking far into the future, imagining her daughter in old age. In this imagined future, the daughter (whom we first saw as a baby) now has silver hair and we come full circle back to the present, when we see, sitting on a table in her home, a picture of her as a baby in the arms of her mother, who is narrating the story. It's how I felt on becoming a mother, as if I'd at last taken my place in the chain that links one generation of women to the next and to the one after that and the one after that, an invisible thread of love connecting all of us to each other, the thread sometimes taut with pressure, at other times slack. No longer a reproductive full stop. But part of a circle. As if I'd handed on the baton by having my own child. The perfect ending.
Fill your boots at Fidra Books
A quick reminder that Edinburgh's new, independent children's bookshop opens its doors for the first time this Saturday (10 November). You can find Fidra Books at 219 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh, just along the road from Holy Corner. Vanessa Robertson, the firm's director, is a staunch ally of this site and fellow blogger who deserves every success with the new shop. I'm chuffed to bits for her and telling everybody I know about the launch. Please go along and support the shop by buying some of her books. She's stocking more than a thousand titles, including the fifteen Fidra has published. Aside from Vanessa being a personal friend (I think she'd agree with that) we need shops like this to stop our high streets melting into a parade of identikit chains.
More personally, I can hardly wait until Beanie's old enough to enjoy browsing in Vanessa's shop. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting bookshops with my mother, and I want to do the same thing for my daughter. I come from a fairly modest background (despite what certain readers of the Edinburgh Evening News think) but my mother believed books were the best investment you could make and used to produce her James Thin account card for all sorts of children's books like Ballet Shoes, Tom's Midnight Garden and The Secret Garden. They opened the door into a new and enchanted world I never wanted to leave.
As Vanessa's written on her blog, many people have an emotional attachment to book shops possibly because they remember buying books there that have shaped their lives, ideas, aspirations, dreams, perceptions and imaginations. Buying on-line is never going to be the same for a small child as wandering around in a cornucopia of real books. Go on, if you get the chance, pay a trip to the new shop. Just don't expect to find any Katy Price pony books, though. Vanessa won't be stocking any. As she told The Scotsman, "We won't stock rubbish." Quite right too.
Read all about it
Great piece in the Edinburgh Evening News on my book, Fashionably Late, about being an older mum - Motherhood blog gives birth to book deal for city woman.
It was embarrassing when the paper's photographer arrived and Beanie led her
into the back bedroom, the only room I hadn't managed to tidy when I
heard the 'snapper' was coming, and where I'd dumped all the clean
laundry, two racks of still-damp clothes, Va-vay's computer books and
stuff for my tax return. But she didn't
seem to mind. Seemed almost reluctant to follow me back into the hall,
if you ask me.
As you can see, Beanie got to have her picture taken by the photographer. She was very patient while this happened, though I could see an inner battle going on. On the one hand, she wanted to stay put and enjoy the special attention and rare privilege of getting to play with the laptop, (of which, more later). On the other, she wanted to continue her rampage across the flat.
The clever photographer clinched it by waving Miffy the Rabbit (not featured) over her shoulder. As a result, you can see Beanie in the shot, dressed in the special jersey we bought her in France, clinging onto a piece of cottonwool. We're both pretending to gaze with interest at the aforementioned laptop. Can't be sure, but think they might have kindly airbrushed out the bags under my eyes. And some laughter lines. Normally my credentials as an older mother are more, err, in evidence. Beanie didn't need airbrushing, being beautiful as she is.
Va-vay said he was proud of us all when he saw the piece: me, Beanie and the laptop. Yes, the laptop. That's because he chose it for me. Va-vay views it with almost proprietary interest. Plus he treats computers like well-loved household pets. And vice versa. When I took a long time today to answer a question, he said: "You should have a little hourglass thing going round, that way I'd know you were thinking. Or had crashed." God forbid I ever need re-booting.
But I digress. Being a journalist myself, it was odd but not unpleasant not being the one asking questions. And it was lovely to see the piece. They even quoted parts of the blog next to the article. I was a bit bemused by some of the rather ill-informed comments people left on the on-line version but I had some kind emails from people. One woman got in touch to tell me she found the blog 'lovely and heartwarming'. Awww, shucks. Makes it all worthwhile. Now, as Beta Mum has said, I've got to hope the delivery of the book isn't as painful as actual childbirth.
Her boyfriend is a twat
Blogger Zoe McCarthy has just published the highly entertaining book, My Boyfriend is a Twat, loosely based on her blog of the same name. I would recommend it to all who have ever been puzzled by the inexplicable behaviour of the men in their lives - in other words, all of us. Zoe has taken some time out from her life in Belgium with the Twat to answer a few questions I put to her about her new book, published by The Friday Project, who will be publishing my own book if I ever get my act together and start writing it.
Helen: First of all, many congratulations on the book.
Zoe: Thank you. You obviously haven't read it.
H: Could you tell us what inspired you to write MBIAT – the book?
Z: It was an idea from Clare Christian at The Friday Project. Initially, she approached me about writing a book based on my blog. B O R I N G. So I said that I wasn't interested. Then Clare twisted my arm and held it tight with other suggestions, such as making the book into a manual and giving hints to other women how to deal with partners who are a twat. She even offered me an egg coddler so I said 'yes'. My arm still hurts though.
H: Will regular readers of your blog find lots of new material in the book?
Z: Definitely. Well, it's old material that happened before Quarsan (the twat in my life) and I met and therefore has never appeared on my blog. He's been a bit of a plonker all his life, if you ask me.
H: What was it like going from writing a blog to a book?
Z: Very, very difficult. As the book is about Quarsan, I had to sieve through almost four years' worth of posts, discarding those that weren't relevant and then re-writing those that were. I think I only cut and pasted two small parts of my blog - the rest has been entirely rewritten so as to be able to be read in book-form. I'm not all that sure that I succeeded - but then, I haven't read the book.
H: What do you like best about blogging?
Z: Being able to share with my regular readers the daft things that go on in my life. For some reason, people do come back to see what's going on - and many people have exceedingly good memories about the last time something happened. Such as the last time I got a black eye ....
I also love reading back as I have a memory like a sieve, so it's fun to see the things that have happened, my children's development over the past (almost) five years, and the antics that Quarsan gets up to.
H: Any thoughts about the Twat and parenting (the subject of M@L)? What's his worst crime been in the step-dad department?
The Twat and parenting should never, ever be in the same sentence. Having said that, I think that had he been given the chance, he would have made a great dad but he obviously forgot about getting on and having a family in favour of climbing mountains and travelling.
His worst crime in the step-dad department must be the fact that he takes sides with my children. That is a Bad Thing.
H: Are all female bloggers married to/living with men in IT who do behind-the-scenes tech stuff? Or does it just feel that way?
Z: I know quite a few single female bloggers, if that helps.
H: Like you, I too have a partner who detests mobile phones. 'An inferior technology' he says. Any tips on dealing with that one?
Z: Don't let him have one. Everybody comes round eventually, trust me.
H: Any suggestions for how to get a man to clear up in the kitchen after he's made a meal? The answer would be the Holy Grail of modern womanhood.....
Z: Oh, this is such a grey area. I have been battling this one for the six years we have been together. Standing over my partner and telling him to wipe all the surfaces doesn't work. The kitchen table is always covered in molasses from where Quarsan has been preparing his shisha pipe, the area next to the sink is covered in coffee stains and breadcrumbs - I think I'm trying to say that I really am at a loss.
H: How does Quarsan put up with all the abuse? Does he ever complain?
Z: Abuse? If you think my blog or my book is abusive then you should hear what I have to put up with, hence the 'Twattisms' - Quarsan's snide replies to me. But no, he never complains - I would never blog something about him that he wouldn't blog himself. There are things that Quarsan doesn't like to tell the world and they can be worked out from reading the book.
He loves the attention though, believe me.
H: Come on, admit it, you love him really, don't you? All this piss-taking is an English way of showing your affection for him, isn't it?
Z: Of course I love him - do you really think that I'd write a blog and then a book about somebody I didn't love?
I need to lie down.
H: On that note, I'd like to conclude by wishing you every success with the book. It's a great read – sharp, entertaining and pacey.
Z: Thank you, and thank you for taking the time to write up these questions. Good luck with your book!
Oops, let's do it again
Lynne Spears, mother of beleaguered pop princess Britney, is to write a book about 'her role as a showbiz family matriarch' Bit cheeky, when she and Britney weren't speaking to each other until recently. But hey, that's showbiz, or at least my limited experience of it.
Lynne's publisher specialises in Christian books, which could make it tricky when dealing with some aspects of Britney's life. But, more importantly, the news has made me wonder if I haven't missed a trick or two with Beanie's granny.
After all, if Lynne can turn out 'Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World' and there's a new publishing trend for Granny Memoirs, perhaps Beanie's granny could be prised away from her Sudoko and gently encouraged to write a book. Okay, we're not very glamorous or well-known but we could work round that, surely?
And, okay, there might be less rock 'n' roll here than in the Spears household (well, none at all) but I can see it now: "The Biscuit Memoirs: A Real Story of Confectionery and Crime in the Food Aisle at Waitrose."
There might be some shocking revelations: how Granny allows Beanie to play inside the dishwasher, in defiance of parental edicts on the subject. How she's trained Beanie to empty out the contents of every handbag within fifty paces. How the two of them have bonded over their dental problems - while Granny's new false teeth are giving her trouble, Beanie's new (real) incisors are having difficulty coming in. Oh, the possibilities are endless....
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.
My husband is NOT a twat
An attractive, hard-bound copy of My Boyfriend is a Twat has just thudded through the letter box. The cover describes it as "a guide to recognising, dealing and living with an utter twat." Hope nobody is trying to tell me and Va-vay something. Might have to hide it before he gets home. Certainly must never allow it in the bathroom, where he does most of his reading, or he'll accuse me of leaving it there as a deliberate insult to him.
1.18pm - UPDATE - Va-vay has just emailed me. "Re: 'My husband is NOT a twat'. I should hope not!!" Oh dear. Am in disgrace.
All booked up
Midlifer has tagged me in a book meme. Here goes:
Number of books I own: Too many. Despite carting bag-loads to our local charity shop, (we've made up a new verb for this: 'to Bethanise') they reproduce when I'm not looking. Strangely, these days it's often the non-fiction books I keep, while bagging up the novels. I have a bit of a love/hate relationships with books: having grown up in a house full of books I feel uncomfortable without lots of them around, but then I start resenting the space they take up and craving minimalism. Fat chance of that. Our bookshelves are also home to myriad computer books, books with groovy titles like 'XML Primer Plus', 'Developing Windows-Based Applications', 'Red Hat Linux' and 'Designing with Web Standards'. I suspect one of the scary disemvowellers has been at them. 
Last book I read: Gents, by Warwick Collins (Friday Project) A subtle, almost poetic book whose lyrical tone belies its setting in a large public toilet in London. It tells the story of Ezekial Murphy, a West Indian immigrant, who after a long period of unemployment finds a job as a lavatory attendant. When the local council orders Ez and his co-workers to stop gay men - 'de reptiles' - from using the place for illicit 'cottaging', they do as they are told. But when takings fall, the three men find their jobs on the line, forcing a radical re-think. Sympathetic characters explore issues of sexuality, race and tolerance in a book that's by turns tough and tender. Sensory writing makes Gents attractively evocative of place and people. I didn't expect to be uplifted by a book set in a men's loo, but found Gents both refreshing and readable.
Last book bought:Shadow of the Silk Road, by Colin Thubron (Chatto & Windus) Bought signed copy after hearing Thubron speak at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. 'Hell, I could take Beanie across central Asia in a papoose,' I thought at the time. 'This guy makes it sound so easy.' Yeah, right. But this book encourages me to dream.
Five meaningful books:The New Contented Little Baby Book, by Gina Ford, the book that brought me back from the brink. Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons, I'm giggling now even thinking about Flora's battles to reform her relatives, the Starkadders. The History Boys, Alan Bennett - reminds me of a particular time in my own life. The Portrait of a Lady, Henry James - love, deception, betrayal - and Clear Waters Rising, A Mountain Walk Across Europe, Nicholas Crane - for the initial chapters set on the Franco-Spanish border, where I worked for a while as a teenager and later met my husband.
I'd like to tag Omega Mum and Beta Mum.
I've had a couple of awards recently. Thanks to Midlifer for 'Blogging Star', and to Omega Mum for 'You Make Me Smile'. 
I'd like to pass 'You Make Me Smile' on to (in no particular order) Beta Mum for her hilarious postings on family life and Iota for her funny and perceptive way of looking at life. 
The Blogging Star award goes to 21st Century Mummy, Guineapig Mum and Erica of Littlemummy and British Parent Bloggers.
Children's bookshop opens in Edinburgh
Like all right-thinking people, Va-vay and I love bookshops; maybe it's the thrill of knowing something I find there might change my life, the studious atmosphere, the smell of paper and ink, neat rows and shelves of books. We even went to one (Borders at 120 Charing Cross Road) on a first date together. So we're delighted that Vanessa from Fidra Books is opening a shop specialising in children's books here in Edinburgh, at 219 Brunstfield Place. The shop opens on Saturday 10 November and we can't wait to spend Saturdays there browsing and buying books.
Despite being a City of Literature and home to the annual International Book Festival, Edinburgh suffers from an acute shortage of bookshops, unless you count the many charity shops in Stockbridge that sell second-hand books. Last year's closure of the much-loved Ottakers' store in George Street has left a gap in the lives of book-lovers. So news that Vanessa is opening up her store couldn't be more welcome.
While we were in France we enjoyed visting a children's bookshop in Avignon, where I ended up spending far more money than I really intended on several books, including one about a little girl called Mouflette Papillon and one of the popular Babarpapa titles. Now I'm even more excited about the Fidra bookshop opening.
Fidra Books is an independent Edinburgh-based publisher that specialises in reprinting neglected children's classics by authors including Josephine Pullein-Thompson, Elinor Lyon, KM Peyton and Victoria Walker. Vanessa, a fellow Edinburgh blogger, will also be running her publishing business from the new shop, a bit like Persephone Press does in London.
Vanessa's promised that when Fashionably Late, the book I'm writing about becoming a mum later in life, comes out, she'll have me round to her shop to do a reading for new mums and mums-to-be. I'm still at the stage of roughing out my chapter headings, but that's an incentive to keep me on track if ever I heard one.
Long before that, I'm looking forwards to the shop's launch on 10 November, when the doors open for business and Vanessa will be giving away lots of Maisie Mouse gifts to the first customers over the threshold. There will also be the chance for children to meet some of their favourite characters from books in real life.
Oh, and that's Christmas sorted then.
Unruly regulations
Here's a book that sounds like required reading for every parent of a young child. Playing it Safe by Alan Pearce, published by those clever people at The Friday Project, is a collection of all the silly health and safety stories from the press. There are gems about taps that limit the temperature in your bath, a ban on palm trees in Torbay (sharp leaves - ouch!) and the school that stopped children playing football in case they got hurt. There are even warnings on the back cover about the book itself - "Beware of paper cuts".
I say 'required reading' for parents of young children because since Beanie arrived 18 months ago I know I could benefit from a reality check on the difference between responsible parenting and crazed health-and-safety lunacy. I'm not proud. I can admit when I need help.
I write this as a mother whose cream sitting room is now accessorised with grey lagging pipes and gaffer tape, strapped to every conceivable surface where Beanie might hurt herself.
Before Beanie arrived I too used to find health and safety silliness amusing, just like this book does. Yes, I was hip once. Really. Oh, how I laughed to myself at childproof locks, 'corner protection devices' and over-protective parents. You know the type, the ones who won't let their kids eat uncooked cake mixture - raw eggs/salmonella, 'Ooh, dangerous!' - and freak out in pregnancy about unpasteurised cheeses and eating a mouthful of peanuts (so risky with potential nut allergies).
Then when Beanie arrived all that changed. The world turned overnight into a dangerous and frightening place. Husband and I began to take seriously some of the things Playing it Safe is mocking. We don't see the funny side in turning down the central water thermostat (if only we could find it) to lower bath water temperature. Our sense of humour (and proportion) has run dry.
On Beanie's first night at home husband and I were in such a state of panic we became alarmed our new wardrobe might emit toxic glue fumes that would harm her.
"She's wheezing!" husband announced in panic about his daughter at about 3.30am. We lost the plot so badly we ended up all sleeping in another room, far from the offending wardrobe and any risk of pollution. It was one of the worst nights of my life, yet was meant to have been one of the best.
In our defence, sleep deprivation did play a part in the madness.
Even so, a copy of Playing It Safe might remind us that it's possible to get through life safely without following every nutty regulation dreamt up by jobs' worth bureacrats. Or inventing ones of our own, for that matter.
I plan to place a copy in the bathroom. Where I often plant reading material I want my husband to see.
Somewhere close to where I imagine the water thermostat might be.
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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.
Angst Books Breastfeeding Daughters Edinburgh Etiquette Older mother Work vs mothering
Grand finale
Beanie's playgroup reconvenes later this month in our local church, now that the Polish theatre group performing there has packed up its lorry of props, grease paint and other kit and headed south like swallows.
Come snack time this autumn, when the toddlers are feasting on slices of banana, bread sticks and raisins, it'll be nice to think the church was home for a while in this year's Fringe to a troupe of actors who saw the snack area as their performance space. The buggy park was their box office; playtime their showtime.
Judging by their press board, the group had a good season; they won lots of awards in the local and national press, and played to packed houses. Their being here in the neighbourhood lent a touch of glamour to these all-too familiar streets and made me proud to have them here.
So proud, in fact, I didn't even mind (well, not that much) when they stood outside on the streets smoking roll-up cigarettes and looking blank when I asked (politely!) if they could let me get the buggy past. They looked so young, in their uniform black jeans and jumpers. Ah me!
All the other actors, comedians, authors, musicians and film-makers who have made Edinburgh such a fun place to be in August have also packed up for another year. Last night marked the finale to the Edinburgh International Festival, with the Bank of Scotland Fireworks Concert (pictured) that Va-vay and I were lucky enough to be able to watch from our sitting-room window.
There are lots of good things about the end of the Festival. Easier to get a table in cafes. Freedom to walk through town without reluctantly accepting a dozen cards for shows I have no intention of seeing. No feeling bad that performers put their heart into this event, and yet so many Fringe shows attract an audience not much out of single figures. Fewer posters of needy, identikit comedians.
But when I saw workmen dismantling the marquees for the Edinburgh International Book Festival in Charlotte Square I couldn't help but suffer a small pang of loss.
The Book Festival was fantastic; I travelled back to fourteenth century England when Simon Armitage spoke about his translation of Gawain, wished I had half the talent of Kitty Aldridge and Esther Freud, who spoke together about their new novels, felt I learn more in an hour at a wonderful creative writing class by Kate Mosse and Greg Mosse than I've done in a term at other classes and was scared stiff by Ian McEwan in conversation with Ian Rankin (so much so that afterwards I sprinted across the rain-logged lawn to locate Beanie and be sure she was still safe).
I delved into the hidden world of obstetrics at a talk from Janice Galloway and Alan Warner, imagined myself travelling the silk road with Colin Thubron and braved Arctic ice with Benedict Allen. Closer to home, I was entertained by Antonia Swinson's uplifting stories of life on her Edinburgh allotment. It's been inspiring and magical by equal turn. So while it's good to have playgroup back, I'll see it with different eyes after this summer.
Becoming a Mother
Enjoyed hearing Kate Mosse, the author, that is, not the supermodel, speak at the Edinburgh Book Festival earlier this week. Mosse wrote the excellent Becoming a Mother at the start of her writing career, before becoming an international best-seller with her novel Labyrinth. Becoming a Mother is a wonderful book, deceptively simple yet powerful, that helped launch Mosse's fiction writing. And it's helped me immensely too, lifting the guilt and grief I've been struggling with since a miscarriage in May.
Reading Becoming a Mother, I'm reminded of that famous line from Alan Bennett in The History Boys, about how we read books to find that hand stretching out through the darkness to take ours. Bennett's referring to the joy and relief of finding a kindred spirit on the written page, meeting someone who's experienced the same feelings as ourselves when we thought we were alone in them.
Unlike most of the many books I've read on pregnancy and childcare this book doesn't judge any of the ordinary women who feature in it. Instead it tells their stories, starting from the decision to try for a baby through to the early days caring for a newborn. Without preaching or pedantry. Not once does she lay claim to being an expert. Not once does she lay down the law.
Mosse manages to get inside women's heads, and gives voice to many of the conflicting emotions we feel. She understands the rollercoaster of ovulation kits and pregnancy tests, the obsessive weeing on sticks, the running to the loo to check for bleeding every twenty minutes.
On the subject of miscarriage, Mosse quotes one woman unlucky enough to suffer this experience saying:
"I know it is better to lose an abnormal baby - but the loss coincides with the ambivalent feelings you have at the start of the pregnancy. Half-feeling it was a bad idea - even if the pregnancy was planned - just makes you feel guilt when you do miscarry."
That's exactly how I felt when I had a miscarriage in May and I blamed myself for having felt daunted by the prospect of looking after two babies, both of them under two. I thought the new baby must have sensed my ambivalence and thought better of joining us, but couldn't admit this to anyone. Somehow reading that other women have felt the same way has helped me see it's ridiculous to torment myself like this.
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.
Angst Books Childcare Daughters Edinburgh Festival Guilt Out and about
Why not to have children
Interesting piece in The Times yesterday about a new bestseller by French author Corinne Maier called No Kid: 40 Reasons Not to Have Children. I say 'interesting' advisedly, if only because the story made me wonder how Maier's managing chez elle, where I imagine her two teenage children have presumably had something to say to their mum about breaking this social taboo. I don't know anyone who's dared to admit they don't want kids, so I quite admire Maier for tackling this thorny subject.
Despite its provocative title and tongue-in-cheek content, No Kid actually makes some sensible arguments, with Maier suggesting, for example, that it's a mistake to pity people who do not have children, when many of them have chosen a positive and sensible alternative to becoming parents. Better to label them child-free, rather than childless, she argues. Perhaps it's an issue of semantics, but I couldn't argue with the underlying sentiment.
The book apparently emerged from Maier's concern that no one is doing anything to temper an idealised view of motherhood fostered by two potent forces in her native France: the state, which wants more babies to help pay pensions, and the baby industry. Belonging to a generation of women who despair at their own inadequacy if their babies don't possess the most desirable audio-visual stimulatory toys of the moment, ('stimulation' being one of the current baby industry buzz words) I know what she means.
The book certainly does its best to counter any idealistic views, listing all the things parents have to give up when they have kids:
1. A full night's sleep,
2. A lie-in
3. Deciding to go to the cinema on the spur of the moment
4. Staying out later than midnight (babysitters have to be relieved)
5. Visiting a museum or exhibition (children start playing up).
Then there's the colossal strain on parental relationships to take into account, when having sex has to be dutifully squeezed into those tiny windows when neither partner is too exhausted even to contemplate it, when differences of opinion on the best way to warm a bottle of milk (before adding powder or after?) assume monumental proportions it would take a peace camp to resolve.
This sounds like a clever, sophisticated book; it's already climbed to the top of France's best-seller lists, and its publishers, Michalon, must be hoping it will do the same here in the UK, but even so, I still can't agree with its basic premise. Having a baby is fab.
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The way to a girl's heart
The Bean remains in the smash-and-grab phase of her infancy, an uncompromising stage in which she displays no inhibitions whatsoever about seizing other people's belongings, but hangs onto her own with grim determination. Since I'd like her to grow up with at least a few friends, we're working on those social skills, and so while browsing in the signing tent at the Edinburgh International Book Festival yesterday (oh, okay, I admit it, hanging around to sneak glances at Richard Dawkins who was there signing copies of his latest book The God Delusion), I found this lovely book by Julia Donaldson, author of The Gruffalo, called Sharing a Shell. 
I've bought Sharing a Shell in the hope it will help teach Beanie about sharing and friendship, since the book is a gentle parable (of sorts) about how we relate to other people, but now I'm wondering if we can learn that sort of thing from a book, whether in fact these are life lessons we have to figure out for ourselves. But I'm such a believer in books' abilities to have transformational effects on our lives I couldn't resist purchasing a copy.
Watching our sixteen-month-old children playing last week in a walled garden at an Edinburgh art gallery, and laughing kindly at my attempts to rein in Beanie's exuberant behaviour, a friend commented to me that children really learn mostly by example, while telling them what to do achieves little. When I look back at my own childhood, that's certainly true, and I think (though others may disagree) that children are acutely sensitive to parental hypocrisy (saying one thing, doing another). Oh dear, in that case I'd better behave myself then and set a good example to my daughter of sharing and friendship.
Still, I don't think Sharing a Shell will prove a bad purchase, if only because, as the cover rightly publicises, it has "Glitter on every page". Now only rarely, very rarely, can that be a bad thing, and Beanie absolutely loves it. Indeed she was so enthralled with her new acquisition yesterday afternoon that she spent about ten uninterrupted minutes fingering the glitter with rapt attention, pausing only to scream at me in indignation when the book fell out of her buggy.
Daughters Etiquette Friends Books Edinburgh Festival Out and about
No escape
I accidentally plunged into the world of obstetrics again yesterday, in what was meant to be a break from hard-core mothering, during a lunchtime talk at the tented International Book Festival from writers Janice Galloway and Alan Warner on their launch of a not-for-profit publisher in Edinburgh called Long Lunch Press. Galloway and Warner set up Long Lunch with Arts Council funding to ensure an audience for unusual writing they believe deserves to reach the public but that wouldn't attract a commercial publisher.
Hearing this, I was sorely tempted to put my hand up and recommend blogs for the purpose of reaching readers but managed to refrain. However Vanessa at Fidra Books has plenty to say on the subject of not-for-profit publishing in this forthright and shrewd account
of why she doesn't think publishing that sneers at profit makes any sense - and why instead of producing
unread pamphlets Long Lunch should be promoting their work here on the net.
In keeping with the theme of unusual subject matter, Galloway read to us from Rosengarten, her prose-poem discussing the obstetric tools of child birth. It was the difficulty of finding a publisher prepared to accept this
decidedly difficult account of childbirth that prompted Galloway to set
up her new publishing venture.
When Galloway told her audience there was to be a reading about
obstetrics, I must admit I thought what the many commercial publishers
who turned it down obviously did too. And after the reading one couple got up and left,
the woman white-faced.
But now I've had to time to get used to the
idea, I rather like Rosengarten, which sheds light on a closed world. Stick with me here while I quote from the book, I was initially shocked too, but it's worth persevering.
"This is the business of life
with death, two balances in
precise relation. This is the
business of drawing air and
of drowning fluids, of
slickness and dry compression. Of making
two from one, of nerves
and channels, down and
muscle and veins. Of dark
to light, a business carried
out under the broil of
woollen covers, a business
of touch and steel and
random happenstance
There is bleeding of course.
And splitting and aweful surrender."
For their research, Galloway and her co-author studied obstetric implements, mainly forceps, through the ages, hunting through cases at the Wellcome Museum of Anatomy and Pathology, the Edinburgh College of Surgeons and the Hunterian Museum . Their conclusion? "Raking about... showed how little over centuries the basic designs of the implements have changed."
Maybe the implements themselves remain unchanged, but one aspect of obstetrics that could usefully change is the continuing secrecy and embarrassment about the process of childbirth. Perhaps women do deserve to hear more about what childbirth is really like, and it would be worth overcoming our natural squeamishness for that to happen. Our ante-natal classes were great for making friends, but I learnt little that was useful about the actual birth, then spent months afterwards in shock.
Then again, if someone had presented me with a copy of Rosengarten in pregnancy, would I have wanted to know? Nowadays, of course, I'm fascinated by anyone prepared to talk frankly about childbirth, even if it happens unexpectedly.
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Mother at Large dreams of crossing the Pyrenees with her young daughters. And might just do so one of these days. To find out more read her full profile.
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Edinburgh Unesco City of Literature
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Discover this festival city
Pelvic Partnership - invaluable help and advice for women suffering pelvic pain during and after pregnancy. And remember, Edinburgh mums-to-be suffering this debilitating condition can self-refer to hospital physios at ERI. No longer any need to go via your GP.
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