Blog to Book - Fashionably Late
I am writing Fashionably Late, an irreverent guide to having children later in life. Did you become a mother over 35? If so, and you'd like to tell me your story please contact me at mail@motheratlarge.com.
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Daughter
Home truths
Not off the hook after all for the home water birth. Not just yet,
anyway. Structural engineer got back in touch to veto bedroom for the
birth pool. But said our smallest room - the hall - looks like it will
take the weight. Husband due to pick up pool, pipes, bleach, colander,
heating pad tomorrow evening. Will buy waterproof torch, anglepoise
lamp, waterproof sheeting at weekend. Scared? Me?
Unsure about giving birth in hallway. Doesn't feel quite right
somehow. Will it be sufficiently private? Can't even remember how much
privacy matters in childbirth. Is it a big issue? When was having
Beanie, midwife got concerned about daughter's heart rate. Army of
green-suited doctors, anaethetists and paediatricians entered through flowery curtain.
"Hello. Where have you all come from?" I asked.
"Did you not see your midwife press the emergency button?" one of them replied.
"Errr... no," I mumbled.
"Don't push," said the midwife, looking up from her notes. "Whatever you do, don't push."
"I'm not pushing!" I said, feeling like small child.
Funny the things you do remember; many of them were wearing clogs. But
seemed fine with that. Not embarrassed, the way I would have been. There were phone calls, booking a place in the resuscitation unit, asking if
theatre was free. No, we'd have to stay put. They brought out the
forceps (I didn't look at that bit). Hauled daughter out of me as fast
as they could. Beanie shrieked with displeasure as she emerged. I was a
bit sore afterwards. Relief on face of clog-clad paediatrician posted
down bottom end to greet Beanie. "Baby can go straight to mum," she
said.
After that drama, I liked idea of giving birth in tranquillity of
own bedroom, where, ahem, this whole project started back in October.
But do not want to become stupid and obstinate about home birth.
Read cautionary tale about woman who broke down in jealous hysteria
when she got text message saying sister-in-law had 'achieved' a home
birth. This woman described herself - no, defined herself - as
HWBA3C. Yes, my thoughts exactly. Stands for 'home water birth after
three Caesareans'. She claimed the Caesareans were violations
'inflicted on her in the name of medical science'.
Spoke to my midwife, whom I trust. Asked if true NHS does unnecessary interventions.
"Look at it from a practical point of view," she said. "The NHS is
careful with its resources. It has to be. There's not a lot of money
available and funding is always being squeezed. Nobody likes to make
things more complicated than they need to be. It's expensive to do a section. It's a question of beds and staff time. We only intervene when
necessary."
Friend whose wife had their second child last
year said: "It's the head count at the end that matters."
Childbirth Daughter Health Health workers Home birth Husband Water birth
Summer holiday
Earlier this week two-year-old daughter went on her first proper trip anywhere without me or her dad. I wanted so much to be cool about this; after all, in the scale of things, the trip wasn't that big a deal. I used to hate feeling smothered by my well-meaning - but over-protective - parents. 
As trips go, this looked pretty innocuous. Beanie's nursery was hiring a bus to take all the children to a seaside town about thirty miles away from where we live. The most hazardous part of the expedition would involve a journey along the nearby motorway in a mini-van, but the driver was the same man who drives all the toddlers to swimming every week. The town in question is a bastion of stone villas, cafes and golf courses, interspersed with hotels that host conferences and weddings.
But this was her first parent-free jaunt - and I couldn't help worrying. (The picture above is of Beanie at the seaside earlier this year - under the watchful gaze of her father.)
The nursery staff were excited about the trip for days beforehand. So much so that voicing my terrors to them seemed a bit rude. They're always kind and cheery with me, Beanie, her granny and her dad. Beanie loves it there - and I wasn't keen to say anything that might rock the boat. Like questioning their ability to look after her for a single day.
"I'm a bit nervous," I finally confessed to one of the nursery assistants last week.
"Why's that? What is it you're worried about," she asked kindly.
I gulped. Might as well be honest "I'm worried you're going to lose her," I replied. I should stop reading the news, all those stories about missing children just frighten me.
She laughed. In a nice way.
"We've got strict staff/child ratios," she said. "And we've been doing this trip for years. It's well organised. We're not going to lose her. We've not lost one yet. Don't worry about that."
I believed what she said. But, even so, spent most of the night beforehand unable to sleep. On the one hand,
I didn't want Beanie to miss out on the fun of a seaside trip. And on the other? I couldn't get over my fear of some mishap. I just didn't know what to do for the best.
Eventually I decided I'd tell the staff she couldn't go - no shame in that.
They'd understand. What with the
pregnancy (five weeks to go, by the way) and everything.
The morning of the expedition dawned. I was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, pelvic pain, pregnancy weariness and (although I didn't know it at the time) a kidney infection. My husband brought me a cup of tea in bed.
"So, have you made your mind up?" he asked me. "Is she going or not? You'll need to ring nursery and let them know."
I rang nursery, where the woman who answered the phone sounded giddy and excited, making me feel churlish not to enter into the spirit of things.
"If Beanie doesn't go on the trip, will there be anyone left in the nursery to look after her?" I asked.
"No, I'm sorry, there won't be. We're closing the nursery until 4.30pm," she said.
"Well, in that case," I started, trying to keep panic out of my voice, thinking of the work deadlines stacking up ahead of me, the midwives' advice to go to hospital for an
emergency check-up, the stomach pains that could be signs of early labour (but thankfully weren't). "Well, in that case," I repeated. "I guess she'd better go."
I'd love to say I let Beanie go because I got over my nerves. But, truth be told, in the end, it was expediency that won out.
When she returned later that day, with sand in her shoes, socks and trousers, tired and happy, she looked puzzled as to why I hugged her so tightly.
Under the wire
Six weeks until baby due date. Yesterday escaped flat for first time in days. Took daughter and her Granny out for lunch (tapas). Even managed to walk there and back, helped by orthopaedic truss under bump and lessons in this technique. In restaurant, Granny and I leapt back in horror at sight of enormous spider crab sat on counter. Waving its claws at us. Horrified eye meets. Two-year-old daughter unpeturbed.
Hoisted daughter into high chair, grappled with chair straps, slumped down, ordered usual tapas favourites. Spanish waiter made fuss of us all. Rush of pleasure at being back in world. Daughter ordered an apple juice. Looked around room. Surveyed the scene. Pronounced: "Like it."
Then and Now
Seven weeks to go until my due date for younger daughter! Husband and I
attended a birth preparation workshop this weekend, practising labour
postures, pain relief techniques and relaxation. Pain
management involved gripping an ice cube. My right hand
remains a little numb many hours later. Oh well. It was a good event,
not least because I got lots of massage and attention from Va-vay, my
husband. Some of the other couples there were expecting their first
children, which got me thinking about things I wish I'd known when I
was having a baby first-time round. Here are a few of my thoughts.
Please feel free to chip in with any of your own.
1. You cannot just put a new baby down in her cot and expect her to go
to sleep. Nah. No matter how tired you both are. For a long time,
getting Beanie (elder daughter) to sleep was a delicate process that
involved rocking, feeding, singing and hushing.
2. For this reason, a Moses basket is not necessarily a great
investment. By the time I had persuaded Beanie to sleep in
hers, she had just about outgrown it. Not only are Moses baskets
expensive, and used for a short time, but they come with annoying
padding and quilts 'for decoration' that could be dangerous for small
babies. But they do look cute.
3. It might be best to assemble all the baby kit BEFORE baby arrives.
Not afterwards, like I did. A simple car seat was beyond me to fit into
the car in the early weeks after having Beanie. Same went for breast
pumps. I wish I'd practised with the wretched milking machine before
Beanie arrived. In that post-natal daze, it seemed like I needed a
Diploma in Childrearing Equipment (Intermediate Level) to master the
thing. Nowadays I see the pump gathering dust in a kitchen cupboard. It
looks simple enough. What was the problem?
4. Despite what the books say, there's no great harm (that I can see,
anyway) in letting baby fall asleep for a short nap in his or her
parents' arms. Snuggling up with Beanie was one of the most blissful
experiences of my life. Letting your baby sleep in your arms doesn't
mean your child will be incapable of sleeping in a cot on their own (as
some of the books will tell you). Just enjoy the experience. Because,
before you know it, you'll be onto a different stage. Which reminds me
of something else....
5. The sleepless nights don't last forever. Though they seem endless at
the time. Almost before I knew it, I'd gone from praying for more sleep
to missing Beanie being around for night-time feeds. All the stages are
over so quick. The era of pureed root vegetables already seems years
away. Was there really a time when she couldn't walk? When I wondered
if she'd ever be big enough to fit into six-to-nine month vests?
6. Some parenting books sell themselves by threatening all kinds of
dire consequences if you don't follow their advice to their letter.
Sleepless nights spent looking after kids who are candidates for
Supernanny. That sort of stuff. Unless you follow their 'routines' to
the letter, that is. Mostly, that is rubbish. Most parents can muddle
through very well by following their own instincts. I wish I'd been
more chilled and less desperate for advice from childless parenting
gurus who play on new parents' vulnerability.
7. Other parents in baby groups tell fibs about their children's
achievements. Do not believe them. The more insecure the parent, the
more prodigious (or apparently so) their child's ability to 'sleep
through', grow teeth, walk, talk etc. I wish I hadn't been taken in by
the boastfulness.
8. The timing of milestones like first steps doesn't really matter.
Even though it seems to matter at the time. Healthy, normal children
will do things at the pace that's right for them. It's not worth
getting sucked into competitiveness over whose child started walking
first.
9. People have more strongly held views on how to parent than they do
on religion and politics. But whereas most people will hold back from
ramming political and religious views down the throat of acquaintance
and near or actual strangers, any new or expectant mother is considered
fair game for other people to offer unwanted advice. Don't take it personally. The converse is that having a child put me in touch with a great deal of unexpected kindness from all sorts of people.
10. Looking after a newborn isn't complicated. Feeding, sleeping, nappies. But it takes a huge amount of stamina.
And a bit of nerve. This job is relentless. And you never get a lie-in
to recover.
11. It doesn't matter how much you've achieved in your work (unless,
perhaps, you worked with children). Having a baby will test you in ways
you never imagined possible. Feeling totally responsible for a small
baby who is dependent on you for everything, and I mean everything,
is a tall order. For everybody. No matter how competent they were at
their jobs or in other spheres. I didn't understand this until I had my
daughter.
11. I wish I'd known in the early days, when I was so tired I could
hardly remember my own name, how fantastic it is to have a two-year-old
daughter. We can communicate with words! She has an excellent sense of
humour. We have fun together! She has turned from a tiny baby into an
affectionate and gentle little girl with an endearing curiosity about
the world. I'm proud of her.
Bed-mates and bolsters
For the last week or so my husband and I have been sharing our bed with
someone called Horace. With Horace's help, I can get
comfortable enough to doze for a few hours at a time. Horace props up
my bump, lessens my back pain and corrects my posture. When I talk to him, he really seems to listen. Never interrupts. And he's so
bendy - must be all that polystyrene foam for innards.
Unfortunately, Va-vay is
not supportive about our extra bed-mate. I have caught him shooting
dark, jealous looks at my side of the bed as Horace and I snuggle up
together.
"I might investigate a new air bed," he said the other night, in an airy but
long-suffering way. "So I can sleep somewhere else and let you have the
bed to yourselves."
"That's a good idea," I snipe back. "We could bring over the Zed-bed from my mum's."
"Have you ever slept on that Zed-bed?" he replied, as if I'd reminded him of childhood bullying, redundancy or first love.
"When you first came to stay with my parents you slept on the Zed-bed and you never said a thing about it!" I accused him.
"I was being polite."
"You were being repressed. If it was so bad you should have said something."
"Have you seen how much of the bed I have left to sleep on?" he says, indicating with his hands a space the width of a shopping bag.
Normally I would take pride in keeping this squabble up ages longer. But pregnancy has softened me.
"I don't want you to sleep elsewhere," I confess. "I like sharing a bed with you. That's why I married you."
"Oh, come here," he says.
"Err.... I would, but I can't," I say, pointing to 28-weeks-pregnant bump and Horace. "You'll have to come here."
In my last pregnancy I was nearly crippled with pelvic pain, so I asked
my midwife for help. "Keep your legs together," she told me. And they wonder why pregnant women feel misunderstood....
This time round the pain is shaping up to be just as bad - but I've
been better at getting help in managing it. An obstetric physio at our
local hospital has taught me techniques for staying
mobile - mostly involving breathing (let's face it, breathing always
helps) and stomach-tightening.
Next week she is going to fit me with
something called an orthopaedic belt to hold in all the ligaments
loosened by pregnancy hormones. I fear the belt might do nothing to
boost marital relations but I'm - almost - beyond caring. And Horace won't mind.
Chasing butterflies
At the weekend I took Beanie to a place called Butterfly World,
on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the city where we live. She has been
talking about it ever since. Oh, that feeling of being able to do
something that made her happy. Wonderful. Butterflies (Beanie calls
them 'flies') fluttered overhead in an old greenhouse converted into a
sort of tropical paradise. Followed us, pirouetted, swooped out of nowhere. Beanie stumbled towards them, hands held out in greeting. Trays of oranges hung from the ceiling. Butterfly nosh?
We threw money in a wishing well, inspected carp, goldfish and a
catfish, eyed up iguanas, looked at terrapins and had a quick look at the reptile and creepy crawly section in a room at the back.
Being there made my skin crawl. But Beanie and I both loved Butterfly World.
Something alarmed me, though, as I bought my ticket. Sellotaped to the
counter was an advert. It read: "For sale. A large python. £40 ono.
Friendly and easy to manage."
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.
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 she said: "What if you die?" My
friend, who is not from this country, then said: "Well, maybe compared
to an NHS hospital birth it is the best thing to do." 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.
Activities Angst Childbirth Daughter Dilemmas Friends Fun Health Home birth Out and about Pregnancy
Take to the hills
Edinburgh residents reading this will know about the beauty
of the Pentland Hills that surround the city to the south, guarding it in a semi-circle of heather, hill, reservoir and woodland that gives
views stretching over the town to the sea beyond. It is easy to forget
Edinburgh is a coastal town, coming to a halt at the water's edge,
perhaps because the weather does so little to encourage a trip to the
seaside. Yet out on the hills, the city looks like an island or peninsula, lapped by water.
Before we bought a car earlier this year, we had limited means of
getting out to the hills. On one occasion we resorted to taking a taxi to the start
of a walk, dressed in walking boots, fleeces and gaiters (buses didn't go there). It reminded
me of a journalist who boasted he had to take a taxi to the front line
of a war somewhere in Africa. I forget where exactly. Hope he was still able to claim on expenses.
Now we have the noble beast, we drove out
to Harlaw Reservoir under our own steam. I still find driving stressful, almost a year after buying the car, but there doesn't seem much alternative if we're to go anywhere interesting.
We waited inside the car until all
the dogs barking and milling about the carpark had moved on. I'm useless with dogs. Beanie used to love them; now I fear I've passed my phobias onto her. She gets nervous too.
Beanie travelled in a
backpack carried by her father. We managed a full circuit of the
reservoir, overseen by the charred hulk of Black Hill (501m), whose blackened slopes are
the result of 'muirburn'.
We spotted greylag and pink-footed geese, that roost in the Pentlands in winter-time (living in Greenland the rest of the year, greylag geese see Edinburgh as the equivalent of a winter holiday in the Caribbean or Florida), sheep, horses and some cows. Beanie greeted them all, except the geese, with the word: 'bear'.
On our return to the car we realised we'd lost one of Beanie's shoes somewhere on our walk. If anyone reading this spots a girl's shoe (size 4.5) out by Harlaw reservoir, please drop me a line.
See no weevil
Va-vay has replaced the hallogen bulbs in the kitchen. Following his discovery of an oven-cleaning implement (that looks like a Stanley knife), the last remains of blackened plum jam have disappeared from the new induction hob. Nightly, I get down on my hands and knees to wash and scrub the kitchen's wooden floor. I clean surfaces, sponge away dirt, wipe down the bin, sweep away crumbs, hoover up stray hairs and bin half-eaten and soggy rice cakes. As I do so, I wonder how dirt can regenerate so fast, whether any of the food I prepare ever actually goes in Beanie's stomach, and how it can be that so much hair remains attached to my head, when so much is in front of me on the floor.
On Saturday evening, Va-vay was looking for flour to make the white sauce for a mushroom and courgette pasta bake. He prised open the larder door, whose handle fell off some months ago, releasing an aroma of stale curry spices into the kitchen, fished around for a bag of flour, extracted it, opened it, looked inside, looked again and jumped back in horror. Weevils. Weevils have invaded our larder cupboard. They were eating their way through lentils, porridge oats, bread-making flour, plain flour, self-raising flour, rice, split peas, sunflower seeds, cardamon pods, turmeric, mild curry powder, nutmeg, polenta, rosemary, icing sugar, yeast and assorted Italian Herbs.
By the time Va-vay bagged up the weevil-infested comestibles, took them
round to his favourite refuse bins ('I wanted to give them a decent
send-off'), swabbed down the decks and got to the corner shop for more flour, we ate late on
Saturday night.
The larder no longer smells of stale curry spices. Its corner of the kitchen has the antiseptic, fear-inducing smell of a hospital corridor. Its shelves are empty, save for a couple of jars of jam I bought on honeymoon more than two years ago, the instructions to the microwave and a tube of tomato puree. All of which we judged impregnable by weevil.
For any of you interested, I'm on BBC Radio Scotland's Book Cafe this lunchtime at about 1.15 - 1.30pm, taking part in a discussion about blogs-to-books. Other slated participants include Simon Trewin, the literary agent of Petite Anglaise, one of my favourite blogs. Technical know-how permitting, (and provided I don't come away sounding a complete fool) Va-vay is planning to download the discussion onto this site in the next couple of days. So keep an eye or ear out for that if you're interested in turning blogs into books.
Kick in the head
Beanie's teething problems continue unabated, causing her to wake in the night and refuse to settle.
About 5.50am she signalled to her father in no uncertain terms that her morning had started.
"I was woken up this morning with a kick in the head," said Va-vay later, rather plaintively.
If I hadn't suspected he was playing for effect, I might have been more sympathetic.
Attachment parenting: a sticky business
We are having phone trouble. It's none of the usual suspects. I'm afraid I blame a pair of well-meaning New Age parenting gurus for the problem.
A while ago I bought a book on babies
by a California paediatrician and his wife. They've got eight children
themselves. I reckoned they must know what they're talking about. They looked like nice people on the cover shot. Their philosophy is called 'attachment parenting'. Heard of it?
Hugely popular in the US, less so in the UK.
Amongst other things, 'attachment parenting' involves:
breastfeeding on demand, 'co-sleeping' with your infant, avoiding
mechanical devices such as prams, rockers or bouncy chairs, 'wearing'
your baby in a sling and, of course, natural birth. Being a bit of an
old hippie at heart myself, I loved these ideas. I just couldn't quite
translate them all into reality.
The authors never argue, but
offer 'loving reminders' to each other. They write wistfully about a custom in Rwanda of not letting the
baby
touch the ground for the first six months of their life. Instead the
local women carry their babies with them at all times, wrapped up
in a cunning arrangement of knotted fabric. These women are so close to their babies they don't use nappies. They can just sense when the child needs to go.
The writers suggest that
if a mother can't breastfeed, the baby's grandmother might consider
re-lactating. Breastfeeding's so important, you see. I've mentioned
this a couple of times to Granny, never with much success. She tends to
clutch at her bosom and look affronted.
I did my best to
follow their advice, and managed some of it. Beanie went in a sling, but I couldn't carry her for long without hurting my
back. I breastfed. The one area where I followed their advice to the
letter was their advice to invest in a cordless phone. To prevent
accidents. Apparently a little-known danger to toddlers is mum
wandering off to answer the phone. Or so they say.
When Beanie was born, Va-vay
dutifully went off to buy cordless phones - after a
'loving reminder' from me. Eighteen months later, we
spend half our lives hunting for the wretched things that Beanie has reallocated somewhere - pillow,
toy basket, knitting box, or the rubbish bin. Even if we phone ourselves to find out
where they are, they won't necessarily ring. No juice left.
Mobiles aren't so reliable either these days. Beanie's fond of
sucking on them. Helps her teeth.
Last week I gave Va-vay another 'loving reminder'. To buy us a conventional, corded phone.
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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.
Dog days
On holiday it seemed that Beanie greeted every slavering cur, half-rabid wolf and barking hound like long-lost friends, crying out 'dug' to them, oblivious to my maternal fears. 'Dug' is a recent addition to her vocabulary, a popular one, but Avignon pavements are narrow; its dogs can be unpredictable.
Imagine, then, her delight when, on a train journey home one day, we happened on a tiny 'dug' nestling in a woman's handbag. Combining as it did two of her greatest loves - 'dugs' and handbags - Beanie could not have been more entranced.
"Dug! Dug! Dug!" she pointed, desperate to ensure that I, too, had noticed this two-for-one miracle, this holy grail of travel accessories, the benchmark by which all other bags will now be judged. "Dug! Dug! Dug!"
"Yes, Beanie. Dog," I told her, a trifle pedantically, it must be confessed, but loving her innocent enthusiasm.
"Can she touch the dog?" I asked its owner in French.
"Ah, no, he has sharp teeth. Likes to bite." The woman made biting gestures.
"Beanie," I whispered to her "The little dog might bite. We'll just look at him for now."
She listened to what I said, clambered back up on my lap and watched the puppy from afar, interjecting every so often: 'dug!' - and then again - 'dug!' until both she and the dog fell asleep.
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.
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Time and tide
Erica at Littlemummy and British Parent Bloggers has pointed me towards a story revealing the pressure on mums is so great that we have just ten minutes of 'me-time' every day to ourselves, leading researchers to label our generation as 'motor mums'.
Writing as one who can barely bring herself to drive a car, I'm not sure this is the right label for me. I'm also unsure what counts as 'me-time', which in itself could be sad and telling. Loading and unloading the dishwasher? Cleaning the floors? Vacuuming? The Sisyphean task of laundry management, for which I'm beginning to wonder if I need one of those project management qualifications? Blogging?
I did go to lots of Edinburgh Book Festival events, some of them even on my own. That's got to count. But that was okay because I suffered torments of guilt for my frivolous abandon.
According to the people who came up with this research (a washing powder company) mums have so little time to themselves because they spend most of the day keeping their children happy.
I don't mind not having much 'me-time', (though as I write Beanie is screaming for my attention, annoyed to have lost me in the blogosphere, so I'll have to be quick). Perhaps I'm not being strictly honest with myself - there is tension between her needs, or at least her wants, and mine.
But I had to wait until I was 38 to have Beanie. So I had a super-abundance of 'me-time' before she arrived, some of it great, some okay, and some, well, frankly, lonely; spent wondering if or when Mr Right would materialise, if I'd be able to have a baby. Yes, I know: Bridget Jones, eat your heart out.
Maybe being older has meant a bigger adjustment to devoting most of my waking hours (and quite a few of the sleeping ones, too, on occasion) to another person.
But after waiting so long for her, now Beanie's here, I intend to make the most of it.
Unfit for human consumption
This posting was meant to be all about a trip Beanie and I made yesterday to visit a local attraction that opens to the public only a handful of times every year. This local well features some fine mosaics, statues and columns and we had a good visit to its dank interior, despite the notice warning the water was 'unfit for human consumption'. Someone had thought to put tea lights around the pump, which gave the well an atmospheric, almost religious feel. Beanie made friends with a Scots terrier called Toby.
I say 'meant to be' because shortly after we got home Beanie was ferrying some toys from a basket in the window over to me when she tripped on a cushion, fell and cut open her forehead on the coffee table, blood spurting everywhere. She looked so indignant and shocked, as much as anything else, it broke my heart. It happened in an instant, as we heard people warning these things would do.
Luckily, there's not been too much damage. She calmed down quite quickly before I drove her to hospital, where they saw her almost immediately and patched her up. They don't think there'll be much of a scar, and with luck the cut will heal in a few days. Seeing some of the other children there and the state they were in, I began to wonder if I was making too much of a fuss, since I was crying more than Beanie by this point. Beanie's Grandad came over to lend moral support, since Granny was out on the golf course, in a fight-to-the-death with other members of the Veteran Ladies team, and Va-vay was away.
Talk about stable doors/bolting horses, but last night I taped some old towels to the table corners to prevent a repeat. As for Beanie, she has recovered her old jubilance and now looks quite the proper member of a pirate crew, sporting a bandage over her left eye, which she scratches at from time to time.
L Plates Mum
Reading last week the story of a rise in unjust adoptions, I was taken back to my fears as an L Plates mum when Beanie first arrived and I hadn't a clue how to get from one minute to the next so sat in my flat shaking, wondering what to do next. Terrified the Baby Police (my friendly health visitor) would rumble me, I asked a friend who's a paediatrician if I'd get into trouble for general ineptitude in the matter of caring for a newborn. "No," she told me. "Not unless you're doing drugs or hitting her." Big sigh of relief, since I was guilty of neither crime, though I continued to fear the weekly health clinic weigh-ins when I had to de-robe Beanie and pop her in a set of kitchen scales. It felt like the neo-natal equivalent of annual performance appraisals.
Other News
In the Night Garden
Thanks to Littlemummy, who has a posting on how much her daughter Erin loves this programme, Beanie has discovered In the Night Garden on CBeebies. She's so excited by it, she insists on standing up and swaying furiously while it's on, waving at Iggle Piggle, Uppsy Daisy and their friends in what I take to be ecstasy, though her waves cause me a small pang of heartache, when I think how the characters will never wave back at her and see how unsuspecting she is of this. Her dad and I are pretty taken with In the Night Garden too. Va-vay in particular enjoys repeating the names of the different characters to himself. Sitting eating his veggie dinner a couple of nights ago he said, apropos of nothing in particular: "Tombliboos." Short pause. "Tombliboos." Va-vay, who has a degree in linguistics, is trying to pass his love of In the Night Garden off to me as an interest in the development of infant speech patterns. An interest that has led to him starting to get home earlier from work, in time for the 6.20pm start time. My cup, it runneth over.
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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.
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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.
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