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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Domestic chaos
Chore wars
Financial pressure on families is so intense that men
are increasingly keen for their wives to work, but less so if their
children are under school age, reports The Telegraph.
Far from regarding
the role of breadwinner as male, the number of men who believe it
is the man's job to earn money has dropped by almost half, from 32 per
cent in 1989 to 17 per cent in 2006. The findings are part of the latest British Social Attitudes report, an influential government-funded survey.
Women's
motives for getting back to work are mixed: some are the main
breadwinner, others feel it wrong to waste their education and some say
their job is part of their social identity. Many simply need the money.
Some things remain reassuringly unchanged. The battle over who does the household chores has barely moved on in recent years.
Almost eight in 10 people with partners say the woman usually or always does the laundry, a similar proportion to 1994. Surrounded by damp laundry as I type, I can agree with that one, though in fairness to Va-vay, he's good at ironing and more than pulls his weight around the house.
Men and women disagree when it comes to saying how much of the housework they actually do - a situation The Telegraph wittily describes as the "chore wars".
Two thirds of women say that they usually or always do the cleaning but only 54 per cent of men say this of their partner.
The most liberal division of labour is reportedly found among couples where the woman works full-time. Some days I feel pushed working part-time from home. I'm beginning to worry I'll never get the nerve up to go back to full-time work.
A spot of shopping
"What is it with you and your clothes?" I ask Va-vay.
We are sat in an Edinburgh cafe planning the final shopping onslaught before Christmas. My cup of hot chocolate must steel me for the fight with battalions of shoppers who are advancing on the city's shops like scavenging hordes. I have presents for everybody except Va-vay, who is unable to think of a single thing he might like for Christmas (saving arcane items of geekery that I do not understand well enough to purchase).
"What do you mean?" he replies. "I buy clothes, I wear them; they wear out. That's it."
This description barely does justice to the war of attrition Va-vay wages on his clothes.
"Yes, but Va-vay, the clothes disintegrate on you. Within months. Weeks even. Remember the Thomas Pink shirts?"
We both fall silent at the memory of the shirts, now reduced to dish rags and eking out their last days in a bucket under the sink.
"That wasn't my fault," says Va-vay. "Something in the fabric attracted stains." As if a laundress had put a curse on them. A Vanish-proof jinx that would defeat the housewives of Harry Potter.
"What about your socks, then?"
I've got the trump card here. Va-vay (who has size 14 feet) has issues with socks that not even his optimism can deny. They tend to sprout holes within weeks and his toes peep out to greet the world.
I've bought socks from all the obvious sock-buying places,
thinking somewhere must have some that fit his feet. In vain. Our home is full of
greying, unmatched socks that have wilted at the challenge of clothing
Va-vay's feet. At night, his feet stick out the end of the duvet. Large and vulnerable.
I have offered to knit him socks, but Va-vay has declined, saying his skin allergy makes him sensitive to wool. Yes, it's hard to believe this is the same man who dashed across a busy B road to save the life of a caterpillar he saw stranded on the tarmac.
"Don't buy me expensive socks for Christmas," he says. "They're no better than the cheap ones."
"Va-vay, you do want something for Christmas, don't you?"
"You've got me a hat. That's enough."
"No! It's not enough. I want to buy my husband a nice present for Christmas. Why won't you co-operate in this? There's pleasure in giving as well as receiving, you know. You're making it very difficult."
"Oh, alright, alright. What about a pair of trousers?"
As well as having feet at the more err, generous end of the spectrum, Va-vay is also tall (around 6ft 6in). As you might imagine, trouser-buying has its challenges. We trail from shop to shop, meet assistants who laugh at us or cannot help, while elbowed by fellow shoppers who refuse to move aside for the buggy. I am paranoid that a stranger will touch me and cling to Va-vay. Our search for the right sort of trousers is proving fruitless.
Eventually, I spot a countryside shop purveying guns, Barbours, goggles, corded strawberry trousers, tweed caps, padded waistcoats and any other accoutrement you could imagine the sporting gent about town might need.
"Look, Va-vay, we could get you a pair of plus fours!" I tell him in excitement.
Va-vay glances in the window at the dummy done up in a pair of moleskin pantaloons that finish just below his knees. A shotgun trails by his side. Compared to his friend (in canary yellow trousers), his get-up looks almost sophisticated.
"Any pair of trousers is like plus fours on me," he says, with resignation.
We turn from the knickerbockers, and head for home.
Dilemmas Domestic chaos Edinburgh Husband Likes/Dislikes Out and about
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.
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!
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.
Breastfeeding Childcare Daughter Domestic chaos Husband Parenting gurus Toys
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.
First year of motherhood tests us all
For most new mothers the year after having their first baby turns out to be the loneliest in their lives, according to a survey from Tesco and Mother and Baby magazine. Cut off from families, friends and work colleagues, almost half of new mums feel 'lonely and isolated'. Nine out of ten miss the social life they enjoyed before the baby arrived and around two-thirds 'feel cut off from normal life'. Only around a quarter lived in the same town as their parents.
The Mail quotes Elena Dalrymple, editor of Mother and Baby, saying: "Leaving work and having a baby is a huge physical and emotional adjustment for women. Friends without babies drift off, grandparents live miles away, neighbours are barely on nodding terms, other mums you bump into at the shops aren't your type and the social life you once knew has ground to a halt."
My experience was quite the opposite: I found myself meeting all sorts of new people when Beanie arrived and have been extremely fortunate in making friends with other mums from our ante-natal class and other groups. It's not over-stating things to say they've been a life-line in some difficult times.
Having a child also meant I got to know some of our neighbours. We used to have a little cafe at the end of our street and before it closed would gather there for coffee and a chat, without having to make any arrangement beforehand. We'd just wander in and chat to whoever was there. Having a child has helped me feel part of a community. It's been great.
On the downside, I've inevitably met people with whom I had little in common except having a child at the same time - but that's hardly surprising. Some of the mums-and-babies events have had their excruciating side.
Sample conversation:
- "Which school are you thinking of for Beanie?" Beanie being two or three months old at the time of questioning. Mind you, I am also guilty of this line of questioning. Schooling is an Edinburgh obsession. Perhaps also elsewhere?
- "My little Fionulla's been sleeping through the night since she was ten weeks. We have to wake her in the morning." GRRRRRrrrrrrr.....
- "Surely you feed her 100% organic! Don't you know what goes into pesticides?"
- "Ranulph's such an active little boy. Girls are so much more passive, aren't they?" On hearing this, a little girl called Arabella (nine months) clouted poor Ranulph (her junior, at six months, and not so very active after all) round the ear. Sins of the parents and all that...
- "Was that a shop-bought cake I spotted?"
These days I don't see as much of Ranulph and his doting mum. But many of us mums who had babies around the same time still enjoy meeting up. Perhaps if I hadn't seen this survey published next to a story about how successful, beautiful women can't find boyfriends, (not something I've ever noticed) it wouldn't have made me think of a comment by Julie Burchill that some newspapers can't bear the idea that there might be a woman somewhere in the world who is - terrible thought! - enjoying herself.
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.
Childcare Domestic chaos Home Kit Missing sanity Perfectionism Safety Books
Jammin'
For years, I aspired to be a domestic goddess. I had all these fantasies about how when I got married I would practise the arts of cooking, knitting, patchwork, pottery, quilting, tapestry, gardening and jam-making.
My future life as wife and mother was so perfect in my singleton imagination. I was going to be the kind of earth mother who made her own organic stock from scratch, could run up a pair of curtains on her machine and had a pasta-maker I used, oh, more than once. Since I only got married at 37, I had a long time to polish up the fantasies, without much of a reality check. Now here I am at the coal face. And I realise how very difficult a job being a good housewife can be. This stuff is tough. Much, much tougher than people acknowledge. But I'm no quitter.
Here is my progress report so far.
1. Cooking
Two or three nights a week I manage a proper home-cooked meal for Va-vay. The rest of the time it's ready meals via M&S. Beanie is refusing to eat anything I cook her. She downs her spoon and bangs on the table for Petit Filou. It's pretty dispiriting. I try not to take it personally.
2. Knitting
Reasonable success here. I've made Beanie a blanket, stuffed hippo and monkey and am half-way through a cardigan for her.
3. Patchwork
Zero progress. Nul points.
4. Pottery
Attended class. Managed to make and glaze large plantpot, of which I am disproportionately proud. I love it. Gave Va-vay evil looks when he suggested re-patriating it to one of his cupboards.
5. Quilting
Thought about going to class. Decided against, on grounds of lack of time.
6. Tapestry
Have stitched in another tulip on a canvas I bought four years ago. My sister came round. Looked at the canvas. Said: "Is there any woman in the world who doesn't have a half-finished tapestry kicking round somewhere in the house?" I don't know. Is there?
7. Gardening
Have applied for an allotment. Estimated waiting time: five years. They are all the rage in Edinburgh after Antonia Swinson wrote her enchanting book about them, You Are What You Grow. Meantime, I have geraniums.
8. Jam-making
Have tried hard here, with mixed results. Two nights ago I made my first attempt at this, after Granny gave me two pounds of plums from her garden. It was all going so well.... then we got to the part where the recipe said to turn the heat up as high as it will go, and then in seconds my beautiful red jam turned into caramelised brown treacle (pictured). Gutting. It's still edible, despite being carbonised.
Other News
I've been lucky enough to get a couple of awards recently.
Lovely Omega Mum at 3kidsnojob, a daily must-read for me, kindly gave me this one:
Many thanks, Omega Mum. There are lots of people I'd like to award it to. I've decided I'd like to pass it on to DJ Kirkby, since her blog Novel with No Name has got me so involved I'm hopping up and down with rage at what's happening to her heroine, a new mother with a less-than-supportive husband.
Lou at the Wonderful World of Anna Gibson was good enough to give me this Nice Matters award. Lou has a young daughter close in age to Beanie and writes about so many experiences I've had as well. Her blog has helped me realise I'm not alone in many of my fears and worries about being a new mum. Many thanks for the award, Lou. Much appreciated.
I'm sorry I couldn't award this to more people. In the end, I've had to choose two, so here goes: I'd like to pass it on to Erica of Littlemummy and British Parent Bloggers, because I enjoy her blogging tremendously, she truly is a nice person and we're friends.
I'd also like to give it to Vicky, of Little Legends, the free guide to places for kids in the UK, and Manic Mama, an entertaining mamalogue about life looking after her three little boys.
Let's fix it
Social conditioning starts young. I learnt this from a cursory ten minutes last night in front of my new favourite TV channel CBeebies. Women can hardly be surprised their menfolk focus on solutions and practicalities, when young boys are encouraged to model themselves on Bob "Let's fix it" the Builder. Bob is a likeable chap and good sort, but includes machines among his friends. I suspect if the government ever got serious about getting more women into IT, it would probably have to tackle gender issues with Bob's TV show first.
Likeable though he is, I wonder if Bob's storing up long-term trouble in relationships with his focus on machines. Will Bob grow up to be a man who'll listen to and empathise with his partner? Poor Bob. He'll probably get into trouble with her by putting on his hard hat and rushing to fix things, all well-meaning and wanting to please. Then she might complain: "You never listen to me! I feel so unheard." And he'll be left feeling all confused. All down to misguided early conditioning. Tragic, really.
As for us girls, could CBeebies not have found us a better inspiration than Uppsy Daisy, the sweet-natured but feisty heroine of In the Night Garden? Iggle Piggle, her great pal, doesn't look old enough to be allowed out with this young lady. If I was his mum, I'd be practising disapproving looks. Doing clever things with her hair and repeating her own name isn't much of a way for Uppsy Daisy to pass the time. I'd get bored. She just skips around the garden and flicks her hair. Electronically. She doesn't get to go in the lovely boat with Iggle Piggle and his red blanket. Also, I was a teeny bit scared of her in the episode where she found out some naughty person had been bold enough to sleep in the motorised bed that follows her everywhere. As Derek Jacobi intoned in the beautiful voice-over: "Only Uppsy Daisy sleeps in Uppsy Daisy's bed." Well, that's us told.
Then there's the question of the Pontypine family, who live in a semi with net curtains, which they sometimes twitch, by the foot of a large tree. All ten of them. Is it any wonder we suffer this tyranny for large families, given nightly bombardment by the Pontys and their eight children? Last night Beanie and I counted the Ponty progeny in and out of more flowerpots than I care to remember by cold light of day. What's more, all the Ponty babies are of identical height..... meaning Mrs Pontypine must have given birth to octuplets. Now that's pressure.
Clean-up operation
We're thinking of hiring a cleaner. This could be a bigger decision than we realised.
Leafing through Yellow Pages this morning, I stumbled on one firm offering an unusual range of services. Under the slogan: "Life Maid Easy offers you the chance to reclaim your life." This is what they offer: cleaning, ironing, window cleaning. So far, so normal.
And... wait for it: Life Style Management.
I've heard about powerful cleaning agents, but this is going too far. And you know the really sad thing? I was almost tempted to call these enterprising people and see what they could offer.
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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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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Over the sea
I'm still getting the hang of blogging, so might be wrong about this. If so, please let me know. But I get the impression postings about things that go less well in my life are more interesting than happy rhapsodies about the Scottish countryside, flora, fauna and trees, or similar. Even I can only take so much of the "Hello Trees!" type of posting.
I would drop my cheerier postings altogether but I like to let you know about the happy side of my life. You see, I don't want to give the wrong impression that my life is one long misery-fest, because nothing could be further from the truth. So I try to include some more upbeat postings about the nice things that happen. But the nice postings can be, well, let's be honest, a teeny bit dull.
Perhaps all writing thrives on conflict, including blogging, and there ain't enough of that in 'my family day out' on the hills. But one of the several reasons why I blog - Gather material for a book on parenting! Release the frustrated journalist in me! - is to create a record of these early years with the Bean.
Before I blogged I kept a diary, now dusty and neglected, in which I recorded her milestones and stories of our days together. Mother at Large is the on-line equivalent. So I want her to see we had fun together, in amongst everything else.
Though speaking of family days out, there's one coming up next week that could be filled with conflict aplenty. Granny, Bean and I are planning to try and take the new hovercraft across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh to Fife (the Firth of Forth is pictured above) one day next week. For people who don't know Scotland that well, the Forth is a narrow strip of sea that runs inland from the North Sea across a good chunk of central Scotland.
Granny's especially keen because OAPs get on board free. Provided, that is, the grandchild of the OAP in question hasn't ransacked their handbag and lost their free bus pass.
I say 'try' to take the hovercraft because the Edinburgh papers are full of accounts of long queues for this service, with bust-ups between other OAPs who've had the same idea as Granny and have been waiting hours to get aboard.
The OAPs won't be the only ones to get tetchy at delays. Beanie will tolerate ten-minute waits max, before she goes nuclear, so if the queues are still as bad next week we'll have to turn back.
I'm not even sure what there is to do in Kirkcaldy, assuming we manage to get there.
The town's dubious claim to fame in my family is as the erstwhile home of my father's aunt - a redoubtable old lady who made her disapproval of my mother quite plain. According to Granny (who is from Yorkshire) this aunt said to my father at their engagement party: "Och! Could you not have found yourself a nice Scottish girl?" We didn't see much of this aunt - transport links to Fife and her range of social pleasantries being what they were.
I'll keep you posted on how we get on next week.
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Mum-upmanship
Ever worried about 'mum-upmanship' at mum-and-baby coffee mornings? Thought there was something wrong with you for fretting you had little in common with the other mums? Had 'knickers made of barbed wire' tugging at your post-natal stitches?
If so, help is at hand. A small and entertaining book, Staying Sane
There are lots of great tips on keeping it together through your child's babyhood and toddler years that struck a chord with me.
These are some of my favourites:
1. When motherhood seems intolerable, remind yourself quite how much you disliked being a childless singleton.
2. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you have to make instant friends with everyone from your nearest Mums and Babies group.
3. When contemplating the desirability of divorce, go to a party. "Chances are you will have your evening spoiled by a self-important oaf whose prejudices, politics or misogyny ensure that when you snuggle up to your husband in bed that night, you thank your lucky stars you ended up with him," writes Miller.
PS - I know this tip is true. It worked a treat for me at my French evening class.
4. "Just because you coped with tricky types at work doesn't mean you should do it now," she warns. "Try to concentrate on women whose company gives you a boost and don't let yourself be undermined by competitive, critical or gossipy women."
5. "Avoid complete paranoia by resolving to consult a medical dictionary as rarely as possible to check up on childhood ailments,"she says. Otherwise you end up catastrophising about all manner of ailments. Same would go for internet, presumably.
The tone is cheery, light-hearted and positive. There are lots of lovely cartoon illustrations by Louise Quirke. Miller doesn't patronise her audience, or preach. As a mother of three young daughters, two of them twins, she plainly knows what she's talking about.
I didn't agree with every suggestion - there was one about wrapping your head in a pashmina I couldn't understand - but overall I liked Staying Sane a lot. It'd be a good gift to any new mother. Along with the valium and ready meals.
Spy Hard
There's more to this parenting lark than I first suspected. I can no longer agree with the father who told me: "A bit of nerve and a lot of stamina - that's all a new parent needs, really." I'd have to add cunning to the list. You see, it turns out I've been spied on in my own home. By a deceptively sweet-faced baby we call The Bean. Yes, she's had me under surveillance night and day for 14 months - and until recently I never suspected a thing.
Turns out The Bean has spent her entire life-time shadowing me here, in the privacy of my own home. A regular infant spook. She has scrutinised my every move. And now, oh how this makes me cringe, I'm seeing them - including some frankly unappealing character traits - relayed back to me by her.
Sat on kitchen floor next to 'her' bins, arms akimbo, determined and cross, she reminds me of someone. At first I can't think who. Then it comes to me. Oh crikey - is that what I look like? Seizes her father's asthma puffer and pops it in her mouth, shuts her eyes and puffs on it. Grins. Like her dad.
Pretends to brush her teeth with our tooth brushes (though she won't suffer the real thing at bed-time). Pulls my bushy hairbrush through her soft curls. Gazes at self in mirror. Attacks chalk drawing in serious, purposeful manner I recognise of old. Wipes down her changing mat as she must have seen me do. Sighs heavily at computer's recalcitrance. Loves a joke and socialising. Laughs and giggles.
It's like one of those management courses in self-awareness. But I never signed up for this. Ok, the sleepless nights I knew about. But action replays of my every move... nobody warned me about that. Some of these traits I never even realised I had - the mania for wiping surfaces, for example. I shall have to be careful. Never mind about my scary and near-total responsibility for how she turns out as an adult just for now. Next, she'll begin blogging. About me. Now that's a really scary thought.
A good man
"Then get down on your knees and thank God for a good man," says Granny.
I am telling Granny how the Bean's dad gets up every morning at
whatever very un-Godly hour his daughter awakes, then looks after her
until it's time for him to go to work, while I enjoy a lie-in. Not
bragging. Just casually explaining household workings.
"He's more of a morning person than me."
I'm lying sick in bed with flu, as she berates me. Too sick to
genuflect as instructed. Too sick even to blog. Much too sick to
disagree with anything she says. Even when she calls the Bean a little
potato.
I give a humble, token nod at the carpet to indicate I take her point
about knees. Just a gentle nod, though. Don't want to hurt my sore head.
Then I reassert myself: "Mum, it's not just him. It's this generation of men. They all help out more with childcare, the house."
"Even so," says Granny, in a certain tone of voice. "Even so. To have a
man who'll get up every morning and look after your child, leaving you
to sleep..... "
She used this exact annoying tone years ago, obliquely reproaching me
for some poor judgement in my love life via discussion of the novel
Vanity Fair. This is what comes of both being English graduates. An end to direct communication. Everything couched via easy-to-misunderstand literary references.
Needless to say, she was enchanted when I met Jack (also, surely no coincidence, an English grad). The afternoon I
first took him to meet her, he bounded down the pathway to her house,
huge bouquet of flowers and chocolates in his hands, desire to please
writ large on his eager, honest brow. She almost visibly melted. I could see the relief in her eyes that I'd picked a good 'un.
Three years later, and in between the chaos of looking after the Bean,
both of us working, me trying to get established again professionally
and keeping up with friends, I do forget to be grateful for how much he
does to help me. It's easier to pick holes in his bottle-warming
technique than remember to be grateful he does it all in the first
place, even if it's not quite to my personal specifications.
Then this morning an article in The Times "Need a child-friendly dad? Then get divorced"
reminded me to count my blessings. The writer of the article made the
sad claim that divorced women get more support from their children's
fathers than married ones do, saying many married dads spend more time at the
office than they need to because it's less exhausting than the bath-and
bed-time rigmarole at home. How grim.
So, for the record, I am grateful that Jack doesn't mind getting
up early with the Bean, often around 6am, to supervise her loading and
unloading items from various receptacles she's commandeered for her
corner of the kitchen: waste-paper bin; laundry basket, computer
packaging. A couple of mornings last week she was so tired by this
ritual that no sooner had Jack gone to work than she was ready for a
nap, meaning I got to lie in until 9am. Even I can't find anything to
complain about in that.
Nursing rights
How considerate of the English government to pass a law enshrining
women's right to breastfeed their babies in public. Good of them to
give women legal redress if some nutter demands they stow away their
offending parts, cut a feed short and hop it. So instead of meekly
replacing damp bra pad, buckling up nursing bra and b****ring off
elsewhere, screaming infant in tow, women now have the right to get
lippy back. Good.
Presumably the motivation behind this latest legislation is the
government's desperation to make us all breastfeed. There'll be grants
for it soon, mark my words. Subsidies in the form of vouchers for
nursing bras and nipple cream. Health visitors discreetly handing out
wodges of cash at the sight of cracked nipples.
I suppose it is good that the government is giving breastfeeding
women some legal support. Let's face it, it takes some nerve to get
your breasts out in public, then use them to feed a
shrieking baby, law or no law. But I have my reservations.
This law took effect in Scotland a while ago, before my daughter was
born. So I have no experience of what it was like to breastfeed prior
to the new law. But my sense is that while breastfeeding legislation is good, a hydraulic-lift nursing bra from the NCT is better. NCT nursing tops
weren't so great, on the other hand, at least not the time I forgot to
pull the flap back down and went shopping with rather more on display
than I realised.
Frankly, though, who needs legislation to breastfeed in public, when
there's the piercing screams of a small child telling you to get on with it? Any embarrassment about
public breastfeeding was nothing compared to my embarrassment at my
daughter's hungry crying. When the wail went up on-lookers dived for
cover, hands over ears, waiting for the Luftwaffe to drop its bombs.
"Aye, that's a fine pair of lungs she's got," ventured one brave soul
above the siren.
I'd have done anything to quieten her. No, hang on, that's not right, I did
do anything. I not just breastfed her in public, I breastfed her in
parks, shops, cafes, beaches, buses, and cinemas, on walls, benches and
trains. And you know what, in a year of all that, no-one so much as
looked at me, let alone hassled me. Maybe that was the long arm of the
law... or then again, maybe not. Whichever it was, I do hope the
government isn't wasting tax-payers' resources again.
The Birds
"Lucky you, living in Edinburgh. So much cleaner than London," said an old work contact on the phone yesterday.
This struck me as a funny thing to say. I would never decide where to live based on its cleanliness, Black Hole of Calcutta being perhaps the honourable exception. Crime levels, safety, education, yes - cleanliness, no. One of my favourite cities in the world is Venice - I adore that stinking, damp-infested pile of decrepitude.
Also, I'm not sure Edinburgh is cleaner than London, despite what you might imagine. Okay, maybe the quality of air is better up here - but I have to disagree with the notion the city itself is cleaner.
The main culprits behind our slovenly streets are avian. The city's ubiquitous, mischievous sea gulls. Let me be clear - I love seagulls. Time was I enjoyed little better than watching them navigate what RLS called the "windy parallelograms" of the New Town by road. Hang a right along Howe Street, swoop into the grandeur of Great King Street, incline an elegant white wing to take a sharp left turn into Dundas Street (only in Edinburgh could we name a street after a lawyer, what that says about us I dread to think). So I don't have an objection to seagulls in themselves.
It would be nice, though, let me think how to put this tactfully lest I hurt their feelings if they ever read this, if they could arrange their early-morning cawing for a little, umm, later in the day. They caw noisily outside my bedroom window from 5am some mornings. Special, rubbish-day mornings. We residents have to put black bin bags out on the street on Mondays and Thursdays. Those are the days that entice hungry, wakeful gulls to poke orange beaks around in search of tempting delicacies. Not only do we get the cawing, when we leave the "stair" - as they call blocks of flats here - we're greeted with cans, bottles, nappy bags, and assorted detritus strewn across the pavement. Many's the time I see shop-owners and rubbish men clearing up all the mess - but only hours later. I know Londoners love nothing more than a good, ritualised moan - but in this respect I have to say I think those landlubbers might have it easier than us Burghers.