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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Edinburgh
Paddington's Birthday
Any Edinburgh residents among you might be interested to know The Children's Bookshop is celebrating Paddington Bear's 50th birthday in the shop tomorrow. I am told there will be discounts on all Paddington books and free marmalade sandwiches available all day (bearing that in mind, we'll be taking some of these with us). There is also to be a colouring competition, the winner of which will receive a free copy of the brand new Paddington: My Book of Marmalade. written by 83-year-old author Michael Bond. If you get the chance, why not pop along and help celebrate a milestone in the life of a bear who must be Britain's best-loved illegal immigrant.
Appearing at Edinburgh Book Festival
All confirmed for my appearance at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Friday, August 15 from 2pm to 3.30pm. An advance copy of the brochure arrived by post this morning. Here is the blurb about the event:
Books, Blogging and the Internet
How can writers best use the internet to produce and promote their work? Ex-Sunday Times journalist Helen Fowler, who secured her first book deal after publishers stumbled on her popular blog (you're reading it now) guides you through social networking, turning blogs into books and the benefits of an online presence.
Tickets (£12, £10 concession) go on sale to the public from 20 June and the brochure is available from tomorrow, 12 June. Please come along if you're in the vicinity.
Images of maternity
Why do we expect so much of ourselves as mothers? Where do we get the idea we should be martyrs to our children and give up our own identities? This exhibition, called Images of Maternity, running at the local Scottish Gallery of Modern Art might offer some answers. I haven't yet had a chance to see it myself, but works on display include paintings by Sandro Botticelli, Pablo Picasso, George Romney and Christine Borland. I'm intrigued by this exhibition, because so much of female identity is tied up with cultural precepts that seek to define and trap us in our roles as mothers. Cultural precepts set down by music, literature, newspapers and paintings like the ones in this exhibition.
My view is that it's hard to resist the cultural message we can - and should - be perfect mothers to saintly children. And so life becomes even more of a strain for those of us struggling to look after a screaming baby. We expect motherhood to convey us to a state of bliss. Then find ourselves isolated, bored and frustrated. Experiencing something very different to the 'new baby joy' we were expecting. How much of the gap in expectation is to do with the fact women spend their lives bombarded with images of post-natal perfection - like the Botticelli picture above?
We're encouraged to believe that giving birth is the crowning glory in our lives, the moment when we fulfill our biological and cultural destiny, that it will bestow perfect happiness on us in our new roles as mothers. But, of course, despite the brave faces that new mums put on for each other at coffee mornings, it's just not like that.
I'm hoping to get along to the exhibition at the weekend, and it'll be interesting to see if there are any paintings that challenge some of the tired old stereotypes that seek to manoeuvre women into chasing after unattainable dreams of motherhood. Exhibition runs until 22 June.
School for thought
"What about trying this place," suggests Va-vay, as we debate a school for our two-year-old daughter Beanie.
Though he would never admit as much, Va-vay is basing this idea on Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street novels, whose young hero Bertie is forced to attend the same institution. I cannot help thinking that Va-vay has slightly missed the point here: Bertie is miserable at being made to go to school there. But at twenty five weeks pregnant, I choose my battles carefully.
The next day I call the school.
"Allo, yes?" says a Germanic accent on the other end of the phone that sounds like a parody of itself.
"Err, hello, could you put me through to your admissions secretary?"
Silence. No farewell niceties, just a click on the line. Another voice answers.
"Hello. What can I do for you?" I feel like I've broken a rule by knocking on the staffroom door at lunch break and she's torn herself away from a sandwich to see me.
I explain I am looking for a school for my young daughter. My voice is cracking up slightly and I swallow nervously.
"Very good. I'll put a copy of our prospectus in the post. And we have a tour of the school on 1 May for prospective parents. Can you attend that?"
"Yes, I think so. Let me just check my diary," I reply, feeling slightly crushed, as if I haven't done my homework on time or forgot to wash my PE kit for games. "Yes, that should be fine."
"I will put your name down then. Will your husband be with you?"
I haven't mentioned a husband. How does she know I'm married? Is this how they go about 'nurturing the imagination' and fostering 'keen thinking and questioning skills' as promised on their website - jumping to conclusions about people's private lives?
"No, he won't be," I explain, feeling inexplicably nervous. "But I'd like to bring my daughter along, to show her the place. See her response."
"That won't be possible," says Madam, sounding ticked off. "We don't permit young children to come on tours. They're too disruptive."
I force myself to state the obvious. "But it's my daughter who would be at the school. I need to see how she takes to it." Or not, I think, silently.
"No, children are not allowed. We take tours into classrooms and young children of her age would disturb pupils who are working."
I remember that these people are proposing to charge us many thousands of pounds for educating Beanie. A flame of anger jumps up in me.
"Oh, okay. I see. Well, look, I think in that case we might just leave it then, thanks all the same. This isn't really what we're looking for."
I hear a click on the other end of the phone and the line goes dead. Even these people haven't had the cheek to suggest they'll be teaching pupils much in the way of social skills.
Later that day I recount the experience to Beanie's granny, a former teacher.
"Why is it that so many people in teaching don't actually seem to like children very much?" I ask her. "Don't they know they'll be with children all day long if they go into teaching?"
Granny just shrugs. "Don't know. Some people go into it because they want to reform children. It gives them a moral uplift. There's a power dynamic there, you know."
Even if it turned out Beanie adored the place, I wouldn't want to set foot in it.
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."
Back on the buses
When I was a childless Londoner I used to sneer at bureaucrats who wanted to take our beloved Routemaster buses
off the streets. Those open platforms. Too dangerous, they said.
Dangerous? Hardly, I would think, hanging off the edge of the 19 as we
travelled along the King's Road, a barrage of rain, wind and grime
blowing in my face. 
Today whenever I see a Routemaster
(the one pictured left has been turned into a cafe) it reminds me of a
vanished era of first jobs, flatsharing, overdrafts, friendships and
early love affairs, of a time when I was unafraid of life. Of my first, often
bungled steps towards becoming a grown-up. Standing on the open
platforms, holding on with one hand, I felt, well, I felt free. Almost
as free as the occasional bedraggled pigeon that used to fly on board
to join us. Arriving in London from provincial 1980s Edinburgh, there
was a thrill to standing on the open platforms, careering through the
streets of the metropolis. Able to hop on and off at will. No need to
wait for officialdom to release us at a bus stop.
They phased out the final Routemasters
a few months after I got married, left London for good and became
pregnant. It was Ken Livingstone who got rid of them. The same Ken who
once said, "Only a dehumanised moron would get rid of the Routemaster".
This weekend my husband Va-vay was in London and brought back a wooden Routemaster
bus (No 43 to London Bridge) for Beanie. To her father's dismay, she
was more interested in the body lotion he brought back for me,
discarding the bus after a cursory inspection and spending half an hour
annointing her cheeks and arms with jasmine and ylang ylang cream. As well as her eyes, mouth, hair and tongue. She
gave me a pitying smile when I pointed out to her that her two-year-old
skin didn't require hydrating. The same way I ignored my mother when
she told me I didn't need full make-up, aged 13.
As for me, all I could think of as I looked at the bus was how hard it would be get a buggy on board one of them (an issue close to my heart).
How frightening it would be if the buggy rolled back off the bus onto
the road. Whether the brake would be strong enough to keep baby and
buggy safe. Spiritually, you see, I have become as one with those bureaucrats.
Auld Lang Syne
Friday 25 January is Burns' Night here in Scotland, when we celebrate the life of national hero and poet Robert 'Rabbie' Burns. Va-vay and I are excited about going to a Burns' Supper in honour of the great man - Va-vay's first Burns Night - and Va-vay has even hired a dinner suit for the occasion. He did have the option of wearing a kilt, but with him being a Sassenach (Englishman) we thought the DJ option best. I'll be wearing a flowing empire-line dress that sort of hides my bump. Erica from Littlemummy has a great guest post at Scribbit on Rabbie Burns and the tradition of Burns Suppers.
Off duty
Beanie went to Granny's for a night at the weekend. So Va-vay and I went out and painted the town red, clubbing till all hours.... okay, no, we didn't. But we did manage dinner out at one of our favourite restaurants, where we did lots of the usual soppy stuff like reminisce about how we met, dream about moving to France one day and plan our next holiday. What a treat to stroll home via Edinburgh's cobbled Georgian streets, without worrying about rushing back for babysitters. This is the first time Beanie's stayed at her Granny's in a year and my goodness, did I enjoy it. I hadn't realised how much time I spend worrying about whether she's okay when on duty. It was delicious lying there in bed not wondering if Beanie would wake up, whether I should try Calpol, or take her into bed with us. But of course, in the morning I missed her cherubic little face, the sound of her giggles, her toddler truck slamming into a wall, a half-eaten rice cake waved in greeting. We rushed over to Granny's, where we found Beanie and Granny had worn each other out - with Beanie settling only at about midnight. Beanie cried at being parted from her Granny. For her part Granny, who normally never sleeps during the day, said she planned on catching up on sleep after lunch.
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
Happy Birthday, Mother at Large
Posted by Va-vay (husband of Mother at Large)
Regular readers of this blog will know that Mother at Large has hinted that she is nearing her fortieth birthday. Personally, I have no reason to believe that this is true - I think she has just been trying to reinforce her credentials as an older mum. However, she is now claiming that the day has actually arrived! Just in case it really is her fortieth, you are invited to a virtual party to celebrate. As you'll have noticed, I have provided balloons! Please feel free to add congratulations, encouragement or words of wisdom in the comments section.
Mother at Large's own reflections (posted on the eve of her birthday) follow...
Tomorrow I officially enter Vintage Chick territory with my 40th birthday. Am I bovvered? Well, strangely, no. I follow an inverse logic for milestone birthdays, the older I get, the more I enjoy them. Do other people feel this way? You'd think it would be the other way round, but no, life has got better for me as I've got older. Ten years ago, when I turned thirty, I was on the shelf, childless and
without even a boyfriend. I had to work my guts out in a job I didn't
much like, doing unpaid overtime till all hours, and commuting two
hours daily from one of London's scarier outer boroughs, walking to and from Kensal Green Tube past drug dealers and their victims.
Somehow I've managed to turn a corner over the last ten years - I'm lucky in that I do interesting work, live in a beautiful city, am married to the man I love and we have our beautiful daughter Beanie. I don't always like seeing the bags under my eyes, or fatter belly, but they're a badge of honour - show that I'm a mother now.
I'm realistic. Soon, I'll need reading glasses and will
go on Saga cruises. I'll embarrass my family by buying their presents
out of catalogues selling gadgets for trimming ear hair, orthopaedic
slippers and jam jar openers. I'll splash out on complicated trolley-and-hot-plate arrangements for ferrying food from kitchen to table, and
invest in a tartan shopping bag with wheels I push into people's legs,
unapologetically, while at home I hoard cupboards of biscuits that would allow me to survive a
siege. I'll develop crushes on children's TV presenters and give Granny a run for her money in Sudoko and crosswords. I
might even take up golf - you can't fight these things, they come to us all in the end. But I couldn't be happier. I might even chance my arm and say, yes, I'm actually looking forwards to tomorrow.
Fill your boots at Fidra Books
A quick reminder that Edinburgh's new, independent children's bookshop opens its doors for the first time this Saturday (10 November). You can find Fidra Books at 219 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh, just along the road from Holy Corner. Vanessa Robertson, the firm's director, is a staunch ally of this site and fellow blogger who deserves every success with the new shop. I'm chuffed to bits for her and telling everybody I know about the launch. Please go along and support the shop by buying some of her books. She's stocking more than a thousand titles, including the fifteen Fidra has published. Aside from Vanessa being a personal friend (I think she'd agree with that) we need shops like this to stop our high streets melting into a parade of identikit chains.
More personally, I can hardly wait until Beanie's old enough to enjoy browsing in Vanessa's shop. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting bookshops with my mother, and I want to do the same thing for my daughter. I come from a fairly modest background (despite what certain readers of the Edinburgh Evening News think) but my mother believed books were the best investment you could make and used to produce her James Thin account card for all sorts of children's books like Ballet Shoes, Tom's Midnight Garden and The Secret Garden. They opened the door into a new and enchanted world I never wanted to leave.
As Vanessa's written on her blog, many people have an emotional attachment to book shops possibly because they remember buying books there that have shaped their lives, ideas, aspirations, dreams, perceptions and imaginations. Buying on-line is never going to be the same for a small child as wandering around in a cornucopia of real books. Go on, if you get the chance, pay a trip to the new shop. Just don't expect to find any Katy Price pony books, though. Vanessa won't be stocking any. As she told The Scotsman, "We won't stock rubbish." Quite right too.
Coming over all McCall Smith
An incident last week involving the Noble Beast - our car - has proved what I've long suspected: my life is turning into
something out of one of Alexander McCall Smith's books about Edinburgh. It was past midnight, my husband Va-vay was snoring lightly by my side, Beanie was
asleep next door in her room - the 'Beanerarium’. I couldn’t sleep for
worrying if I remembered to tether the Noble Beast properly.
In my defence, just after I stabled the Beast earlier that evening I got a bit
flustered because as I was putting Beanie into her buggy - the 'Travelling Beanerarium’ - a large silver Mercedes
drew up very, very close to us.
“Could you be careful! There’s a little girl here,” I shouted,
pushing the buggy away as fast as I could. Unfortunately progress was slow on the uneven
cobbles of the Edinburgh New Town.
The man wound down his window and drawled in a hateful,
posh accent, as if he couldn’t be bothered if he mowed over an entire
kindergarten: “I am fully aware of that.”
Still a bit upset about that, and busy thinking up pithy rejoinders it was too late to deliver, I couldn't sleep. So instead I lay there for another half hour, keeping myself entertained by running through the
possibilities of what might happen to the poor Beast:
a) Drunken pub-goers break into car, urinate everywhere, trash her.
b) Car thieves steal the Beast and take her to Glasgow, where Lard McConnell, well-known Glaswegian crime lord and good friend of Bertie Pollock is waiting to take delivery of her
c) Insurers refuse to pay up because it was my mistake. S**t!!!!
"Va-vay," I say, quite loudly, in the darkness. "Va-vay, I think I forgot to lock the car."
The poor man gets dressed, stumbles out of the house looking half-asleep and heads back to the scene of the crime.
He returns twenty minutes later, gets undressed again, and climbs back into bed. All without saying a word.
"So, err... was it okay?" I say apologetically.
"Yes, all locked up." Within seconds he's snoring gently again.
Oh dear. A classic Irene Pollock moment.
Vote on your 'Treasured Places'
Those of you who live here in Scotland might be interested in Treasured Places, a free on-line poll to choose the country's favourite historical image. It's run by the Royal Commission on Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland , a heritage organisation that documents Scotland's past, and voting remains open until Thursday (25 Oct). The Commission is staging the vote to celebrate its 100th anniversary next year. 
Voters can choose from a hundred pictures that range from shots of the Dean Bridge, Edinburgh (top left) to Craigievar Castle, Aberdeenshire (middle left), Drum Castle, also in Aberdeenshire, (bottom left) and Elgin Cathedral in Moray. There are some gems in there, such as images of the Churchill Barrier at Scapa Flow, Abbotsford House in the Borders, the Bell Rock Lighthouse in Angus, and the Bilsland Crest from the Thistle Chapel in St Giles Cathedral. Or you can nominate your own image.
The top ten images will feature in a major centenary exhibition at the Edinburgh City Art Centre in 2008 and the winner will be celebrated by a poem written by Valerie Gillies. The winner will be announced on Saturday (27 Oct). Lest you wonder about my involvement in the project (and, please, no jokes, thank you all the same, about historical monuments/older mothers, really not in the mood), let's just say one of the organisers is a close relative of someone who comments on this site frequently. Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
Activities Edinburgh Fun Holidays Out and about Older mother
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.
Sharp exit
Sorry not to have posted in a couple of days, but I've been unwell. It came on in the second half of The Winter's Tale, just as everything in the play was looking so promising. Florizel and Perdita were off to Sicily to escape his disapproving dad, all the unpleasantness in the first half (Leontes, pictured below with Paulina, going mad and accusing poor Hermione of adultery) was in the past and things had taken a turn for the better. We even had good seats, despite finding our £13 tickets for an upper-circle box meant we could see about a quarter of the stage. An usher, summoned by Va-vay, agreed there was no view from our box worth seeing and showed us to the front of the dress circle. 
All was well, until I couldn't help noticing, really noticing the smell of a glass of red wine belonging to the woman next to me. The vapour wafted out of the plastic cup like there was super-strength alcohol in there, making my stomach churn. Someone else's perfume smelt stronger than usual. The theatre was too hot, my head started to spin and I whispered to Va-vay that I wasn't well. We beat a retreat, without seeing the 'statue' of Hermione come to life in the final scene.
The evening finished with me being sick in the car park - spattering my new suede boots purchased
in France in the process - while Va-vay paid for our parking ticket. I did get hopeful this sickness might mean I was pregnant, until Va-vay reminded me it was probably the same bug Beanie had earlier in the week. Still, at least we stuck around long enough to see Shakespeare's most famous stage direction: ''Exit,
pursued by a bear". Without wanting to snigger. As exits go, not so much less dignified than our own.
Children's bookshop opens in Edinburgh
Like all right-thinking people, Va-vay and I love bookshops; maybe it's the thrill of knowing something I find there might change my life, the studious atmosphere, the smell of paper and ink, neat rows and shelves of books. We even went to one (Borders at 120 Charing Cross Road) on a first date together. So we're delighted that Vanessa from Fidra Books is opening a shop specialising in children's books here in Edinburgh, at 219 Brunstfield Place. The shop opens on Saturday 10 November and we can't wait to spend Saturdays there browsing and buying books.
Despite being a City of Literature and home to the annual International Book Festival, Edinburgh suffers from an acute shortage of bookshops, unless you count the many charity shops in Stockbridge that sell second-hand books. Last year's closure of the much-loved Ottakers' store in George Street has left a gap in the lives of book-lovers. So news that Vanessa is opening up her store couldn't be more welcome.
While we were in France we enjoyed visting a children's bookshop in Avignon, where I ended up spending far more money than I really intended on several books, including one about a little girl called Mouflette Papillon and one of the popular Babarpapa titles. Now I'm even more excited about the Fidra bookshop opening.
Fidra Books is an independent Edinburgh-based publisher that specialises in reprinting neglected children's classics by authors including Josephine Pullein-Thompson, Elinor Lyon, KM Peyton and Victoria Walker. Vanessa, a fellow Edinburgh blogger, will also be running her publishing business from the new shop, a bit like Persephone Press does in London.
Vanessa's promised that when Fashionably Late, the book I'm writing about becoming a mum later in life, comes out, she'll have me round to her shop to do a reading for new mums and mums-to-be. I'm still at the stage of roughing out my chapter headings, but that's an incentive to keep me on track if ever I heard one.
Long before that, I'm looking forwards to the shop's launch on 10 November, when the doors open for business and Vanessa will be giving away lots of Maisie Mouse gifts to the first customers over the threshold. There will also be the chance for children to meet some of their favourite characters from books in real life.
Oh, and that's Christmas sorted then.
Edinburgh Mum
One of the lovely things about my holiday was coming home and reading the nice comments so many of you left on the site. Thanks to all who commented while I was away. It made for a great welcome home. Another holiday treat was the chance to catch up on some reading, since I went cold turkey on blogging while we were away and left the laptop at home. One of the books I enjoyed best was Alexander McCall Smith's new book The Careful Use of Compliments, the latest in the Sunday Philosophy Club series. Chosen not (just) because it's set in my native Edinburgh, but for the back-cover promise of material on the challenges of late motherhood. 
It was a surprise to find out that Isabel Dalhousie, the book's wealthy philosopher heroine, has just become a new mum. McCall Smith has always been coy on her exact age, but in previous books in the series, I imagined her to be in her 50s. Past child-bearing age, anyway. I mean, for goodness' sake! She drives a Volvo. A green Volvo. She has a housekeeper, (who does most of the child-rearing). She disapproves of her niece Cat's boyfriends and hassles her to dump them. It sounded like she belonged to a different generation to mine, and, well, I fear I'm at the outer limits of childbearing myself. So I jumped to the wrong conclusion.
At the beginning of Careful Use, McCall Smith drops a bombshell. We discover that Isabel remains disapproving of Cat's choice in men. But she has pinched one of the most attractive of the suitors, Jamie, a man 14 years her junior, for herself. And had a baby with him. A baby that arrives "under the bright lights of the Royal Infirmary." The same place where I had Beanie. Crikey!
Now, let me stress here that I am a huge fan of McCall Smith. In fact I pretty much idolise him. My good friend Iota has even suggested I could be a character in one of his books. But even so, I couldn't help feeling irritated about the (fictional) boyfriend-pinching. Part of the point about Isabel is that she's supposed to agonise with herself about right and wrong. Yet this is about the one area in her life where she doesn't bother with questioning or guilt about her behaviour. It doesn't even seem to occur to her that it might be wrong to get together with a relative's ex-partner.
Isabel's brush with motherhood comes off badly in the book, too. She gets huffy that the local mums and babies group doesn't welcome her with open arms and blames this on her decision to bottle-feed baby Charlie, after finding breast-feeding 'uncomfortable'.
McCall Smith explains: "She had been a member - briefly - of a mother and baby group in Bruntsfield and she had been given looks of disapproval by one or two of the mothers when she had revealed she was not feeding Charlie herself. Those women knew, she thought; they knew that there could be some very good reaons for it, but they could not help their zeal. And she had felt guilty, although she knew it was irrational to feel guilt for something that one could not help."
This must be testimony to McCall Smith's skills as a writer that I responded to this passage with such annoyance, as if this were real-life. I can't agree that people in mums-and-babies groups would treat Isabel like that because she wasn't breastfeeding. They might have raised an eyebrow after hearing about her copping off with a younger relative's partner. They might have wondered why the housekeeper looked after the baby, rather than Isabel.
They might also have been a bit strange towards her due to sleep deprivation since, unlike Isabel, they didn't have a housekeeper to look after their babies. And they might also have wondered about Isabel's decision to spend her baby's early months investigating fraud in the Edinburgh art world, instead of caring for the little boy. But objecting to her bottle-feeding?
Still, I agreed with McCall Smith on the subject of maternal modes of transport. "The mothers in the expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles were the worst, [Jamie] had decided. Why did they need these fuel-hungry contraptions in their urban lives? To barge their way past other, smaller cars, or to make a statement about who they were and what they had?" Judged against that, Isabel's Volvo doesn't look so bad after all.
Angst Books Breastfeeding Daughter Edinburgh Etiquette Older mother Work vs mothering
Grand finale
Beanie's playgroup reconvenes later this month in our local church, now that the Polish theatre group performing there has packed up its lorry of props, grease paint and other kit and headed south like swallows.
Come snack time this autumn, when the toddlers are feasting on slices of banana, bread sticks and raisins, it'll be nice to think the church was home for a while in this year's Fringe to a troupe of actors who saw the snack area as their performance space. The buggy park was their box office; playtime their showtime.
Judging by their press board, the group had a good season; they won lots of awards in the local and national press, and played to packed houses. Their being here in the neighbourhood lent a touch of glamour to these all-too familiar streets and made me proud to have them here.
So proud, in fact, I didn't even mind (well, not that much) when they stood outside on the streets smoking roll-up cigarettes and looking blank when I asked (politely!) if they could let me get the buggy past. They looked so young, in their uniform black jeans and jumpers. Ah me!
All the other actors, comedians, authors, musicians and film-makers who have made Edinburgh such a fun place to be in August have also packed up for another year. Last night marked the finale to the Edinburgh International Festival, with the Bank of Scotland Fireworks Concert (pictured) that Va-vay and I were lucky enough to be able to watch from our sitting-room window.
There are lots of good things about the end of the Festival. Easier to get a table in cafes. Freedom to walk through town without reluctantly accepting a dozen cards for shows I have no intention of seeing. No feeling bad that performers put their heart into this event, and yet so many Fringe shows attract an audience not much out of single figures. Fewer posters of needy, identikit comedians.
But when I saw workmen dismantling the marquees for the Edinburgh International Book Festival in Charlotte Square I couldn't help but suffer a small pang of loss.
The Book Festival was fantastic; I travelled back to fourteenth century England when Simon Armitage spoke about his translation of Gawain, wished I had half the talent of Kitty Aldridge and Esther Freud, who spoke together about their new novels, felt I learn more in an hour at a wonderful creative writing class by Kate Mosse and Greg Mosse than I've done in a term at other classes and was scared stiff by Ian McEwan in conversation with Ian Rankin (so much so that afterwards I sprinted across the rain-logged lawn to locate Beanie and be sure she was still safe).
I delved into the hidden world of obstetrics at a talk from Janice Galloway and Alan Warner, imagined myself travelling the silk road with Colin Thubron and braved Arctic ice with Benedict Allen. Closer to home, I was entertained by Antonia Swinson's uplifting stories of life on her Edinburgh allotment. It's been inspiring and magical by equal turn. So while it's good to have playgroup back, I'll see it with different eyes after this summer.
Becoming a Mother
Enjoyed hearing Kate Mosse, the author, that is, not the supermodel, speak at the Edinburgh Book Festival earlier this week. Mosse wrote the excellent Becoming a Mother at the start of her writing career, before becoming an international best-seller with her novel Labyrinth. Becoming a Mother is a wonderful book, deceptively simple yet powerful, that helped launch Mosse's fiction writing. And it's helped me immensely too, lifting the guilt and grief I've been struggling with since a miscarriage in May.
Reading Becoming a Mother, I'm reminded of that famous line from Alan Bennett in The History Boys, about how we read books to find that hand stretching out through the darkness to take ours. Bennett's referring to the joy and relief of finding a kindred spirit on the written page, meeting someone who's experienced the same feelings as ourselves when we thought we were alone in them.
Unlike most of the many books I've read on pregnancy and childcare this book doesn't judge any of the ordinary women who feature in it. Instead it tells their stories, starting from the decision to try for a baby through to the early days caring for a newborn. Without preaching or pedantry. Not once does she lay claim to being an expert. Not once does she lay down the law.
Mosse manages to get inside women's heads, and gives voice to many of the conflicting emotions we feel. She understands the rollercoaster of ovulation kits and pregnancy tests, the obsessive weeing on sticks, the running to the loo to check for bleeding every twenty minutes.
On the subject of miscarriage, Mosse quotes one woman unlucky enough to suffer this experience saying:
"I know it is better to lose an abnormal baby - but the loss coincides with the ambivalent feelings you have at the start of the pregnancy. Half-feeling it was a bad idea - even if the pregnancy was planned - just makes you feel guilt when you do miscarry."
That's exactly how I felt when I had a miscarriage in May and I blamed myself for having felt daunted by the prospect of looking after two babies, both of them under two. I thought the new baby must have sensed my ambivalence and thought better of joining us, but couldn't admit this to anyone. Somehow reading that other women have felt the same way has helped me see it's ridiculous to torment myself like this.
Bad mother
It's a tricky business, being a mum and an individual. This morning I did something bold and daring, something few mums dare to do - I did something for myself. It wasn't easy, but I persevered, despite all my torment and guilt.
My first crime: taking the phone from my daughter so I could make the necessary calls.
An attempt to placate Beanie by offering her the TV remote control fails.
She simply gives me a look that said: "I'm no fool, you know. I see straight through you. I know you're trying to fob me off with some silly pretend phone."
I feel crushed, though no words have been said.
I remember how only an hour or so earlier she kicked her legs in delight when I fetched her out of her cot and beamed her best smile at me, how she laughed and smiled so readily at me when I played peek-a-boo from behind the shower curtain, how she tried to feed me some of her breakfast, even though I had my own toast and marmalade.
But I really, really need the phone to book some tickets for a couple of Festival events this evening.
I make the call and all hell starts to break loose. Not only have I stolen Beanie's favourite toy, but (my second crime) I am ignoring her and I think she might have also sensed my longer-term objective (third crime) of planning an evening out on my own while her dad babysits.
At first I hope she might settle down after a few minutes. Fat chance.
An attempt to buy on-line doesn't work any better and the computer freezes as I go to click 'submit'. By now tears are rolling down Beanie's face, and I feel like the worst mother in the world as I fight my own rising hysteria.
The guilt's almost unbearable and I force myself to remember how when I was pregnant I was so sick with nausea and joint pain I managed to go out roughly four times in the entire nine months. One of those occasions was an ill-fated trip to the Edinburgh Tattoo, which ended in me throwing up outside the Castle under the wary gaze of a soldier armed with a machine gun.
Someone once told me: 'The healthy mother takes time for herself'. Why can't I believe that's true?
Intermittent shrieking has intensified into one long wail, punctuated only with heart-wrending pauses to draw breath. Only ten minutes have passed, but it feels like eternity.
The computer creaks back to life. 'Your order is confirmed' flashes up on screen. Just as this happens a human being speaks to me on the phone. At least, I think it's a human being, though Beanie's screaming so hard it's difficult to be sure.
Then my brain clears and at last I know what to do. I pick up my daughter, cuddle her close to me and listen to her heaving sobs subside.
Will my guilt lend an extra piquancy to the festival events? Or will I sit there kicking myself for being so selfish? Who knows. She's sleeping now, as I write this. When she wakes up I'll give her my undivided attention - all afternoon.
Angst Books Childcare Daughter Edinburgh Festival Guilt Out and about
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.
Daughter Etiquette Friends Books Edinburgh Festival Out and about
Blog Fest
Guineapigmum, Erica from Littlemummy and I all met for a successful coffee and chat yesterday at one of my favourite childhood haunts, Victor Hugo's delicatessen, after Guineapigmum noticed a jokey comment here about setting up a Blog Fest to run alongside the several other festivals in Edinburgh in August and suggested we meet up.
Erica and I already know each other; we have children almost the same age, and have enjoyed meeting up a couple of times in the Botanic Gardens to chat about blogging and the delights (or challenges) of looking after our toddlers. Guineapigmum and I have swapped comments on each others' sites, but yesterday was the first time we met in person, and I'm glad to say we all had a good time chatting about the important things in life - like being mums, our children and blogging - before taking the younger children over to the swing park together.
It was great to meet up in person, encourage each other, swap tips and find out how we all make time to write postings while working and looking after families (I'm writing this as Beanie has her mid-morning nap, and the sound of her coughing means I'll have to end soon). Many thanks to Guineapigmum for taking the initiative to suggest it.
Yesterday made us all think it'd be great to get more of us bloggers together more frequently. Who knows? Perhaps in time we'll have a proper blog fest - and get to meet in
person lots of lovely fellow bloggers from around the country! Keep an eye