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Granny
Teaching my daughter to cook
Granny arrives out of breath. She has climbed two flights of stairs. In her waterproof coat is a pamphlet of recipes. She hands it to me with a look of significance in her eyes.
It is a 1930's edition of Be-Ro Home Recipes, familiar from my own childhood. This book belonged first to Granny's mother, then to Granny, and now, so it seems, to me. From mother to daughter, over the generations.
Link to the past
Splotches cover the browning print. It feels like a precious link to the past, almost too precious to risk in the kitchen. I am to use it to teach my daughters to make scones, just as my mother used it to teach me.
"Good home baking is something to be proud of," states the author, in blissful ignorance of the decades to come when so many women would disagree with that statement.
What is a puff ball?
Its black and white pages are testimony to a vanished world of more than just sponge castles, eve puddings and puff balls (whatever they might be). Although these forgotten confections feature plentifully among the recipes.
It harks back to a world with values different to our own. One where little girls dreamt of learning to cook for their families, a world of simplicity and decency. Where nobody grew up aspiring to be a pop star fairy.
Jurassic Age
As I open the book, it feels like stepping back in time, to a place without Marks & Spencer ready meals, take-aways and out-of-town supermarkets.
"The woman who can cook well and bake well has every reason and every right to be proud of her cooking," says the author. "In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred she has a happy home, because good cooking means good food and good food means good health." Easy to laugh at, yes, but any nutritionist would confirm the truth in these simple words.
Girls only
Only female cooks feature in Be-Ro Home recipes. And only female offspring. Neither men nor boys cook themselves, but they figure occasionally as consumers of tempting delicacies.
In the section "Teach your daughters to cook" it states: "The mother who allows her little daughters to 'help her' in the kitchen on baking days may find them somewhat of a nuisance at first, but if she will only encourage them by kindly and patient example to learn the rudiments of cooking, they will become a great comfort and help to her when they grow older."
Homes of their own
Also, says the author: "They will learn one of the most important sections of homecraft, in preparation for the great day when they themselves will have homes of their own."
An insert in the title page, no doubt added after the outbreak of war, tells women how to adjust recipes for World War Two rationing. "Although a pre-war publication, these recipes are economical and suitable for present recipes. Good results are obtainable with dried eggs and dried milk."
Effect of rationing
It continues: "As National Flour varies in its capacity to absorb moisture, a little more or a little less liquid than stated may be desirable. Owing to rationing, many ladies prefer to use only half the quantities."
Granny brought me the book to help me with a cooking demonstration at Beanie's school later this week. Leafing through its pages, I felt a sadness at the vanished world of simplicity and decency these recipes represent.
Nostalgia
The world where you saved the last potato for the next day, where you made do, where you showed love by baking food. Sexist? Yes, certainly, at least judged by today's standards. But it cannot be so very wrong to take pride in learning how to feed our families.
Apple a day
Friday was one of those glorious autumn days when much-discussed hopes of an Indian summer finally materialised, so it seemed only right to indulge in a spot of apple picking in Granny's back garden. After all, the sun was shining and ripe apples were - quite literally - dropping about our feet in what felt like a series of Keatsian moments. It would have been a shame to let all that lovely fruit - and ambience - go to waste.
I began by picking fruit with my hands from the lower branches, being careful, of course, not to get mud on my new sheepskin boots while stretching across flower beds. Then I moved on to a clothes pole, which proved just the thing for knocking fruit down from higher branches. Granny sensibly removed Button to a place of safety as apples tumbled down around us. Not so much clothes pole as mediaeval jousting spear.
In no time at all, we filled up two large plastic bags with the cookers, easy to forget how much bigger they are than eating apples. Granny brought out more bags; we filled those too.
That evening, back home, we feasted on baked apples, stuffed with raisins, honey and cinnamon. Topped off with a tin of custard. I love eating in tune with the seasons, I am the most die-hard townie, but that makes me feel more in harmony with nature.
The next day I gouged, cut, cored, peeled, quartered, sugared and boiled about twenty more apples. Husband Va-vay even made a special trip to the shops to buy more plastic tubs for freezing the apple puree.
Oh, the satisfaction of a job well done. The pleasure of packing away rows of small boxes, each with their freezer-proof label stating date and contents. A proud moment, if I might be allowed to say so.
Granny rang on Sunday evening to enquire about the apples.
"How did you get on?" she asked.
"Pretty well," I said. "I've done a big batch of them."
Then she popped round on Monday morning and looked round the kitchen.
"I thought you said you'd done a big batch of apples," she said.
"I did," I told her, trying not to sound hurt. "I made a tonne of puree and we've been baking them too."
"What are all these, then?" she said, pointing to half a dozen repurposed plant pots, scattered around the kitchen, each one of them packed with apples.
"Those are the rest of them."
"Ah," said Granny. "Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. They used to keep cookers until Christmas."
Button Daughters Edinburgh Food Fun Granny Health Home Out and about
Have your cake
I was stood at the kitchen table, wearing one of Beanie's aprons, when
the treacle tin exploded. I had warmed the treacle in the oven's bottom
shelf, as instructed, so it would mix more easily into the flour,
sugar, fat, spices and fruit. Unfortunately, after putting the treacle
inside the oven, I forgot all about it and left it too long. By the
time we needed treacle, the tin was so hot I had to use gloves to
remove it from the oven. I carried it over to the table and put it
down. It was then I made my big mistake; using a fork I prised the lid
open. Hot, black gloop spurted out like lava from a volcano, bubbling
up uncontrollably over the oven gloves, the table and the cake mixture.
The explosion left a layer of caramelised tarmac over the recipe,
preserving it like a relic from the Cretaceous Period. A sticky, sweet-smelling relic.
Despite this set-back, making the Christmas cake (well, two of them,
actually, as we made an extra one for Granny) was a delight; the flat
was filled all weekend with that evocative smell of baking fruit,
nutmeg and cinnamon. The cakes are now packed away tightly in tins,
wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper to marinate for three months.
The plan is to feed them with brandy at intervals before December 25,
dripping alcohol in via holes made by knitting needles. Cake-making: an
honourable exception to the evil of premature Christmas preparations,
worth braving exploding treacle tins for any day.
Days of your life
We had a blessing at our local church, St George's West in Edinburgh, on Sunday for Beanie and Button. The church pulled out all the stops for us - printing the order of service sheets in pink, in honour of the girls, placing pink carnations around the hall, presenting both girls with candles and small wooden camels as a reminder of their special day. We took the special christening cake along to the church for a little party afterwards. And sparkling wine too. Everyone there has made us feel so welcome over the last months. The lovely, kind people from the church helped me cut the cake and passed it out to the family and friends who had come to help celebrate, some of them making the journey from the south. It was a wonderful day. Tears came to my eyes when the wonderful minister said the bit: "May God bless you and keep you safe all the days of your life" and I haven't been able to get the phrase "days of your life" out of my head ever since. Younger daughter Button wore my old christening gown, which her Granny had kept safe for so many years. It fitted her perfectly, and I still get a thrill of happiness just thinking about us both wearing the same dress while going through that same rite of passage.
And although it was - officially - the girls who were being blessed on Sunday, as I stood at the altar, holding one daughter in my arms, the other by the hand, I felt blessed too.
Singing to the Sun
As any mother or father knows, parenting is a series of milestones (first smile, first day at nursery, first taste of baby rice, first time they say 'no') and one of the more momentous is steeling yourself to leave a new(ish) baby with a babysitter for the first time. Last week I ventured out to the launch party at the Children's Bookshop for Vivian French's new book Singing to the Sun, leaving my mother with a bottle of milk I had "expressed" earlier for the baby and instructions to get both girls to bed at a reasonable time. "Will I get a row [Scottish for 'get into trouble'] if you get home and they've neither of them settled?" she asked me. "Just do your best, Mum," I said, skipping out the door, giddy with freedom and guilt. "The milk's in the fridge. I'll be on the mobile. Call me if you need us to come home early." It's no exaggeration to say almost every minute of the party was a pleasure, possible because Singing to the Sun is a real delight: the fairytale, illustrated by Jackie Morris, tells of a young man growing up in an aristocratic household, devoid of love, who must choose a bride from three princesses, each of whom represent wealth, power and love. So far, so familiar, but the story is bold and subtle enough to depart from the usual format, presenting readers with an unusual twist at the end. I won't spoil it for you by revealing what happens, but I was delighted to stumble on a children's book that gently challenges some of our ideas about courtship and marriage - and chuffed that Vivian French signed a copy for both our girls. All went well, until, speeches over, cake cut, canapes consumed, the mobile went. "They've both woken up," said Granny, almost shouting to make herself heard over the backdrop of wakeful toddler and baby. "They're not settling," she added, in an unnecessary postscript. Back home it was bedlam. Beanie, wan with exhaustion, was jumping up and down in her cot shouting: "Don't want to go to sleep" and singing Ba-Ba Pink (yes, no mistake) Sheep in an apparent (but sadly futile) attempt to soothe her little sister to sleep. Baby was casting what seemed to be pleading looks in my direction, as if imploring me to step in and end the aural torment. Granny fled the scene, leaving reading glasses, Sudoko book and her mobile at our place. "It wasn't like this all the time, you know," she said defiantly, before heading home, as if to pre-empt criticism, though I'd said nothing. "They were fine for a couple of hours. I called you as soon as it got like this." Ah well. Poor Granny.
Toodle pip
Less than two weeks to go until the baby's due date, and I'm taking a short break from blogging. It's so I can concentrate on the essential stuff - like lying here on the sofa, knitting teddy bears, going through Beanie's wardrobe to sort out clothes for the new baby, working on my husband to persuade him of my choice of baby names, drinking tea and annoying friends at work by phoning up for long chats. The outside world has become a scary and exotic place, since I'm more or less house-bound these days. Even a trip to the end of the road has become quite an undertaking. Husband gets worried if I suggest going out on my own, after I collapsed outside our local library last week and had to be rescued by Beanie's granny, who scooped me up in a taxi to take me home. Then I ended up in hospital on a drip a few days ago, where the medics advised rest. So, I'm trying to scale back commitments wherever I can. Blogging's become a bit of an addiction, so it'll probably do me good anyway to take a break for a while. It's not for ever; I plan on being back in the autumn, when things should be getting back to normal. Any other new or expectant mums reading this, best of luck to you all. I'll be thinking of you. And I'll ask my husband to post about developments with me and our baby as and when they happen.
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.
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.
Oops, let's do it again
Lynne Spears, mother of beleaguered pop princess Britney, is to write a book about 'her role as a showbiz family matriarch' Bit cheeky, when she and Britney weren't speaking to each other until recently. But hey, that's showbiz, or at least my limited experience of it.
Lynne's publisher specialises in Christian books, which could make it tricky when dealing with some aspects of Britney's life. But, more importantly, the news has made me wonder if I haven't missed a trick or two with Beanie's granny.
After all, if Lynne can turn out 'Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World' and there's a new publishing trend for Granny Memoirs, perhaps Beanie's granny could be prised away from her Sudoko and gently encouraged to write a book. Okay, we're not very glamorous or well-known but we could work round that, surely?
And, okay, there might be less rock 'n' roll here than in the Spears household (well, none at all) but I can see it now: "The Biscuit Memoirs: A Real Story of Confectionery and Crime in the Food Aisle at Waitrose."
There might be some shocking revelations: how Granny allows Beanie to play inside the dishwasher, in defiance of parental edicts on the subject. How she's trained Beanie to empty out the contents of every handbag within fifty paces. How the two of them have bonded over their dental problems - while Granny's new false teeth are giving her trouble, Beanie's new (real) incisors are having difficulty coming in. Oh, the possibilities are endless....
Granny footsteps
Here's a little-known advantage to having children later in life. One that's been under my nose for months, but that I've only now noticed. By accident, really. Revelation strikes on the way back from Waitrose. Around tea-time. After we miss our bus. The way these things so often do.
"So what's it like, mum, waiting till 67 to have your first grandchild?" I ask Granny.
The state Granny is in, I half-expect her to say: "Awful. I'm too old and knackered to run after a toddler. Couldn't you have got yourself a decent feller ten years ago?" Not that I in any way feel like this myself, you must understand.
I'm expecting this response because, after all, we've just left the supermarket. The same supermarket where last week she volunteered to go back and pay for a tub of half-fat fromage frais her seventeen-month grandaughter had somehow, a day earlier, managed to half-inch from the shelves, without Granny noticing, and hide in her buggy. When the offending item was discovered, to great consternation, Granny insisted on returning to the scene of the crime to confess and pay up. So important to instill honesty early.....
Granny's finger is bleeding from a fumbled attempt to strap Beanie into her chariot. Flustered fingers, the arched back of protest, a nippy buckle....
She is also carrying two bags of my shopping (let me just say here I am carrying the other two and pushing the buggy, lest you conclude I'm a complete slacker). Her face is lopsided after a trip to the dentist to remove one of her last four remaining teeth. The rest go next week: it's a poignant time. And she is perspiring in the sunshine with her efforts.
But she doesn't say what I expected. She doesn't even hesitate.
"Brrrrrrilliant!"
She becomes more Yorkshire in emphasis. Her ruddy face and terrible teeth crack into a huge smile.
"It would have been just the same if it had happened ten years ago, mind."
Then she stops, corrects herself.
"No, it wouldn't have been as good ten years ago. I wouldn't have been retired and able to spend all this time with you and Beanie."
It's unimaginable. If Granny were still working, Beanie would never have met all the biscuit-buying old ladies in the supermarket who greet her like an old friend. She wouldn't have all the love and attention of her granny, a lady for whom the word 'besotted' barely describes the intensity of her love for Beanie. No getting to rampage around Granny's garden, enjoying the honeysuckle, no entertaining hours spent unloading and loading the contents of Granny's handbag onto the kitchen floor... the thought of Granny unavailable for larks and jollity is grim; grim in the extreme.
As for me, how would I have got through the long days of caring for Beanie on my own? I know lots of women do. But communication can be tough with someone whose only phrases are 'neh, neh, neh", "ping" and "bah-bah". Don't get me wrong; I adore Beanie, I'm so proud of her. She has an excellent sense of fun, she's loving and outgoing. My love for her is huge and overwhelming. I feel I'd give my life for her if need be. She's the most amazing, precious thing ever to happen to me. Sometimes, though, it just lightens the load to have another person there, to keep an eye out for her while I do boring domestic stuff, make her feel special and loved.
Granny has taken to being a grandmother with such glee and good grace, she even consented to read a book I bought her, The Good Granny Guide by Jane Fearnley-Whittingstall, accepting it with scarcely more than a grumpy 'hrummph' sound in mild protest that suggested one as experienced as she could have no need of such advice. And she acts on some of the suggestions too. Greater love hath no granny than this; to read something suspiciously close to the self-help books her generation disdains, to accept advice from a stranger on the business of how to be her.
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.
Daughters Dilemmas Edinburgh Etiquette Granny Out and about Domestic chaos Fun
These shoes
Granny and I have been vying for weeks for the honour of buying The Bean her first proper pair of grown-up shoes. You know, actually paying for them, actually handing over the debit card to buy them. Having that thrill of being a part of this landmark in The Bean's personal history, facilitating her first steps into the world. So that in years to come, when's she's probably owned more shoes than she'll ever remember, one or other of us will have that distinction of purchasing that first, most special, pair.
Then last week I discovered that Granny has found a lump. Near one of her breasts.
I discovered this only by accident. I wasn't "meant to know". She didn't want me fretting. "You've got enough to worry about. With the baby..." She means the one I lost, though does not like to say so. Fussing hands, no eye contact.
My dad blurted it out by mistake when I rang. "She's not here. She's at the hospital." Hospital? The ice-cold dread trickles down my chest.
We spend five days waiting for the results. On Monday it's good news from the doctors. Though even Granny, normally resolute and chipper, looks shaken by her experiences when I see her the following day.
There's no question about who'll buy the shoes now, I know, and seeing the pleasure on her face today as we inspect rows of buckled shoes for The Bean is something I hope to remember for a long time.
The only other time I've ever seen her as happy is dancing round my kitchen with her grandaughter in her arms, singing The Blue Danube tunelessly, a look of joyful contentment on her face that made me, too, happier than I can remember.
In the event, The Bean is initially a little scared of the foot measuring device the young male assistant wields at her. But she consents to play along long enough for us to deduce her size. By the time she tries on a pair of white sandals, made from interlocking leather flowers, she is enjoying herself so much she shrieks when I try to take them off. Eventually we settle on a pair of beflowered pink shoes.
When we get home we hurry to show our purchase to Va-vay. For reasons I'll explain, I'm particularly keen to see his reaction to our daughter's first pair of shoes.
On one of our first afternoons together, back when I still lived in London, we were walking along Oxford Street. Normally I hated the place, yet even the grotty pigeons, cheap tourist tat and street stalls seemed romantic that October day, because I was with him.
Va-vay, who has very large feet, said in an embarrassed way: "If you want a laugh, we can go into a shoe shop and watch their faces when I ask for a pair of size 14 shoes." He sounded so apologetic about his big feet, something in my heart went out to him. I loved him so much more for that moment of vulnerability, than for all his competence and cleverness.
One day The Bean will probably have big feet, both Va-vay and I being tall. But as I think you'll agree, looking at this photo, she's got someway to go before she can rival her dad.
An older woman
As some of you know, I am an older first-time mum. I had The Bean at the grand old age of 38 - which in medical parlance made me a senile primagravida. Oooh, how attractive does that sound..... like an elderly gorilla with dementia. But I never really felt old until I started going to mums and babies groups, where everyone else looked so young. And no, I'm not just talking about the babies.
A lot about being an L Plates mum seems to be the same whatever age you are. I've sat down to write about the differences in being an older first-timer and am racking my brains to think of any. This is what I've thought of so far:
1. Like any minority group, we older first-timers tend to band together for protection. One friend said early on in our friendship she wanted me as her friend to be able to prove to her child when he was older that he wasn't the only one to have an 'older' mum. We've agreed that at the school gates we'll be pointing to each other, telling our respective children: "See! You're not the the only one who's got an uncool mum! Look, Johnny's mum got her bus pass last week too."
2. Acceptance of restrictions. I don't think I minded staying in every night for about a year after my daughter was born as much as some of the younger mums. Now this really is showing my age, but when I was younger I did my share of partying. So nights in with The Bean, Va-vay (as she now calls her dad) and the breastfeeding pillow were fine by me. Tiring, but fine.
3. After being with The Bean all day not only did Va-vay's face look monstrously large in comparison on our pillows, when we collapsed into bed at 9.30pm, but my own looked like the withered mask of an old woman when I looked in the mirror.
4. Pressure to procreate. I met Va-vay only when I was nearly 36. Most inefficient of me, as he keeps telling me. We had a short interlude of doing nice stuff like strolling through the countryside, going to the theatre and having foreign holidays. But it's no exaggeration to say it's been serious reproduction pretty much all the way ever since. No! Not like that...
I've either been pregnant or breastfeeding for most of the time we've been together.
Still, maybe I should just count my blessings... after my miscarriage in May I'm so very glad we started a family straightaway. The Bean arrived a few days before our first wedding anniversary. Having her with us is all that really matters.
5. A sense of mild, but residual embarrassment that I crossed some kind of finishing-line years later than most of my peers.
6. Disbelief any of this is happening. I spent so many years on my own, or in bad relationships, I can't believe I'm a happily-married mother. Well, Va-vay and I argue sometimes.... but even so.
7. I feel like a kid myself next to women of the same age, most of whom have children much older than The Bean.
8. Sometimes I find myself calculating how much longer Granny, Va-vay and I'll be around to pester The Bean with offers of breadsticks, milk, payment of nursery fees, or similar. Hmmm... must break morbid habit.
9. Shock at cynical commercial targeting of babies!!! When did the marketing departments get their hands on baby products? Back in '67 we babies didn't have branding. We didn't even have animal pictures on our towelling nappies. The best we could hope for was Tommee Tippee on our potties come the advent of toilet training (which as my mother never tires of telling me, often in front of Va-vay, happened when I was 13 months old). Sorry. Too much information...
What do you all think? Does it make a difference how old a mum is when she has her first baby?
I don't know enough about the medical or physical side of
things to write about that. Also, it should go without saying, but I'm writing about personal experience here. Obviously these
things vary according to different individuals.
Extreme childcare
I'm no great fan of posh gel Katie Hopkins from the BBC programme The Apprentice, though bless her, anyone who behaves like that must surely have "issues", but even I cringed at her grilling last week on television on the old chestnut of childcare arrangements for her two young daughters. I suspect we've now probably all heard enough about poor old Katie, who might not have got the apprenticeship but has assuredly been appointed pantomime villain to the nation.
But it got me thinking about "help" with childcare again, what's acceptable, what's not. At least Katie appeared to be living with her children, who were looked after by herself and other family. You can't say as much for every mother of young children. I know of one Edinburgh "mum" who spends four days a week working in the City of London, while a team of nannies looks after her little girl back here in Scotland, ferrying her to and from school, ballet lessons, tea parties etc, organising after-school. Some couples employ "night" and "weekend" nannies. And all this is before the kids become old enough for boarding school - the other big parental cop-out. Of course I love nothing better than getting on my moral high-horse and being all judgemental about other people's parenting. I only do it so I won't feel so bad about daughter's twice-weekly time at nursery, and one day with her reprobate Granny.
Escape to the hills
J and I escaped to the hills today while K stayed at home ransacking her Granny's handbag. We have beautiful hills practically on our doorstep - half an hour's drive took us to the foot of the Pentlands - but usually by the weekend we're too exhausted to go anywhere much.
We parked below Swanston village, found the stony track as instructed in the wonderful Cicerone The Pentland Hills: A Walker's Guide and followed the signpost for Allermuir Hill, barely visible through its carapace of heavy mist. Robert Louis Stevenson, who grew up not far from where we live, also used to walk these hills, which was why we chose this route.
Out of breath, we struggled up the hillside past picturesque thatched whitewashed cottages, through kissing gates, before reaching open ground covered with thick, prickly yellow gorse, and pausing to pick some lucky heather. After I gave my last piece away to a sick friend, I had a miscarriage, so this walk was partly to replenish supplies. I don't think it was a good omen that I had to tug really hard at the stuff, which was oozing sap, before some came away in my hand and I could store it in a special heather-guarding pouch in my rucksack.
Home working: 10 drawbacks
Much as I hate to use this dreadful terminology, I joined the ranks of 'WAHMs', or 'Work at Home Mums', when Katie reached ten months. Before that I was a full-time 'SAHM' (Stay at Home Mum), though I didn't even know it at the time - it's only since I got back to work and had a chance to waste time browsing the net I found out all these new terms. The first six months looking after Katie I didn't miss work at all. Then my friends starting going back to work, one by one, and I got lonely.
Often when I'm talking to people about my work (journalism), they say something encouraging about how it must be easy to do that from home, combining it with looking after the baby. Well, it's not.
In my experience, the reality is that homeworking is really only for people with iron self-discipline, who are motivated and well-organised and aware of the drawbacks as well as the benefits. I am not one of those people.
Listed below are some of the things to bear in mind if you're thinking of becoming a work-at-home-parent. Most are based on personal experience, some from talking with other parents who live, work, eat and sleep in the same small flat.
Today I've written about some of the disadvantages to being a 'WAHM'.
It's not all doom and gloom. There are very real upsides to working this way. Please visit the site tomorrow, to read about the benefits to young parents of working this way.
DRAWBACKS TO BEING A 'WAHM'
1. Don't be deceived into thinking you'll spend more time with your children this way.
You won't. You still have to organise proper childcare for them. Anything else, and you're shortchanging yourself, your clients and them.
2. Home-based childcare will make it impossible to focus on your work
If you choose home-based childcare (for example Granny or childminder coming to your home), you'll find it hard to knuckle down while your children are playing next door.
3. Sleepy head. Just had lunch? Feeling like a little nap?
I'll put my head down for ten minutes. Oops. The afternoon just slid away again. All those hours gone, taken up with what was meant to be a short snooze. And no work to show for it at the end.
4. You may think you're only working two days, but will your clients and contacts?
Once, an all-important contact I was chasing like mad at the start of the week called back unexpectedly a few days later at the nadir, nay, the very trough of my day - Katie's supper-time.
6. You get landed with most of the housework
I'm really lucky in that my husband more than pulls his weight around the house. But being at home all day, I still end up loading, unloading dishwashers, vacuuming, cleaning away dishes, wiping worktops, and doing the endless laundry. As soon as I've done it, it all needs doing again. And it's so very, very dull.
7. Lack of company
It's lonely, being at home on my own all day. Chatting to the postman and the old lady two doors down doesn't fill the gap. Even my husband starts winding up phone conversations after ten or 15 minutes. It's why I've turned to blogging. You start to fall behind professionally, as well, if you're not in offices where you can keep up with latest ways of doing things.
8. You've got to have real self-discipline to get through the work
Otherwise the lure of the biscuit tin will get me every time. I falter and stumble, but have to keep things together because I need the work.
9. I can't appreciate my home anymore, it's also my place of work
I spend too much time here. I notice every piece of dirt, every crumb. I need to go on holiday before I can enjoy where I live again. Home's stopped being a retreat.
10. It's hard to draw a line under the end of each day.
Is it obsessive-compulsive to check emails at midnight?
Daughters Food Granny Home Husband Play Pregnancy Work Home working
More on childcare options... today, Granny to the rescue
As I mentioned in an earlier posting, apparently "have-it-all" mums are shunning nurseries
that could damage their children's development and staying home to look
after their kids. Ideally, of course, some newspapers would rather we
women spent our entire reproductive
years pregnant and/or barefoot in the kitchen.
Given we live in a less-than-ideal world, in which many of us do some
sort of balancing act between work and family, while trying our utmost
to do the best for our children, I've decided to write some more about
the childcare options available to working mums, or at least my
personal experience of them.
Today, Granny to the rescue.
Granny often looks
after my daughter one or two days a week while I work, sometimes at
home, other times in an office. The arrangement generally works well
for all concerned, with big benefits all round. My daughter also goes
to nursery twice weekly.
Things to know about childcare from Granny
1. Parenting takes stamina - lots of it - and grandparents tire easily
Granny would never admit this, but she is shattered by the
end of a day chasing after her beloved grandaughter. I only found out
how bad it was when I rang her one evening around 8.30pm after she'd
gone home from a day looking after K, only for my father to tell me
she'd gone to bed "early". I felt terrible.
2. Your child can do NO wrong in Granny's eyes
My daughter has filched Granny's OAP bus pass while rifling through
her handbag, somehow lost her mobile, and scrunched up precious family
photos Granny carries everywhere in her Sudoko book. Does Granny care?
3. Seeing the bond develop between Granny and K - heart-warming
K kicks her legs with delight when she sees Granny coming up the
stairs to see her, while Granny's had a new lease of life since K
arrived 13 months ago. They get on extremely well and it's been one of
the best things about having a child, seeing the bond between them
strengthen and grow.
4. K's biscuit consumption increases while Granny is around. So does mine.
Granny believes a little treat now and then never hurt anyone.
5. Like any veteran of terry towelling, Granny believes in 10 or 12 daily nappy changes
Don't suppose it can do any harm. Granny often brings round packs
of nappies. "Bulky for you to carry!" she says. "Let me bring these
over in the car."
6. Limited interaction for K with other babies - or "tweenies"
But lots of admiration from the other old ladies Granny seems to
meet while out and about buying biscuits. Doesn't matter so much to us,
because K is with other children at nursery twice weekly.
7. Hard to concentrate while working at home if K and Granny larking
about in kitchen, often playing "Let's empty Granny's handbag".
It always sounds like so much fun in the kitchen, I get distracted.
Not difficult, admittedly, given my scatter-brain head. Usually, they
end up going for a walk. In which they stop off at the shops to buy,
guess what? More biscuits.
8. The voice of experience.
In terms of childcare, Granny's been there, done it, and got two adult children to prove it.
Okay, her generation doesn't have our hang-ups about organic food,
breastfeeding and Gina Ford. They did things differently, for example
parking their babies at the bottom of the garden.
They didn't have post-natal groups for support and company; their men
weren't expected to help out like our partners do, and they seem to
have spent all day washing nappies years before anyone got extra
brownie points for being environmentally friendly with "real" nappies.
But the fact is, Granny knows what she's doing when it comes to looking after a small child.
9. My daughter gets one-to-one attention, all day long, from someone who loves her
Which is both good, and maybe not-so-good, depending on which survey you read at the time.
10. Nursery get exasperated if I keep bothering them to check K's okay.
Whereas Granny and K will happily blow bubbles and coo down the
phone, (yes, both of them) whenever I call home. Just as long as it's
not on Granny's mobile, (please see No. 2).
11. In a crisis, Granny'll drop everything, even the golf
championship match where she's hoping to improve her handicap, and come
round to help
When my husband and I were both ill over Christmas (remember the Winter Vomiting Virus?) she helped out - big time.
12. Granny would never expect remuneration for all the work she does
She does it out of love. Err, maybe that's cheesy, but it's kind of how it is.
Things my daughter prefers to "real" toys
Socks
Shoes (her own and other people's)
The Voice-over IP phoneset
Toilet paper - preferably shredding it into tiny pieces. Given
half a chance, she'd go for the used variety too. These days I keep the
lid shut as much as possible.
Handbags
Bins
Receptacles and containers of all kinds
2006-2007 tax returns
Granny's Sudoko book
Shame of shunning breastfeeding mother
Unpleasant lesson in karma. I'll think twice now before being uppity
about sitting next to mothers and babies in restaurants. This started a
few days ago when I went for anniversary lunch with my husband but sans
baby. To my horror, the waiters wanted to sit us next to a
breastfeeding mum and baby. Without even thinking about it, I asked for
a different table.
Yesterday Granny, K and I repaired to our favourite restaurant, Pizza
Express in Stockbridge, which overlooks the Waters of Leith. It's full
of children sat in high chairs, tearing round the tables, popping
balloons. For the first time this year, we braved the outdoor terrace
and were enjoying the spring sunshine as I fed K her bottle.
A couple appeared, who were offered the empty neighbouring table to us,
that sheltered under the same blue parasol as ours. But all was not
well. Whispered conversations ensued. Gucci Loafers and his
iron-helmeted female companion gestured to the other side of the
terrace. No words were needed. It was obvious what they were thinking:
they didn't want to be next to a noisy baby.
Avoiding all eye contact with me, GL pushed his too-long hair out of
his face with a self-conscious gesture, pulled his pristine blouson
leather jacket tighter around him and followed the Iron Maiden to the
other end of the terrace. I could almost hear the jangling of shoe
buckles as he went.
I couldn't understand why anybody, even those two, wouldn't want to sit
close to K as she had her milk. Frankly, I was hurt. Then I remembered
how I felt only a few days earlier, when I wanted a break from it all,
without any reminders, though something about GL suggested he might not
be much of a family man, that his motivation was rather different.
Somewhere in the flat, in the back of a drawer,
is a breastfeeding bracelet I bought from the NCT last
summer, at the
zenith of my breastfeeding days, to show solidarity. Sisters, I no
longer deserve to wear that bracelet. Now I have an inkling of how that
breastfeeding mum, no doubt already beleaguered, might have felt when I
asked for a table well away from her. One possible saving grace: so
many breastfeeding women are in such a daze they don't even notice
social nuances, in my case the baby took up all my energy and focus.
All that said, I don't really regret what I did. Having one lunch, yes, just one lunch free of
feeding traumas, not worrying about my own or anyone else's baby, able
to focus on my husband, completely off-duty, was an absolute delight,
so much so that I keep going back to it in my mind, replaying little
moments, remembering how wonderful it felt to rekindle a time when
everything lay ahead of us, so many dreams and hopes. If the price I
pay for that is being guilty of a little hypocrisy, I don't really care.
Never say never, or, why we nurse again another day
A difficult week. It seems I spoke too soon
about the end of breastfeeding. I had to rethink after K got poorly last
Wednesday, three days after I officially unhooked my nursing bra for the last
time.
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About me
Mother at Large dreams of crossing the Pyrenees with her young daughters. And might just do so one of these days. To find out more read her full profile.
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Edinburgh Unesco City of Literature
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Discover this festival city
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