Granny

PostingToodle 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.

Posted 27 June 2008 15:58 | Number of comments: 18 | Comments

Blogging Granny Husband New baby

PostingSchool 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.

Posted 27 March 2008 15:56 | Number of comments: 12 | Comments

Edinburgh Granny

PostingOff 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.

Posted 21 January 2008 11:02 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Edinburgh Granny Out and about

PostingHappy Birthday, Mother at Large

BirthdayBalloons.gif 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.

Posted 08 November 2007 22:41 | Number of comments: 22 | Comments

Edinburgh Granny Older mother Paradoxes

PostingOops, let's do it again

31GqolZUH5LAA115_Small.jpgLynne 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....

Posted 29 October 2007 17:30 | Number of comments: 11 | Comments

Books Daughter Granny

PostingGranny footsteps

wildflower_garden_flotterstone.jpgHere'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.

Posted 06 September 2007 20:56 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Childcare Granny Older mother

PostingOver the sea

view to FifeI'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.

Posted 20 July 2007 12:29 | Number of comments: 15 | Comments

Daughter Dilemmas Edinburgh Etiquette Granny Out and about Domestic chaos Fun

PostingThese shoes

Bean's first shoesGranny 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.

Posted 18 July 2007 23:09 | Number of comments: 24 | Comments

Granny Husband Kit

PostingAn 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.

Posted 16 July 2007 20:56 | Number of comments: 15 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter Granny Husband Older mother

PostingExtreme 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.

Posted 12 June 2007 13:33 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Childcare Daughter Granny Guilt Work vs mothering

PostingEscape to the hills

Swanston gorseJ 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.

We lost our way on the descent, ending up marching across Swanston Golf Club, past blokes in little golf cars wearing golfing slacks. Big walking boots clumping across coiffed lawns. I don't like golf clubs. Last time I was in one was with Granny at her local club, I was six months pregnant, and they threw me out because I was wearing trainers, as if I was some teenage hoodie come to make trouble. I still seethe at the iniquity of it. Nobody accosted us as we scurried across the greens, but it was a relief to escape the manicured perfection of the place. I bet RLS never had to put up with that sort of treatment.

Posted 10 June 2007 22:45 | Number of comments: 11 | Comments

Edinburgh Fun Granny Husband Out and about

PostingHome 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. Hard-nosed PRs will call any time of day or night if they think there's a plug in it for a client.

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?

Posted 08 May 2007 12:18 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Daughter Food Granny Home Husband Play Pregnancy Work Home working

PostingMore 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.

Posted 05 May 2007 18:25 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter Granny Home Husband Nursery Work

PostingNursery parting such sweet sorrow



Dropped K off at nursery this morning, an event that's become a regular torment for both of us.

Mentioned this trouble to my mother, who spent her early wartime childhood evacuated onto the family farm in Yorkshire. "Whenever the farmers separated a cow and a calf into different fields both of them mooed for days afterwards," she tells me. "Yes, both of them."

She shook her head. In sympathy? confusion? Remembering her own similar experiences? With me? With her own mother? For years I thought myself alone in missing her as a child when work took her away. Now I realise she must have felt the same.

However, unlike the poor cows, my daughter and I have not gone been forced apart forever, at least I hope not. I have every confidence we will be reunited at 5.30pm today, or even earlier, if I can tear myself away from this blog and get through my professional work sooner.

But believe me, when her face crumples and the tears start falling, it feels like we could be on that windswept Yorkshire farm, cruel fate intervening as bluff farmer.

Staff assure me that she soon settles down happily to "floor play" or whatever else they're doing. "She's a cheeky monkey, guilt-tripping you like this!" says one girl, trying, I think, to reassure me. I don't believe her. I think K really prefers to be with me, even if we don't do all the "singing, dancing, music" at home that I read about in her nursery report cards.

We go through a rigmarole of cuddles, putting her down, her crying, then back to more cuddles and so on. After a few rounds like that they promise to call me if she doesn't settle. Furtively, I creep away while her back's turned to examine a dreamcatcher. As I leave, I peer through the window, thinking people will take me for a nutter, to catch a glimpse of her and check she is indeed okay. She's settled fine. Phew.

Nobody else in my entire life has ever wanted to be with me this much. Probably no-one else, save future children, ever will again. Yet I don't really know how to deal with it. Is there something wrong with me that I don't always embrace this, that sometimes this dependance and love is claustrophobic, even oppressive? I'm flattered, touched - but also daunted and guilty.

Why is it that I persist with my professional writing, when I could be 24/7 with someone who so plainly favours me over all others? I doubt myself, wonder so often if I'm doing the right thing, even though I'm only working a  two-day week. Being a modern mum, there's so much pressure to be all things to all people, nurturing earth mother and career woman, both so at odds with each other, and I waste so much of my time missing one whenever I'm doing the other.

So why do I work? Well, the income is useful; also, the sense of continuity with my old life  is reassuring; then there's the thought that in a few years K will be at school and I must keep my links with the adult world of work that I'll need even more then. And finally, most shamefully, sometimes I like to have a break. It's as simple as that. There, I've said it.

Does that make me a bad mother? Sometimes it's nice to tidy the kitchen, and know it won't be messy again in four minutes. It's nice to focus on me, without half or all my mind on another person all the time. It's nice to eat lunch without feeding my beautiful daughter home-made organic gloop she'll probably reject or flick on my new trousers.

And yet, the emptiness is intense as I walk away from nursery towards the car, where her Maxi Cosi throne sits empty and untenanted, bare save for a discarded pink sock. I pick up the sock and bring it home, where it now sits on the table in my otherwise pristine kitchen, awaiting the return of its pair this evening.

Posted 30 April 2007 12:30 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Car Daughter Granny Home Nursery Pregnancy Work

PostingThings 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

Posted 26 April 2007 22:23 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Daughter Granny Home

PostingShame 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.

Posted 13 April 2007 09:52 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter Edinburgh Granny

PostingNever 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.

She's been really quite sick, poor thing, and I finally weakened in my resolve late last night after she clawed piteously at my top and tried to latch onto my arm. Her sleeping's all messed up and I was trying to rock her to sleep in my arms, sat in the antique nursing chair with specially shortened legs that Granny gave me.

I'm really very proud of this chair – it's brilliant for posture and meant I could nurse K with my feet securely on the floor. That might not sound like a big deal, but believe me, it is. Also it has sentimental value; Granny used it when I was K's age. I have the odd reverie imagining K nursing her children there in years to come, but maybe I could knock off the parental expectations for a few years, or at least until she's feeling better.

K was obviously confused as we sat there and couldn't understand why there was no milk forthcoming. I couldn't blame her. She looked so distressed and puzzled. It felt wrong to deny her. When she was well it didn't seem to bother her much (as I mentioned in a earlier post). Now she appears to want the comfort, as much as the actual milk.

Today she was much better, so much so we ventured out to Inverleith Duck Pond, where we enjoyed the daffodils and watched the swans. A group of seagulls later divebombed us, which scared me, but didn't seem to bother K, who was sanguine throughout. Now, of course, I'm indulging in a ridiculous fantasy that it's my milk that's made her better. Which in turn is going to make it even harder to call a complete halt....

Posted 01 April 2007 20:54 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter Granny