Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

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Apple a day

JCAYSCTBLCAV3P577CAH0SA2YCAJEPWMRCA3XWXC5CA0MZ23LCAU7X04OCAMLUSSTCA26OADJCAC9CGEACAOCJ4N1CAUNYYJICAOWM68CCACF27KDCAKRK8A2CAO3K2X7CAUARIJICALKG4D4CA3Q807Z_Small.jpg 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."

Posted 19 October 2009 21:47 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Button Daughters Edinburgh Food Fun Granny Health Home Out and about

Biodegradable potties?

ecofriendlybiodegradablepottybecopotty1320pekm281x240ekm_Small.jpg A press release lands in my inbox, announcing the launch of what claims to be "the world's first biodegradable potty". Now, I am all in favour of doing my bit for the environment, but fear I may have to draw the line at the Becopotty. A glance at the potty's webpage reveals: "This potty is not only kind on your baby but also the environment."

Like toilet training a small child isn't hard enough at the best of times, do we need potty makers weighing in with this kind of shameless commercial guilt-tripping? Well, according to Becopotty's makers, yes, we do. They suggest the world is in dire danger from reckless parents buying and discarding potties. Apparently, an annual 17 million potties around the world are sent to a potty graveyard in the sky, in the form of landfill sites. Presumably hurried on their way by parents from every corner of the globe, united in pleasure at an end to toilet training their offspring. At last, an end to the constant refrain (albeit in Spanish, Arabic, Russian or Mandarin) to little Miguel, Issa, Ivan or Ying of "Now, are you sure you don't need a wee? Why don't you just try?"

Those of you who worried by the thought of all those poor plastic potties lying on landfills, stubbornly refusing to biodegrade and polluting the environment, might be interested to know how the Becopotty breaks down naturally. It is because the potty is made of an unusual, though natural substance. What unusual substance? It is made of, wait for it, rice husks. Yes, rice husks. Reading that made me imagine a potty made of rice cakes, stuck together like Lego bricks, (though not, obviously, made of anything as evil as plastic). But apparently the Becopotty is a great deal more water-resistant than a rice cake would be. Which can only be good news.

Posted 13 October 2009 18:19 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Childcare Fun Home Kit

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.

Posted 05 October 2009 10:34 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Activities Food Fun Granny Home Likes/Dislikes

On safari

Husband Va-vay leaves tea in my favourite mug by my bedside, kisses me goodbye and heads out to work. He has even loaded the dishwasher and set it running before leaving. It's Monday morning and I am missing him after a weekend of dinners and fun. Some hours later, the girls and I finally manage to leave the flat. We're having a day out at the local zoo. We succeed in boarding a 26 bus, no mean feat given Edinburgh's draconian transport rules that stipulate drivers allow only one unfolded buggy on board their buses at any time. I have never known a driver agree to bend this rule, despite the most piteous pleading imaginable, so suspect they must enforce it on pain of the most terrible consequences. This unfolded buggy rule is one of those regulations that sounds meaningless. But it's more than a technicality. Please just believe me when I say that it can make a parent's life hell. Our side-by-side double buggy is too unwieldy to fold, so there have been many times when I've waited in the Edinburgh rain with the girls for a bus, then been turned away by the driver because there's already an unfolded buggy on board and have had to wait for the next bus to come along. Any Edinburgh parent could recount similar experiences. However, this morning I get lucky, we're the only buggy at the bus-stop and there are no buggies already on the bus, that's our green light to get on board and we head out through the city centre into the suburbs and Edinburgh Zoo, where we clamber aboard something called the Hilltop Safari (pictured). This bus does daily half-hour tours of the zoo. It's good for several reasons - Beanie loves the novelty and seeing all the animals, we find out more about what we're seeing from the guide, plus it spares Beanie from the climb and me from the effort of pushing the Panzer tank that doubles as their buggy. The guide makes no comment on the size of the tank, or its snowplough-shaped prow, but then I reflect that zoo workers must be used to transporting scary wild animals - this is small beer - and he stows it away in the back of the bus. I'm warming to this experience more by the minute. Edinburgh transport rules do not apply here - the bus is full of buggies, all in their full, unfolded glory, and their occupants. We pull away and the guide begins his spiel. "To your left you'll see the white-naped cranes, one of the several endangered species you'll find here at the zoo. High up in that tree you can see one of the females. She is what we call here a high-demand female." The adults on the bus laugh politely, though of course the children miss the joke. Unbidden, an image of Va-vay enters my mind. In it, he is looking at me with quizically raised eyebrows and an affectionate but distinctly wry smile. Quite suddenly, I no longer miss him as much as I did.

Posted 15 June 2009 18:34 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Activities Buses Daughters Edinburgh Fun Home Husband Out and about Paradoxes

Bed-mates and bolsters

For the last week or so my husband and I have been sharing our bed with someone called Horace. With Horace's help, I can get comfortable enough to doze for a few hours at a time. Horace props up my bump, lessens my back pain and corrects my posture. When I talk to him, he really seems to listen. Never interrupts. And he's so bendy - must be all that polystyrene foam for innards.

Unfortunately, Va-vay is not supportive about our extra bed-mate. I have caught him shooting dark, jealous looks at my side of the bed as Horace and I snuggle up together.

"I might investigate a new air bed," he said the other night, in an airy but long-suffering way. "So I can sleep somewhere else and let you have the bed to yourselves."

"That's a good idea," I snipe back. "We could bring over the Zed-bed from my mum's."

"Have you ever slept on that Zed-bed?" he replied, as if I'd reminded him of childhood bullying, redundancy or first love.

"When you first came to stay with my parents you slept on the Zed-bed and you never said a thing about it!" I accused him.

"I was being polite."

"You were being repressed. If it was so bad you should have said something."

"Have you seen how much of the bed I have left to sleep on?" he says, indicating with his hands a space the width of a shopping bag.

Normally I would take pride in keeping this squabble up ages longer. But pregnancy has softened me.

"I don't want you to sleep elsewhere," I confess. "I like sharing a bed with you. That's why I married you."

"Oh, come here," he says.

"Err.... I would, but I can't," I say, pointing to 28-weeks-pregnant bump and Horace. "You'll have to come here."

In my last pregnancy I was nearly crippled with pelvic pain.

This time round the pain is shaping up to be just as bad - but I've been better at getting help in managing it. An obstetric physio at our local hospital has taught me techniques for staying mobile - mostly involving breathing (let's face it, breathing always helps) and stomach-tightening.

Next week she is going to fit me with something called an orthopaedic belt to hold in all the ligaments loosened by pregnancy hormones. I fear the belt might do nothing to boost marital relations but I'm - almost - beyond caring. And Horace won't mind.

Posted 19 April 2008 15:06 | Number of comments: 11 | Comments

Childbirth Daughters Home Husband New baby Pregnancy Pelvic girdle pain/SPD

Something in the air

One of the worst things about being an 'older' mum is the humiliation of being disabused of this fantasy that I am competent at the business of life. Having a daughter at the age of 38 has pushed me in new and uncomfortable directions. Take driving, for example. Before Beanie arrived I didn't drive. I never needed a car and I never much fancied having one. It didn't matter that I was a bad driver.

Now I need wheels to ferry Beanie around town. The problem is that I am still rubbish at driving. Actually, no, that's unfair, I'm being too hard on myself. I'm a reasonably good driver, though a bit slow. It's parking that's the problem. On the way home the other day I attempted to find a parking space in our street. No luck. So Beanie and I drove round in circles until I spied a small space in a lane next to a large stone wall. I tried and tried and tried and tried and tried and tried to park. Into reverse. Cue grinding of machinery. Back into first. Edge forward a few inches. Grind the gear back back down into reverse. And so on. The air stank of some vile mechanical malfunction.

As I craned my neck back to see where I was reversing I met Beanie's alarmed gaze. "Don't worry, Beanie, Mummy knows what she's doing," I lied. She wasn't fooled. I wedged the car so close to the wall the wing mirror was brushing against lichen and stone. I could feel the sweat trickling down my arms. Then a man appeared at my window. He seemed like a good guy, so I wound down the window. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Can I help?" You know that way when you've been holding tears at bay and a moment of unexpected kindness makes them flood out? Well, I started to cry. "I can't do this," I said. "Are you trying to park or to get out?" he asked. "To park," I snuffled, as I noticed for the first time a group of people standing around watching my parking, looks of concern on their faces. I was half in and half out but couldn't move either way. "That's my car behind you," he said, and I thought, "Oh my God, I really hope I haven't scratched it." He must have seen the look on my face because he said: "No, don't worry, it's fine. Would you like me to move my car? Would that make it easier?" So he moved his car, but somehow by then I'd lost all confidence so I still couldn't park. Then the man said: "Would you like me to park your car for you?" And I said "Yes, please. Would you mind? Thank you". As he got in the car it crossed my mind this might be some ploy to steal Beanie from me and I said: "You won't drive off with my daughter, will you?" He said: "Oh my goodness, I hadn't realised you had a baby in the back." But he came across as a nice, trustworthy chap, and the onlookers appeared to know him, so I decided it was okay to let him park the car.

I got out and chatted to a couple of other people who'd come out of their houses. In different circumstances it would have been quite nice to meet the neighbours, but my legs were still shaky and I felt at a bit of a disadvantage after the fiasco they'd just witnessed. "Quite a smell of clutch fluid, isn't there?" said one, conversationally. "Is the clutch slipping?" I wouldn't even have known that was the smell and didn't know what he meant by 'clutch slipping' but nodded and rolled my eyes. I haven't felt that helpless and girly since I was a teenager. Beanie looked completely unpeturbed in her throne in the back as the neighbour reversed out with her. She looked less hassled with him than when I was trying to park, in fact. And the job was done in a couple of minutes. The next day, though, when I went back to check on the car there was still a smell of clutch fluid in the air.

Posted 19 February 2008 16:36 | Number of comments: 30 | Comments

Angst Car Daughters Home Older mother Buses

Labour of love

I am reading accounts of women giving birth the way I used to eat cashew nuts - unable to stop myself and always wanting more. Ina May Gaskin, Sheila Kitzinger, Kate Mosse, Lesley Regan, Zita West, Janet Balaskas - their books form tower blocks next to my bed. I look forwards to bed time the way I used to enjoy Friday nights after a long week at work. It's my chance to read about how other women coped with pregnancy and childbirth. This would be fine, were it not for the fact that I cannot persuade my husband Va-vay to share my enthusiasm for these books.

Don't get me wrong, Va-vay could not be more supportive of my pregnancy - in a practical, solution-oriented sense. He does lots of shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry and childcare. When Beanie woke last night at 2.30am it was Va-vay who got up and searched for Calpol, then sat with her until she fell back to sleep. At about 5am. It was Va-vay who got her up two hours later, got her to nursery, took out the rubbish and went to work.

In fairness to him, all that activity doesn't leave much time for reading. But last week I did mention to him that since he's my birth partner it would be nice if he could read up on labour. At the time he became rather huffy. Accused me of accusing him of being 'unsupportive."

"No, Va-vay, that's not what I meant," I protested. "I'd just like us both to be involved in the labour. For us both to know what's going on. So you understand the emotional side too."

"I know all about emotions, living with you," he said.

I dropped the subject.

Then on Sunday I bought a book on potty training for Beanie and left it in the bathroom - home to the potty training action. Later that evening Va-vay came out of the bathroom, quite jubilant, and started quoting facts from the book at me.

"Do you know what 'lifting' is?" he asked me.

"Errr, no. Why?"

"It's the practice of putting children on the potty last thing at night. Very controversial."

"Right. Well, thank you for letting me know that."

"If you want me to read any of those books on childbirth just leave them in the bathroom too and I'll take a look at them," he said with a jaunty air. No doubt he plans to quote salient facts back at me. He is just not taking this seriously. My private bits are risking mutilation. There will be pain, blood and gore - however well it goes. I don't want Ina May and Sheila left in the bathroom - it feels disrespectful.

Bring on our birth preparation workshops. Then I will have him discussing feelings. In a group. With people he doesn't know. Ah, vengeance.

Posted 11 February 2008 10:26 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Books Childbirth Childcare Home Husband

Chore wars

Financial pressure on families is so intense that men are increasingly keen for their wives to work, but less so if their children are under school age, reports The Telegraph.

Far from regarding the role of breadwinner as male, the number of men who believe it is the man's job to earn money has dropped by almost half, from 32 per cent in 1989 to 17 per cent in 2006. The findings are part of the latest British Social Attitudes report, an influential government-funded survey.

Women's motives for getting back to work are mixed: some are the main breadwinner, others feel it wrong to waste their education and some say their job is part of their social identity. Many simply need the money.

Some things remain reassuringly unchanged. The battle over who does the household chores has barely moved on in recent years.

Almost eight in 10 people with partners say the woman usually or always does the laundry, a similar proportion to 1994. Surrounded by damp laundry as I type, I can agree with that one, though in fairness to Va-vay, he's good at ironing and more than pulls his weight around the house.

Men and women disagree when it comes to saying how much of the housework they actually do - a situation The Telegraph wittily describes as the "chore wars".

Two thirds of women say that they usually or always do the cleaning but only 54 per cent of men say this of their partner.

The most liberal division of labour is reportedly found among couples where the woman works full-time. Some days I feel pushed working part-time from home. I'm beginning to worry I'll never get the nerve up to go back to full-time work.

Posted 23 January 2008 11:08 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Domestic chaos Home Laundry Money Work Work vs mothering

Bleeping annoying

One of my Christmas presents this year was something called a Keyfinder, which Santa* admitted s/he found in the pages of the Radio Times. It could have been worse. I could have got nose hair clippers.

"I thought it might help you get out the house faster," Santa said in a helpful tone.

"I'm not slow. I have to get Beanie ready as well, you know."

"Yes, of course," Santa replied. With lowered eyes.

When I ripped off the wrapping paper and clapped eyes on the Keyfinder, I couldn't believe I'd gone this far through life without one, it seemed so simple, so ingenious, so.... life-changing.

I attached the Keyfinder as instructed to my errant keys. I whistled, the Keyfinder lit up and bleeped at me to reveal its whereabouts. In my hands. Okay, but, you know, I could see the principle and glimpsed in it the potential for a new me, a woman able to leave home in less than 40 minutes, someone in control of her destiny, with smooth hair.

As we sat there by the Christmas tree, I already began to think about buying other Keyfinders for glasses, hairbrush and hat. Perhaps for Beanie's shoes. Each of them.

Unfortunately, only four days after Christmas, all we hear is bleep, bleep, bleep. The 'device' bleeps when Beanie protests as I remove a carving knife from reach. It bleeps when she shouts for more rice cakes. It bleeps when she finds me slow in reaching more fromage frais from the fridge. It bleeps when we sing. It bleeps as we pretend to be crocodiles. It bleeps as she bangs her beaker on the table and grins at me. It bleeps as I remove the beaker. It bleeps when we laugh. Its bleeping shadows me, reproving me, shaming me into hushed whispers.

In a rare quiet moment, unpunctuated by bleeping, I peruse the instructions. They describe the Keyfinder as an 'invaluable little companion". I grimace. "Try whistling at different pitches until your Keyfinder responds. NOTE: on occasion other sounds such as music, television or other background noises may have the same pitch as your whistling and may activate your Keyfinder. This should be considered NORMAL."

Va-vay has inserted the bleeping (yes, I can say that under the circumstances) batteries so efficiently I cannot prise them out. Though I break a fingernail trying. The keyfinder: not so much keyfinder, more sonic swearbox.

But then again, perhaps that is what Santa* had in mind all along.

* a character who has also featured in this blog under another name, (not Va-vay) but I can't say any more. And, just for the record, 'Santa' did do us proud with the fitted sheets we wanted....

Posted 29 December 2007 20:04 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Home Kit

Sharing a Shell

7pm: Before putting Beanie to bed, I read to her about the adventures of Blob, Crab and Brush - "three friends, sharing a shell". She listens with her customary eager, almost rapt attention, while fingering the glittery pictures and pointing at the seagulls wheeling overhead. I close the book and lower Beanie gently into her cot.

"Wwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh."

She allows herself the briefest of pauses.

"Wwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh."

To our dismay, she throws Mr Bear overboard in fury. When she does this, we know we're in real trouble. For where Mr Bear goes, Beanie goes too. Or, at least, in this case, would like to go.

Va-vay and I exchange looks of horror.

"She's not normally like this," I say despairingly, telling him what he already knows.

"What do you suggest we do?" he asks, putting down his briefcase for the first time since he got through the door from work and looking, momentarily, defeated.

"Leave her for a bit? See if she settles?"

"Into what?"

A warning that would have them running for the air-raid shelters in seconds is 'what'. A sonic assault on our ear-drums that would have Health and Safety round in a trice if it happened in the workplace. Try as I might, I feel a familiar mixture of sorrow, love, sympathy - and irritation.

"Better go and change out of my work clothes," says Va-vay, in a tone of forced jollity that alerts me to how tired and strained he really is.

At Beanie HQ the bombs could be dropping any minute. National emergency. Briefly, I wonder what the neighbours must think.

Prepare supper while trying not to listen to daughter-turned-police-siren wailing.

Take it in turns to ask each other: "Is it wrong to leave her to cry like this?"

Abandon plan to 'let her settle'. Impulsively climb into Beanie's cot to help her sleep. She is delighted at this unusual turn of events. But refuses to settle. After her eyes close, admittedly against her will, I attempt to clamber out again, waking her in the process. Drat. Admit temporary defeat and regroup in kitchen, carrying through a triumphant and flushed Beanie in her sleep bag.

Administer milk, calpol and teething gel.

9pm: Grinning with delight, Beanie, propped up between her parents, settles down to watch Spooks. Shield her eyes from scenes of torture, shooting, kidnap and bubonic plague. It doesn't leave much left over. Beanie remains scarily indifferent throughout, except for shooting the odd delighted glance towards me and Va-vay.

"Are you a little scamp?" Va-vay asks her fondly.

10pm: Grumbling but no longer shrieking, even Beanie has to concede the time has come to sleep. With little more than a token protest, for even an 18-month-old has her pride to consider, she puts her thumb in her mouth, clutches Mr Bear to her and curls up on her front for some long-overdue kip.

Midnight: Did I mention sleep? Between now and 2am Va-vay and I try, in no particular order: leaving her magic lantern on for reassurance/rocking/cuddling her/reading to her/sitting by her cot/singing in a way that put me in mind of this.

She falls asleep again. When she wakes later, somewhere in the chaos of the night, we skip all the above steps and bring her into bed with us. She quietens immediately, and seems happy to be sharing with us. Or maybe it's the long night that has finally worn her out. Whatever it is, after a brief, but unedifying struggle between me and Va-vay over the duvet, we all - finally - drift off to sleep. As I fall into sleep, comfortably aware of the sound of her breathing next to me, I hear Va-vay's deep voice saying from the other side of the bed:

"Three friends, sharing a shell."

Nobody stirs. Peace, at last.

Posted 26 October 2007 01:22 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Angst Books Daughters Domestic chaos Home Husband Sleep

Unruly regulations

Here's a book that sounds like required reading for every parent of a young child. Playing it Safe by Alan Pearce, published by those clever people at The Friday Project, is a collection of all the silly health and safety stories from the press. There are gems about taps that limit the temperature in your bath, a ban on palm trees in Torbay (sharp leaves - ouch!) and the school that stopped children playing football in case they got hurt. There are even warnings on the back cover about the book itself - "Beware of paper cuts".

I say 'required reading' for parents of young children because since Beanie arrived 18 months ago I know I could benefit from a reality check on the difference between responsible parenting and crazed health-and-safety lunacy. I'm not proud. I can admit when I need help.

I write this as a mother whose cream sitting room is now accessorised with grey lagging pipes and gaffer tape, strapped to every conceivable surface where Beanie might hurt herself.

Before Beanie arrived I too used to find health and safety silliness amusing, just like this book does. Yes, I was hip once. Really. Oh, how I laughed to myself at childproof locks, 'corner protection devices' and over-protective parents. You know the type, the ones who won't let their kids eat uncooked cake mixture - raw eggs/salmonella, 'Ooh, dangerous!' - and freak out in pregnancy about unpasteurised cheeses and eating a mouthful of peanuts (so risky with potential nut allergies).

Then when Beanie arrived all that changed. The world turned overnight into a dangerous and frightening place. Husband and I began to take seriously some of the things Playing it Safe is mocking. We don't see the funny side in turning down the central water thermostat (if only we could find it) to lower bath water temperature. Our sense of humour (and proportion) has run dry.

On Beanie's first night at home husband and I were in such a state of panic we became alarmed our new wardrobe might emit toxic glue fumes that would harm her.

"She's wheezing!" husband announced in panic about his daughter at about 3.30am. We lost the plot so badly we ended up all sleeping in another room, far from the offending wardrobe and any risk of pollution. It was one of the worst nights of my life, yet was meant to have been one of the best.

In our defence, sleep deprivation did play a part in the madness.

Even so, a copy of Playing It Safe might remind us that it's possible to get through life safely without following every nutty regulation dreamt up by jobs' worth bureacrats. Or inventing ones of our own, for that matter.

I plan to place a copy in the bathroom. Where I often plant reading material I want my husband to see.

Somewhere close to where I imagine the water thermostat might be.

Posted 09 October 2007 16:58 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Childcare Domestic chaos Home Kit Missing sanity Perfectionism Safety Books

Clean-up operation

We're thinking of hiring a cleaner. This could be a bigger decision than we realised.

Leafing through Yellow Pages this morning, I stumbled on one firm offering an unusual range of services. Under the slogan: "Life Maid Easy offers you the chance to reclaim your life." This is what they offer: cleaning, ironing, window cleaning. So far, so normal.

And... wait for it: Life Style Management.

I've heard about powerful cleaning agents, but this is going too far. And you know the really sad thing? I was almost tempted to call these enterprising people and see what they could offer.

Posted 07 September 2007 12:54 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Domestic chaos Home Missing sanity Work at Home Mum

Unfit for human consumption

This posting was meant to be all about a trip Beanie and I made yesterday to visit a local attraction that opens to the public only a handful of times every year. This local well features some fine mosaics, statues and columns and we had a good visit to its dank interior, despite the notice warning the water was 'unfit for human consumption'. Someone had thought to put tea lights around the pump, which gave the well an atmospheric, almost religious feel. Beanie made friends with a Scots terrier called Toby.

I say 'meant to be' because shortly after we got home Beanie was ferrying some toys from a basket in the window over to me when she tripped on a cushion, fell and cut open her forehead on the coffee table, blood spurting everywhere. She looked so indignant and shocked, as much as anything else, it broke my heart. It happened in an instant, as we heard people warning these things would do.

Luckily, there's not been too much damage. She calmed down quite quickly before I drove her to hospital, where they saw her almost immediately and patched her up. They don't think there'll be much of a scar, and with luck the cut will heal in a few days. Seeing some of the other children there and the state they were in, I began to wonder if I was making too much of a fuss, since I was crying more than Beanie by this point. Beanie's Grandad came over to lend moral support, since Granny was out on the golf course, in a fight-to-the-death with other members of the Veteran Ladies team, and Va-vay was away.

Talk about stable doors/bolting horses, but last night I taped some old towels to the table corners to prevent a repeat. As for Beanie, she has recovered her old jubilance and now looks quite the proper member of a pirate crew, sporting a bandage over her left eye, which she scratches at from time to time.

Posted 27 August 2007 09:42 | Number of comments: 24 | Comments

Daughters Health Home Safety

L Plates Mum

Reading last week the story of a rise in unjust adoptions, I was taken back to my fears as an L Plates mum when Beanie first arrived and I hadn't a clue how to get from one minute to the next so sat in my flat shaking, wondering what to do next. Terrified the Baby Police (my friendly health visitor) would rumble me, I asked a friend who's a paediatrician if I'd get into trouble for general ineptitude in the matter of caring for a newborn. "No," she told me. "Not unless you're doing drugs or hitting her." Big sigh of relief, since I was guilty of neither crime, though I continued to fear the weekly health clinic weigh-ins when I had to de-robe Beanie and pop her in a set of kitchen scales. It felt like the neo-natal equivalent of annual performance appraisals.

Other News

In the Night Garden

Thanks to Littlemummy, who has a posting on how much her daughter Erin loves this programme, Beanie has discovered In the Night Garden on CBeebies. She's so excited by it, she insists on standing up and swaying furiously while it's on, waving at Iggle Piggle, Uppsy Daisy and their friends in what I take to be ecstasy, though her waves cause me a small pang of heartache, when I think how the characters will never wave back at her and see how unsuspecting she is of this. Her dad and I are pretty taken with In the Night Garden too. Va-vay in particular enjoys repeating the names of the different characters to himself. Sitting eating his veggie dinner a couple of nights ago he said, apropos of nothing in particular: "Tombliboos." Short pause. "Tombliboos." Va-vay, who has a degree in linguistics, is trying to pass his love of In the Night Garden off to me as an interest in the development of infant speech patterns. An interest that has led to him starting to get home earlier from work, in time for the 6.20pm start time. My cup, it runneth over.

Posted 26 August 2007 11:26 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Activities Childcare Daughters Dilemmas Domestic chaos Home Husband News

Naughty corner

Flying daleks hold few terrors for me nowadays. The only television that really scares me concentrates on small children with behavioural issues. Not many shows are more alarming for me than those featuring a 'naughty corner'. Luckily, The Bean is only 15 months old and, so far, reassuringly normal in her behaviour. When I see the 'corner' on telly I fear it as the possible shape of Things to Come.

The sight of Supernanny riding round America from one maladjusted mansion to the next in that ridiculous black cab of hers makes me worry that one day I might end up on one of these programmes. Obviously sans the ranch-style mansion. Or any decent parking for the cab. Plus up here people might try and hire it. Instead of marvel at it as a foreign novelty, as they properly ought. But with an uncontrollable child. While upstairs I act contrite as Supernanny tells me where I've gone wrong.

Watching these programmes I fear I'll appear on them one day, a husk, defeated by my own defective parenting. Sent to the parental naughty corner that is humiliation on national television. And made to stay there for a minute of every year of my age. Which in my case would mean nearly 40 minutes of advice from Mary Poppins.

Programmes like Supernanny make me fear that unless I get this parenting business absolutely right, then in a couple of years The Bean might win some kind of infant ASBO the government will have been forced to introduce, to combat the unruly pre-schoolers ruling the domestic roost. Perhaps called a BASBO. There, I knew I couldn't write anything about parenting without resorting to acronyms.

The ASBO for pre-school kids would be a kind of souped-up, institutional 'naughty corner'. Bans on hoods on the cardigans their grannies knitted. A large pacifier sign stamped on the front door to indicate naughtiness within. Community toddles to keep them from hanging round softplays with too much time on their hands. Curfews on drinking babycinos after certain hours. I can't see it catching on as a badge of honour in NCT circles.

When Supernanny US came on the other week, my husband did his utmost to make me switch channels, as he knows my fears well. I didn't listen to him and watched a restaurant owner and his wife meekly receive advice on the many errors of their slack parenting ways.

The damage was done. The next day I was a little bit stricter with The Bean than I'd normally be, thinking I'd better set some limits before Jo Frost's taxi arrived at the door. She was playing on the floor in the kitchen, while I tidied up. Sensing my attention was elsewhere, she made a beeline for a kitchen cupboard containing lots of precious china that we haven't got round to child-proofing yet. When we moved into our flat, The Bean hadn't arrived. So I didn't know back then it was a stupid idea to put china in cupboards at ground level when you have a child.

Just so you know I am not a complete spoilsport, I do allow her to put things in the washing machine. These range from tea-towels to toy bricks and nappy cream. She then enjoys unloading them, in a methodical fashion, before reloading them in the barrel of the washing machine. But I try to keep her away from cupboards where she could break the contents, or hurt herself.

"NO!" I thundered at her, louder than I normally would. "We do NOT go in that cupboard." All credit to her, she smiled up at me, quite unmoved, and went back to sucking on the packet of her Baby Bonjela teething gel. Her mother might deserve some time on the naughty corner. But she's doing just fine.

Posted 16 July 2007 00:13 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Angst Daughters Home Parenting gurus

Home work - oh, and I'm a Rockin Blogger!

After six months of working from home, I'm finally realising there are ways to make it easier on myself and the rest of my family. It seems only polite to share these ideas on home-working with you all. So, here are my suggestions.

Please feel free to disagree or jump in with any ideas of your own.

1. If your budget can stretch to it, invest in a decent office chair.

Using a dining room chair for my work was threatening to cripple me. So I've just ordered a proper swivel chair with good back support. I couldn't stand up straight after some days hunched over the laptop. How I wish I'd done it sooner.

2. Don't use your ordinary home phone for work calls.

Safeguard your privacy. Get VOIP (voice-over internet protocol). Calls are cheaper. And you won't risk picking up the home phone thinking it's your mum or husband, only to find yourself talking to an important client, who will thrill to the accompanying shrieks from your small and attention-deprived child.

3. You might think you're working two days a week. Many of your contacts won't. Set boundaries - politely.

This is a tricky one. Tip 2 helps. Obviously, it's important to strike a balance, and remain flexible to maintain important relationships. After all, this is work. Unless I say "no" sometimes, my 'two-day' week could include every available crack of time, morning, noon and night.

4. Ensure you get some fresh air daily.

It's all too easy never to leave the flat, especially if my husband takes The Bean to nursery. A stroll round the corner to escape the citadel cheers me up no end. Coffee at the local deli/cafe on my own is a real treat.

5. Remember that office workers march to a different beat

How dare my husband get short with me when I've phoned up for a good long chat?

6. Make an effort to meet people

When even the postman is walking faster as you hove into view because you've spent so much time gabbing about weather/holidays/postal strike, it might be time to meet other work-at-homes for a quick coffee.

7. When you're cursing your solitude, remember all the things about office life that got you down

I'd better be discreet here.

8. If you're setting up on your own, give yourself time to get established

Don't expect instant miracles. Be patient. Suffice to say, I am not a patient person. I wish I were. I married someone patient, hoping it would rub off on me. So far it has not worked. I cannot ask for my money back. I cannot send him back now to the lovely vicar who married us. It's too late. The 'return-by' period has expired. I could not imagine living without him. You see, I need his patience.

9. Try to keep at least one day weekly completely work-free

Okay, it's hard to resist a sneaky daily look at that inbox. But at least one day a week of minimal work is refreshing.

10. Don't feel too bad about frequent tea breaks.

Think of all the time wasted in offices catching up with what colleagues did at the weekend. Or hawking round birthday cards. Not to mention "internal meetings". You probably get more concentrated stretches of work done at home.

11. Never buy biscuits

Self-explanatory, I should think. I didn't get this blog title by accident.

Other news:

Erica from Littlemummy has made me a Rockin' Blogger! Thanks, Erica. I'm delighted!

That means it's my turn to award the Rockin' Blogger to two other sites.

So, here goes... I'd like to choose Omega Mum from Three Kids No Job and Beta Mum from Keir Royale. They both write warm and witty blogs about their lives that I find quite addictive. Omega Mum, Beta Mum, over to you! Your turn to award two blogs you like this thumbs-up.

Erica, thanks also for setting up a UK Parents Blog Ring (details in the blogroll, right). I've already signed up and understand from Erica new members are welcome!

Posted 12 July 2007 22:40 | Number of comments: 32 | Comments

Home Money Work Work at Home Mum Work vs mothering

Mum-upmanship

Cover ill Ever worried about 'mum-upmanship' at mum-and-baby coffee mornings? Thought there was something wrong with you for fretting you had little in common with the other mums? Had 'knickers made of barbed wire' tugging at your post-natal stitches?

If so, help is at hand. A small and entertaining book, Staying Sane, by Kathy Miller, (Portico Books, £6.99), has 99 suggestions to stop yourself going mad when you become a mother. Including tackling mum-upmanship and painful underwear.

There are lots of great tips on keeping it together through your child's babyhood and toddler years that struck a chord with me.

These are some of my favourites:

1. When motherhood seems intolerable, remind yourself quite how much you disliked being a childless singleton.

2. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you have to make instant friends with everyone from your nearest Mums and Babies group.

3. When contemplating the desirability of divorce, go to a party. "Chances are you will have your evening spoiled by a self-important oaf whose prejudices, politics or misogyny ensure that when you snuggle up to your husband in bed that night, you thank your lucky stars you ended up with him," writes Miller.

PS - I know this tip is true. It worked a treat for me at my French evening class.

4. "Just because you coped with tricky types at work doesn't mean you should do it now," she warns. "Try to concentrate on women whose company gives you a boost and don't let yourself be undermined by competitive, critical or gossipy women."

5. "Avoid complete paranoia by resolving to consult a medical dictionary as rarely as possible to check up on childhood ailments,"she says. Otherwise you end up catastrophising about all manner of ailments. Same would go for internet, presumably.

The tone is cheery, light-hearted and positive. There are lots of lovely cartoon illustrations by Louise Quirke. Miller doesn't patronise her audience, or preach. As a mother of three young daughters, two of them twins, she plainly knows what she's talking about.

I didn't agree with every suggestion - there was one about wrapping your head in a pashmina I couldn't understand - but overall I liked Staying Sane a lot. It'd be a good gift to any new mother. Along with the valium and ready meals.

Posted 11 July 2007 22:46 | Number of comments: 19 | Comments

Dilemmas Domestic chaos Etiquette Fun Home Missing sanity

Sleep no more

The Bean is scrabbling at a kitchen cupboard door that her dad and I have barred against her. She tugs at the shiny cream surface, tugs again harder, loses her balance, teeters for a moment, then falls backwards onto her bottom. She emits a shriek of distress and indignation. Mishaps like this happen approximately twenty times daily, but don't normally bother her. On this occasion, however, because she is tired, the fall causes her alarm and distress. It is 9.30am, and we both know she is upset because she's now been up for two and a half hours and is due her morning nap. I silently wonder again how the researchers of a large US university could have decided in their infinite wisdom that letting young children nap could be harmful for them.

Looking smaller than usual sat down on the floor, she lifts up her arms to signal she wants to be held. I bend down to pick her up, cuddle her close to me, and carry my small, disconsolate daughter through to her bedroom, where I draw the window shutters, and lay out her sleep bag in her cot ready for her. She is too tired even to demand to play with her dreamcatcher or inspect her flowery chicken mobile that hangs from the ceiling. Go straight to the cot. Do not pass the toy basket. Do not pause to play with festive Santa bib.

I lift her into the cot, get her left arm into the hole of the sleep bag, then manage to remove her right-hand thumb from her mouth long enough to get the other arm into the bag. In another well-honoured part of our morning ritual she reaches out for the well-chewed form of Mr Bear, her faithful bed-time companion, clutches him to her, and reinserts her thumb in her mouth. "I'll be back when you've had a sleep," I tell her, but she's not listening. She's already shut her eyes, curled onto her side, and is slurping on her thumb, zoned out.

Every morning that The Bean is at home (not nursery) she has a nap on similar lines to this one she had this morning. Not just so that I can use the time to clean, do emails, chat on the phone or catch up on work, though, my goodness, it's great to have the chance to do that, but because she needs the rest, otherwise life becomes too much for her. She hasn't got the energy yet to get through a full day without a sleep top-up.

But woe betide me! For now research from Florida University says that daytime napping prevents children sleeping well at night - and could even impair mental performance. They say children's puzzle-solving abilities can deteriorate when they take longer daytime naps. I might have known it. Is there no area of parenting free of some controversial new recommendation? Pregnancy, toys, food, sleep.... none of it simple, all filled with advice from the so-called 'experts'. Who could be more 'expert' on whether my daughter needs a nap than me and her?

Now, I haven't read the full findings of the Florida survey, which I'm sure is well-intentioned and thoroughly researched. I read a summary of its findings over on Mumsnet. But the idea that day-time naps are harmful completely contradicts my personal experience. There's no way The Bean - 14 months old - could cope with a day lasting from 7am to 7pm without at least one nap. She'd be hysterical and grumpy.

This latest research into naps reminds me of last week's story that pureed food was bad for babies. What have we parents done to deserve so many scare stories that overturn so much received wisdom? Maybe the answer is that young (well, okay, I'm no spring chicken, nearly 40, so not that young) parents are a good target market for this material - you know, largely clueless, impressionable, desperate to do their best, lacking instruction manual or, indeed, clear instructions from the child herself. Ready to listen to anything that promises The Solution. Well, that's what I'm like, though in fairness I've gained a lot in confidence over the past months.

But it seems like the advice to parents changes all the time. This year's new parents are told to put baby to sleep on his back, scared witless by stories about what might happen if they don't. The previous generation was given exactly the same lines about how babies should sleep on their fronts, for the same reasons. In another ten years the 'experts' will doubtless change the advice again - but stick with the same dire warnings.

What really gets to me is that all these parenting gurus like to impart their advice with the message that if you don't follow it to the letter, disastrous consequences will ensue - with the pureed food research the authors said babies could get addicted to gloop, constipated and eventually obese. That surely can't be true, can it? In this instance, it's the threat of impaired mental performance. I don't know. Maybe they're right, and I'm stupid and cynical to suspect otherwise. What do other people think? Are we right to give our children day-time naps? Are we being preyed on by a parenting advisory industry?

Posted 29 June 2007 23:09 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Daughters Dilemmas Health Home Parenting gurus Play

Spy Hard

There's more to this parenting lark than I first suspected. I can no longer agree with the father who told me: "A bit of nerve and a lot of stamina - that's all a new parent needs, really." I'd have to add cunning to the list. You see, it turns out I've been spied on in my own home. By a deceptively sweet-faced baby we call The Bean. Yes, she's had me under surveillance night and day for 14 months - and until recently I never suspected a thing.

Turns out The Bean has spent her entire life-time shadowing me here, in the privacy of my own home. A regular infant spook. She has scrutinised my every move. And now, oh how this makes me cringe, I'm seeing them - including some frankly unappealing character traits - relayed back to me by her.

Sat on kitchen floor next to 'her' bins, arms akimbo, determined and cross, she reminds me of someone. At first I can't think who. Then it comes to me. Oh crikey - is that what I look like? Seizes her father's asthma puffer and pops it in her mouth, shuts her eyes and puffs on it. Grins. Like her dad.

Pretends to brush her teeth with our tooth brushes (though she won't suffer the real thing at bed-time). Pulls my bushy hairbrush through her soft curls. Gazes at self in mirror. Attacks chalk drawing in serious, purposeful manner I recognise of old. Wipes down her changing mat as she must have seen me do. Sighs heavily at computer's recalcitrance. Loves a joke and socialising. Laughs and giggles.

It's like one of those management courses in self-awareness. But I never signed up for this. Ok, the sleepless nights I knew about. But action replays of my every move... nobody warned me about that. Some of these traits I never even realised I had - the mania for wiping surfaces, for example. I shall have to be careful. Never mind about my scary and near-total responsibility for how she turns out as an adult just for now. Next, she'll begin blogging. About me. Now that's a really scary thought.

Posted 27 June 2007 12:44 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Childcare Daughters Domestic chaos Home

Escape from it all

I've come across a great site called Shedworking that could have the perfect solution for us work-at-home-mums - or WAHMS, in proper blogosphere parlance. It features lots of beautiful sheds, some of which you could site in the bottom of the garden and use as an office.

Apparently the shed's growing in popularity as a thinking and working space, and it could work a treat for working mums - just think, no more working next to damp laundry, our very own space free of husband's and child's discarded socks, half-eaten rice cakes and obscured toys that threaten to cripple.

I have to confess I've been a bit out of touch with the world of sheds. They've gone all designer and beautiful since I last knew anything about them. Now they look more deluxe than some of the wooden houses on Grand Designs.I think Kevin McCloud would like them.

There's only one hitch to my plan. We live in a second-floor city centre flat. And while I'm thinking about applying for an allotment there's a current three-year waiting list. Another reason, perhaps, to join that well-trod path to the suburbs.

Posted 31 May 2007 11:44 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Domestic chaos Home Home working Work

Lineage and legends

It's been a grim six days, just how grim I realised only yesterday, when I recognised the unfamiliar physical sensation spreading across my stomach as laughter, an experience that's been notable by its complete absence from my life since I had some bad news last Friday. As usual, it was only as things started to get better, well, slightly, at least, that I got an inkling of how awful they've been.

Yesterday my husband, daughter and I were all waving at ourselves in a big mirror. Lest you think we're a bunch of self-obsessed narcissists, (well, we are, but we try not to indulge it) let me briefly explain: like many babies, my daughter loves to wave at her glassy, unreachable self in the mirror. She even, once, when very little, in what looks destined to be a stock family anecdote, crawled over to a mirror and tried to give herself a big kiss.

So we were in front of the mirror, my husband with his arm round me, my daughter in my arms, helping her practise waving.

"Here, stand in front of me," he told me, before assuming a stern, wooden demeanour. My head slotted in under his chin (he's much taller than me). Our daughter, snug in my arms, despite giggling madly, consented to tuck her head underneath mine. We made a straight vertical line of three heads.

"There we are," he told me proudly. "Our very own totem pole."

Posted 17 May 2007 09:28 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Daughters Home Husband Play

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?

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

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.

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

Breastfeeding Daughters Granny Home Husband Nursery Work

Toys give children "no long-term benefit", finds report

New research says toys and books have no significant future associations with children's development. According to the Institute of Education, reported by BBC Online, the most important factor is parents playing and talking with their children.

"Toys and books have their place and do help children develop but what is important is having the parents interact with the child," says the Institute's Dr Leslie Gutman.

"To have parents read to their children is much more important than having a hundred books," says the report.

Children whose parents took them out grew up with better social skills, said the report.

I wish I'd known this a year ago, before I accumulated sacks of unwanted toys.

I bought them partly because I didn't want people to think I was a tightwad who wouldn't spend on her child.

The toy marketing made me think K would suffer impaired development if I didn't.

After all, not having the musical mobile that plays Bach, complete with cows circling in mid-air above, might have hindered her hand-eye co-ordination and slowed her speech development.

Parents might have more spare space in their cupboards if Dr Gutman's research gets a good airing. Charity shops would probably come off worse, though.

Posted 03 May 2007 21:24 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Daughters Home Kit Play Toys

Teatime shift the hardest in mothering

The hardest shift in mothering is late afternoon. The stairs to our second-floor flat become steeper than only hours earlier, as my daughter and I struggle up them to face the shared daily ordeal of tea, bath and bed-time. I clockwatch as the minutes crawl by from 5.30pm to 7pm, awaiting my husband's return from work.

Tea-time last night was fraught. Unlike we adults K does not engage in social pretensions. When she doesn't like food, she waves it away with an imperious gesture. I admire her honesty, as well as resenting it.

Enthroned in her ergonomic high chair, which I wish I could say I scrub down nightly, but don't, she watched me scrabble in the freezer for food, heat it, decant it, and ferry it to her. Cue the dismissive wave. Still just 5.30pm? Surely not.

Sweet potato and chicken was rejected, before she relented slightly and consented to eat a little. Apple puree got a warmer reception. Her biscuit was an outright success. She placed it in her hand, then put her bunched up fist, containing the biscuit, in her mouth, and sat like that for about ten minutes, sucking in a contemplative fashion.

At 5.45pm my husband got home and caused me to rethink my views on this time of day. For in his hands was a bunch of luminous pink roses, for me.

Posted 28 April 2007 06:39 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Daughters Home Husband Food

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

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

Daughters Granny Home

Second of the first birthdays

After the buzzer went at last, ending that pre-party hiatus of waiting, our visitors began arriving. First, though, they had to ascend the escalier en colimaçon, or spiral staircase, so typical of New Town "stairs", as they call blocks of flats up here, that wends its way up two floors to the eyrie of our flat.

In their arms were bottles (for once containing wine, as well as milk) and babies togged up in party kit for this joint birthday party. Light poured in from the domed cupola up above the stair; a trio of balloons sellotaped to the front door welcomed them.

Just over a year ago we were couples who barely knew each other save to sit awkwardly at NCT ante-natal classes and engage in abstract pursuits such as debating the most appropriate modern childcare techniques. Since then, things have become a trifle less academic as we've battled with sleepless nights and crying babies. We've moved from coupledom to family life and also, somewhere along the way, become friends.

K had already presided with magisterial good humour over an earlier celebration, attended mostly by family, on her proper birthday. She was equally enchanted at this knees-up with her friends. Although the two events shared a common purpose, they were very different to each other. Celebrating with other families, whose trajectory has been so similar to ours, somehow served to reinforce what we've all done and become in the past 12 months, as if we mirrored and bolstered each other.

Posted 23 April 2007 13:32 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

Daughters Edinburgh Friends Home Husband

Daddy on porridge strike

I have to wonder about the wisdom of complete candour in these posts. After making fun of J for his fanatical concern about K's morning porridge intake, he's done what any sensible person would and downed his spatula, tidied away his recipes and gone on porridge strike.

He hasn't actually mentioned my cheekiness, but said with unusual firmness a couple of days ago that K needed milk, not porridge, first thing, the time when he's looking after her, and would I mind doing her "pairritch", as Robert Louis Stevenson calls it in Kidnapped. So when I got up this morning, just before he set off for work, the Jordans Organic Porridge Oats lay unopened on the worktop, awaiting my ministrations.

I forgot to ask him before he left for the recipe he created to make specially small baby-sized quantities and couldn't face ploughing through the crusty recipe books where he might have left it, so decided to wing it. As I might have mentioned, I'm not really much of a morning person, and this turned out to be a mistake.

First I tried the porridge in the microwave but it all boiled over so there was nothing left in the bowl. Like a porridge volcano, really. I wiped up all the mess with kitchen towels.

I thought it might be easier on the hob, but had to keep adding more oats, as it looked too runny. It still didn't look right and the oats somehow bloated outwards, which meant I had to add lots more milk to get the texture like I'd seen it when J made it.

Unfortunately I ran out of the full-fat milk that K's meant to have in her food and had to resort to semi-skimmed, before I ran out of that too, and got the skimmed out. Of course, what with hunting around in the fridge for milk, it all burnt horribly and even now, as I write this several hours later, the pan is still sitting in the sink, waiting for me to scrub it out.

The quantities came out wrong too, but I've dolloped scoops of the stuff into little plastic boxes and put them in the freezer. K seemed happy enough with what I finally produced for her, though not as ecstatic as I might have hoped given the effort involved. I'm wondering how I can face serving up more of the same frozen gloop. As a Scot, I don't think I have much choice. This is my country's national dish. I shall have to show some Scottish grit and return to the oat face tomorrow.

Posted 23 March 2007 14:12 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

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