Kit

PostingDouble trouble

Nipper360Double_Small.jpgCan anyone reading this blog advise on double buggies? I'm thinking of buying this fellow (the Nipper Double 360, pictured left) but I'd welcome any comments on what's worked well for other people. It's a contentious area. People spend as much on buggies nowadays as they would on a second-hand car. They've become a status symbol by which new parents define themselves. I'll never dare show my face at playground again if I don't get this decision right. And it's a tricky area; views on double buggies seems to divide like the Red Sea.

The main political fault lines are between people who favour:

a) double decker buggies (Phil and Ted) that stack one kid on top of the other.

and those who insist on the superior benefits of:

b) side-by-side models (like the Nipper 360).

It's a bit like the difference between people who like eating olives - and those who can't stand them. There's no middle ground. You have to belong to one camp or the other. You either like them, or you don't. Superficially, you know it shouldn't matter, but deep down you can't help forming judgements about a person on the basis of things like their taste in olives and double buggies.

Personally, I'm not keen on the Phil and Ted approach. There, I've said it. A paediatrician friend warned me she'd treated lots of children who got their hands stuck in the wheels of double-decker models. She's seen gruesome things, that girl. Also, she has four kids of her own. So knows a thing or two about twin buggies.

Plus, I can't imagine it does much for sibling harmony if one child spends her formative years in the lower bunk. The view ahead an outline of older child's backside.

But then, the side-by-sides aren't the solution to everything either. I can remember years of petty bickering with my sister (thirteen - yes, just thirteen - months' age difference between us) in one of them.

I've also become horribly superstitious. When we do decide on a buggy I'm going to ask the pram company to send the chosen vehicle to my mum's. Until the baby arrives. Still can't believe this is happening. Despite the kicks in my stomach as I type. Felt this same way with Beanie. Was only when the midwife wheeled a plastic cot into the delivery room it sank in properly - my God, there was going to be a  baby. Now I look back at the years before she arrived, and think, "Where was she then? Who was looking after her if she wasn't with me?"

Posted 16 June 2008 11:49 | Number of comments: 23 | Comments

Kit Out and about

PostingBathetic

Is it just me or is there something wrong with maternity wear companies that insist on getting details of your due date before they'll allow you to buy any of their kit? After a fruitless trip to our local shopping centre (my most hated place on earth) I decided to buy my maternity 'bathers' on-line. The retailer made me fill out pages of forms - before we got to the section on my baby's due date. None of their business, I thought, and tried to ignore it. In vain. Now I will probably be receiving weekly emails from a retailer with the same name as a Californian pop group. Grits teeth.

Posted 19 January 2008 12:11 | Number of comments: 9 | Comments

Kit

PostingBleeping 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

PostingRing and a prayer

navidad11_Small.jpg Just before the sky darkened this afternoon, I made it out of the house for the first time in three days. I almost skipped along the street, it was such a relief to be somewhere, anywhere that wasn't my bedroom and did not contain damp laundry, memories of round-the-clock nausea, or a re-purposed waste bin. A trip to an out-of-town shopping centre on Christmas Eve might even have lifted my spirits, I was at such a low ebb.

Once I tottered outside, I felt bereft without my sick bin, like when you learn to swim and let go of the edge for the first time. But the most simple experiences assumed proportions of wonder - nodding and smiling to our neighbour - who looks like Cap'n Birdseye and stands outside his tenement in all weathers smoking and grinning through his white beard - was my most exciting, no, let me be more accurate, my only social encounter in days. (I assume he smokes outside because Mrs Birdseye refuses to tolerate it inside, but it might be a throw-back to his nautical days pacing up and down the main deck)

As we passed our local church, Va-vay noticed a sign advertising a children's service. It turned out to be starting in two minutes' time. We dithered in front of the church, not knowing whether to go in, unsure Beanie was old enough, until a man came out to welcome us.  After that, there was no turning back.

For what was one of her first church services, Beanie (twenty one months) behaved impeccably, and sat quietly most of the time on her father's knee playing with his mobile phone. She listened without a sound while the vicar talked us through the arrival in Bethlehem of Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and wise men. All was well until we got to the part where the vicar announced he would lead us in prayer:

"And now we are going to talk to God," he explained to the assembled tots and us parents.

At the call to prayer, Beanie pressed a button on the mobile, held it to her ear, assumed an expression of concentration, and piped up: "Hello?"

Who says the spirit of Christmas is dead.

Posted 24 December 2007 00:02 | Number of comments: 4 | Comments

Kit Out and about Paradoxes

PostingUnruly regulations

safe_Small.jpgHere'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: 12 | Comments

Childcare Domestic chaos Home Kit Missing sanity Perfectionism Safety Books

PostingNew beginnings

So, the weekend away. The child-free weekend away.

Surreal moment in Manchester Airport en route to Waterford, in Ireland. Was pushing a trolley between terminals. That felt natural: I'm used to pushing things. Looked down. Couldn't see a toddler in front of me.

Ohmigod, where was she? Where was Beanie? Panicked.

Remembered. Big sigh of relief - she was at nursery. While I was supposed to be learning to enjoy myself on my own again.

Va-vay said before I left: "If you don't come back having enjoyed yourself, I'll make you go away again."

Mad paranoia before I left. I started worrying someone might steal Beanie from nursery while I was away. Phoned a friend. Who was kind enough not to sound exasperated but persuaded me my fears were groundless; talked me onto the plane.

As for the wedding itself, beautiful. The sun shone on our corner of Ireland. The priest who conducted the ceremony could have been in showbiz. A "character" we all agreed afterwards. Straight out of Father Ted.

As we waited for the bride to arrive, a red butterfly fluttered in an arched window of the church. She arrived to Pachelbel's Canon in D, played on the harpsichord. Never fails to bring tears to my eyes, that music. The groom looked so proud to be marrying such a lovely girl.

They certainly knew how to party. The party went on until five am, with lots of singing, dancing, drinking and talking. I managed to last until one o'clock. Late by my enfeebled standards.

It was lonely without Va-vay. Made me realise how lucky I am to be with him. Reminded me of the start to our family life.

The wedding seemed made up of couples, like when I was 'properly' single. At the dinner, I sat next to other 'singleton' at the event, a nice Irish diplomat who told me it was difficult in his line of work to find a wife, because nowadays women want careers, and are reluctant to go through the upheaval of moving country every three years.

Our table had a book on how long the speeches would last.

On Sunday morning, I got up, made myself a cup of tea and went back to bed to read the papers. For the first time in the eighteen months since I became a mother.

At the security check on the way home, officials searched my belongings. The woman found my diary and opened it. The pages fell open where I'd left a picture of Beanie on her first birthday. The official looked at the photo. Looked at me. Smiled. Stopped the search. Waved me through.

Posted 17 September 2007 15:41 | Number of comments: 13 | Comments

Fun Holidays Out and about Kit

PostingSilver spoon

HarrietAugust07046_Small.JPGAfter yesterday inflicting on you the picture of an Indian lady breastfeeding a monkey, which all of us agreed was pretty vile, I've got something much cuter to show you today. This is a picture of a fantastic piece of ergonomic baby kit that one of Va-vay's work colleagues, a lady who lives in Egypt, kindly gave us. I'd never seen one of them before, I'm not even sure they're available in this country. The beauty of the shape is it allows babies to hold their cutlery more like an adult would hold a knife, as parents will tell you babies tend to do anyway. So Beanie can wrap a tiny fist around the stem, then still heap up her petit filou, fish pie or whatever, and convey it thence to her tummy, a process which is much harder for her with a conventional rubber toddler spoon. We're not sure yet if Beanie's right or left-handed. Probably right-handed. Hoping so, anyway, as this lovely spoon will work only for right-handed toddlers. But don't worry, Beanie. No pressure.

Posted 04 September 2007 10:50 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Friends Kit

PostingLearning the lingo

036_Small.JPGReading a piece in The Times about neologisms that are creeping into the language, I started to think about some of the mother-and-baby ones they missed from their list, which included gems like blogosphere (hurrah!), biopiracy, embed and podcast.

Here are some newly coined words and phrases for parents that I've encountered recently. Please let me know if you agree or disagree with them, and about others you've stumbled across.

1. Travel system

Or, to give it the full title, a 3-in-1 travel system. A complex arrangement of plastic, wheels, buckles and straps, costing the annual GDP of Moldova, that mysteriously transforms into car seat, forward-facing pram, rear-facing buggy, rocket ship and Formula One racing car. With optional footmuff and air conditioning. Special prizes available for anyone who can fathom the crypic instruction manual while pregnant or recovering from childbirth. (Pictured above is another kind of 'travel system' altogether)

2. 'Bye bye' - as transitive verb. 'To bye bye' meaning 'to dismiss'

Not strictly a neologism, but usage has changed. 'To bye-bye' is to wave away undesired objects. Example: "She bye byed away the broccoli as she was no longer hungry and waved for Petit Filou." When Beanie gets bored with something she says 'bye bye' to indicate I should remove it.

3. Develo-play

Wheeze to persuade parents of young babies that buying certain toys will boost early motor skills. Often billed as 'interactive'. How the human race survived so long without this stuff at its disposal I can hardly begin to imagine. It wasn't like this back in the late 60's when I was a kid. Cue Last of Summer Wine music.

4. Infant stimulation

The big buzz word of childcare. Surely a ruse dreamt up by toy makers' marketing teams, who have realised they can persuade parents to shell out on tonnes of unwanted and largely useless plastic by laying a guilt trip on them and suggesting that without these toys, children's development will be delayed? Baby Einstein provides CDs of classical music suitable for under-ones.

5. Baby gym

A nest of fabric and colour, with toys dangling from above, for newborn babies to explore.

6. Soft play

Perhaps designed to soothe our fears that children might get hurt while engaging in the rough-and-tumble normal to early childhood.  Little about this experience is soft.

7. Discovery cards

Remember flash cards? They've had a make-over. This is: "the perfect on-the-go learning activity for babies and toddlers"

8. Teether book

Book with plastic edges for babies to bite and chew on while teething.

9. Pacifier

Dummies are increasingly popular with modern parents. And they have a new name, borrowed from North America. Let's face it, pacifier doesn't have the same negative connotations as dummy.

Anyone know of any others?

Posted 30 August 2007 09:40 | Number of comments: 23 | Comments

Childcare Etiquette Kit Perfectionism Play

PostingNew me

Let's start with the good news. A mere 15 months after the Bean's arrival, I have slimmed down to the point where I no longer need to wear my old maternity clothes. People have, thank God, stopped a) asking when the baby's due (from the more brazen) and b) looking pointedly at my stomach.

And the bad news? The bad news is:

1. Trauma of ridding wardrobe of old and beloved maternity pantaloons

2. I have hardly any normal clothes left, not ones I fit into or could use anyway

3. After 15 months with a mix of statutory maternity pay and part-time freelance work, there's not much money to buy new threads.

4. The worst bit - I'm not doing very well at coming to terms with a symbolic end to The Bean's baby years.

First I piled up all my old maternity trousers, with their funny elasticated rigging that I dimly remember once, long, long ago, striking me as peculiar. They now seem alarmingly normal. The strange tweed maternity skirt from the Formes sale that I had to keep hitching up over my bump even at nine months. Cheap tops from Dorothy Perkins that fell apart in the wash.

Then I set to work on all the breastfeeding gear - breastfeeding nighties, breastfeeding camisoles, breastfeeding winter tops, breastfeeding T-shirts. Looking at the unironed pile of flannel on my bedroom floor, I did wonder if breastfeeding really does work out cheaper than bottles; that lot must have filled the NCT coffers by a few hundred quid. Here, too, it was hard to say goodbye. Flannel is very comfortable against the skin, you know.

Like maternity clothes, breastfeeding tops are another clothing peculiarity. From afar they seem normal, that is until you inspect them more closely and see the strange flaps, slits, panelling and apertures tucked away. The sight of them brought back happy memories: on a trip to the local art shop, the owner had to point out to me I'd neglected to close the flaps up again after feeding The Bean. Oops. Very bohemian.

About a dozen lovely glamorous greying nursing bras, including the badly-fitted one that had me in agony with a blocked duct, followed them into a storage basket. Even after all the early traumas of breastfeeding I was upset to see them all go, but I've steeled myself to draw a line and move on.

Then the following day, in one of those coincidences that are so uncannily in tune with personal circumstances they really shouldn't be a coincidence, a woman in the street stopped me to ask if I knew any good maternity wear shops in Edinburgh. I suppose she must have guessed I'd know, judging from The Bean's age. As I pointed up the hill to one place, tears welled up in my eyes, I cut the conversation short, and pushed The Bean away.

Update later the same day... it seems I spoke too soon. My kind neighbour saw me struggling in with five shopping bags earlier, and insisted on carrying two of them up the stairs to our second floor flat.... because she thought I was expecting. This is just intolerable. I look more pregnant than some of the women who really are. I have had to explain again I am not pregnant, though God knows I wish I were, (I spared her that part) and that I had a miscarriage. She looked mortified at her mistake, and I have just come off the phone to Va-vay in floods of tears.

Posted 30 July 2007 11:33 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Childcare Edinburgh Kit Pregnancy Breastfeeding Miscarriage Money

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

PostingFamily outing

Wildflower Garden FlotterstoneIt's an effort to have a family day out, but these days the effort's more than worth it, especially now The Bean is a little bit older. It wasn't always like that.

For about a year after she was born I was too scared to leave the square mile around home. Can't say why, but the post-natal world can be a scary place. I began to think dragons lurked outside the city centre.

Also the effort of getting anywhere with a baby seemed to outweigh any actual pleasure from the outing.

Then in February we bought our first car, after I finally got fed up with the hassle of getting a buggy on a bus.

We've spent the last few months practising our driving and today headed out to some of the hills surrounding Edinburgh for a day in the countryside.

Even a few months ago a trip like today's would have involved 70% hard work to 30% enjoyment. Today's ratio was the exact reversal - lots more fun than effort. The Bean's Dad and I held hands a lot and didn't even bicker about the route.

The Bean perched aloft her father's back in her Vamoose rucksack, surveying cows, flowers, hills and trees with intense curiosity. While covered in a rain hood that made her look like a trainee bee-keeper.

We marched along muddy paths, past old filter beds, stopping in the Wildflower Garden to smell the honeysuckle (pictured), until we reached the Glencourse Reservoir, which provides some of the city's water.

We got some great pictures of The Bean playing with buttercups, surrounded by long grass nearly as tall as her.

Even though we're city-dwellers, I'd like it if The Bean learns something about the countryside, as I love the outdoors. "Look, Beanie! Cows!" her father and I chorused. Then mooed in unison. Good fun.

The Vamoose carrier got properly broken in, too - it's mud-spattered! So not just another piece of expensive, hardly-used kit she'll outgrow in months, unlike a lot of the stuff we bought when she first arrived.

We even managed a bite to eat at the child-friendly and welcoming Flotterstone Inn on the way back. I hardly felt traumatised or hassled at all during the entire trip - a novel sensation. Now I can't wait for our next outing.

 

Posted 08 July 2007 20:55 | Number of comments: 12 | Comments

Car Daughter Edinburgh Fun Husband Kit Likes/Dislikes Out and about

PostingHappy campers

The first family holiday is a shock. Ours wasn't a holiday at all, not in the strictest sense. We worked harder than I've done in some paying jobs. It was hard graft. Day and night. Each evening I squirted my milk into a bowl and mixed it up with powdered baby rice for my daughter. I still remember the sound it made hitting the plastic. It was fun. But in an unfamiliar, cow-like way. I felt sad at losing the old freedoms. In private, I cried.

Back in the heady days of coupledom we used to book a cheap flight somewhere, then wing it, smug about being proper "travellers". We only once came to grief, descending from a Cevennol mountain to find a room for the night in the valley. A Festival de Cinema had taken all the accommodation in a 10k radius. No room in the inn. Again, I cried. A lot. It worked.

The nice monsieur in the local hotel rang round. After many worried looks, he found us somewhere and sent us off with rabbit stew for our supper. After all he'd done for us, I had no heart to confess my husband was vegetarian. The cottage was grim; no windows. The bed too small to accommodate me or husband. I woke several times with nightmares, unsure if awake or asleep. A long night.

We left the next day, both blaming the other, and got a room in the hotel, which all the actors had by then finally left. We stayed for two days, because we had no money and the one cashpoint in the village was in a shop that didn't open until then. The hotel staff asked every time they saw me "Ca va mieux?", which seemed to translate as "You're not going to have a nervous breakdown on our premises, are you?"

Not wishing to risk a repeat of this on a family holiday, we've agreed to plan ahead. I'm not experienced in any of this, but we're ruling out hotels. Either we'd have to leave daughter alone in the room while we got our meal. Or sit there in silence and darkness from 7pm.

The obvious solution would be self-catering. But that would mean booking a place for a week or fortnight, and then we'd be stuck. I've a yen for adventure, and would love some of the old spontaneity.

So we're investigating tents. I discovered on Saturday tent brands are named after birds. Buzzard, Hawk, Shrike. It speaks of freedom. Prairie, Roadrunner, Vista, Oregon, Halo, Aurora. Challenge and adventure. In my imagination, I'm there. But our daughter is already ahead of us. Her Pop-Up Activity Tent arrived home yesterday. Mine, however, will be waterproof.

Posted 03 June 2007 20:19 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Daughter Dilemmas Fun Husband Kit Mistakes Out and about Toys Work

PostingToys 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. Err... doh!

"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.

This should be so obvious. How do people get grants to do this kind of research? Surely it just confirms what every parent already knows.

So much of the report's findings sounds like common sense.

"To have parents read to their children is much more important than having a hundred books," says the report. Well, yes. Kind of a no-brainer, surely?

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

Again, not a hard one to figure out. 

But actually, on second thoughts, maybe this is useful research. In fact, 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.

I mean, my goodness, 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.

Yes, maybe this does have all sorts of useful applications. Perhaps Dr Gutman could circulate her research to health professionals. That might deal with my health visitor who was on about why we needed a baby "gym" to help with "infant stimulation".

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

Actually, what the research proves is that I should have listened to my daughter. She's had the right idea for months.

She's far more interested in parental interaction than toys.

Her top-favourite thing right now is when I put a muslin over my head, pop my sunglasses on top of the cloth and do my Mrs Muzzlepops/Yasser Arafat impersonation.

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

Daughter Home Kit Play Toys

PostingMum splits with buggy

After fighting temptation for months, I've given in to the inevitable. Yesterday I spurned my faithful travelling companion of many months for a lightweight feller-me-lad I met on the Internet, whose slim good looks and fancy orange top seduced me with their superficial charm. I'm being like Prince William. It doesn't feel good, it certainly doesn't feel right, but boy, does it make those Edinburgh hills easier to tackle.

For more than a year I've pushed K around town, across beaches and up hills in the Jane Slalom Pro, a stylish "all-terrain" three-wheeler chariot whose trendy disc brakes have excited more than a little interest from male acquaintance, from which K smiles graciously at admirers and bestows regal waves.

The Jane Pro is a bit like the BMW of the pram world - expensive, sturdy, comfortable - with good engineering you feel you can trust. This new pram, the Maclaren Volo Saffron - nicknamed Vol-au-Vent -  is more like a toy for pushing dollies around in, not real babies.

It was J who chose the Jane Pro, since I was in such a hormonally-induced daze while expecting that I tuned out as soon as shop assistants started clicking "travel systems" together, but I've always been  proud of it. A few weeks after K made her appearance a young doctor looked at the Jane Pro with something like respect in her eyes. "You can go running with those, you know," she offered. I snorted with derision, but a couple of months later I was racing round Inverleith Park (also, incidentally, home to Scotland's Axe-Throwing Championships) with K in the buggy in a mums-and-babies exercise class, and it was one of my highlights from that post-natal period.

The only problem - and with Edinburgh being so hilly, this really is a problem - is that the Jane weighs about 10.5kg,  or around 1.5 stone. The Vol-au-vent, on the other hand, tips the scales at just 3.9kg.  The Jane's also bulky and hard to fold. I vowed that after spending so much on the Jane I wouldn't buy another pram but the Vol-au-vent came up cheap on the excellent Kiddicare site, full of bargain baby kit.

The turning point came after yet another sweaty struggle on the buses last week, where I had to enlist help from two strangers, even though I was with Granny, to get the pram folded and stowed away.

The new pram's not a patch on the old -  you can feel every bump in the pavement jarring  your  hands and arms, cobbles (another big Edinburgh feature) are a killer, and it's so flimsy and lightweight it's feels more like a mobile deckchair than a proper buggy. But the acid test came this morning when pushing K up the hill to nursery: it was a breeze compared with shoving the Jane inch by inch to the top. Even so, I'll be planning my routes carefully, so I can wheel out the Jane any time I'm going somewhere without buses or hills involved. You see, it's the one, even if I need to flirt with others from time to time.

Posted 17 April 2007 15:23 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

Daughter Edinburgh Husband Kit