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Out and about
Leave our kids alone
Edinburgh Council wants to cut the city's education budget by 9% over the next three years. Our children will suffer if these cuts go ahead. Jobs, facilities, even entire schools are on the line.
Stand up and make your voice heard at a carnival next Tuesday (9 Feb), after school. It runs from 4.15
to 4.45pm outside the City Chambers (pictured) on Edinburgh's High Street, opposite St Giles' Cathedral.
All affected by the cuts are welcome to attend. It'll be a child-friendly event. Please bring your kids along.
Be there
Meet up with groups at local schools after pick-up. Or make your way to the City Chambers on your own. The more of us there, the more attention we'll get.
Organisers are asking people to bring along musical instruments, sports kit, art work and drama costumes. Get your kids in face paints or fancy dress.
Bring banners, have fun
Mine will bring tiaras, wings and wands. Please bring along banners too. The message is "No more cuts".
Make them see sense
Last
year's protests were enough to change Edinburgh Council's decision on the
cuts. This year the plan is to show we are more worried, and even more engaged. Let's get out on the streets next Tuesday. We can make the council see sense.
We might not be strong enough as individuals. Together, we can do it.
Here's an audio briefing on the issues.
Bruntsfield has more details on the carnival here
Apple a day
Friday was one of those glorious autumn days when much-discussed hopes of an Indian summer finally materialised, so it seemed only right to indulge in a spot of apple picking in Granny's back garden. After all, the sun was shining and ripe apples were - quite literally - dropping about our feet in what felt like a series of Keatsian moments. It would have been a shame to let all that lovely fruit - and ambience - go to waste.
I began by picking fruit with my hands from the lower branches, being careful, of course, not to get mud on my new sheepskin boots while stretching across flower beds. Then I moved on to a clothes pole, which proved just the thing for knocking fruit down from higher branches. Granny sensibly removed Button to a place of safety as apples tumbled down around us. Not so much clothes pole as mediaeval jousting spear.
In no time at all, we filled up two large plastic bags with the cookers, easy to forget how much bigger they are than eating apples. Granny brought out more bags; we filled those too.
That evening, back home, we feasted on baked apples, stuffed with raisins, honey and cinnamon. Topped off with a tin of custard. I love eating in tune with the seasons, I am the most die-hard townie, but that makes me feel more in harmony with nature.
The next day I gouged, cut, cored, peeled, quartered, sugared and boiled about twenty more apples. Husband Va-vay even made a special trip to the shops to buy more plastic tubs for freezing the apple puree.
Oh, the satisfaction of a job well done. The pleasure of packing away rows of small boxes, each with their freezer-proof label stating date and contents. A proud moment, if I might be allowed to say so.
Granny rang on Sunday evening to enquire about the apples.
"How did you get on?" she asked.
"Pretty well," I said. "I've done a big batch of them."
Then she popped round on Monday morning and looked round the kitchen.
"I thought you said you'd done a big batch of apples," she said.
"I did," I told her, trying not to sound hurt. "I made a tonne of puree and we've been baking them too."
"What are all these, then?" she said, pointing to half a dozen repurposed plant pots, scattered around the kitchen, each one of them packed with apples.
"Those are the rest of them."
"Ah," said Granny. "Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. They used to keep cookers until Christmas."
Button Daughters Edinburgh Food Fun Granny Health Home Out and about
Manna
None of us were expecting to find one of Beanie's snacks growing on
the slopes of Ben Lawers. You can miss a lot, not knowing where
to look. We discovered that when we spent this weekend in Perthshire, (staying at the wonderful Kiltyrie Farmhouse), and tackled one of Scotland's highest mountains.
Fourteen shimmering miles of loch lay far below us in the valley.
The sun had broken through low cloud cover, rain was holding off and we could hear rushing water in the brook
that gave Ben Lawers its name; (in Gaelic, Beinn
Labhair means Hill of the Loud Stream). We loaded Button (aged one)
into a carrier on her father's back, strapped on our walking boots and set
off up the path towards the summit of the 1,200-metre massif.
Only a mile into the walk I could feel my pelvis begin to ache. Struggling for breath, I stopped walking, sat
down with a thud on the path verge, pulled out my water bottle and began to gulp at it.
"Do you know what these are?" said my husband, pointing to a shrub by the path. The
shrub in question had small, boat-shaped leaves, and a speckled look.
It was growing so close to the ground, it was almost indistinguishable
from the heather, saxifrage, and other plants growing nearby. In many years of hillwalking, I'd never even noticed this plant before. Had we stopped further up the mountain, we would have missed it altogether.
I think I would climb a mountain any day, dodgy pelvis or not, for the pleasure of watching
Beanie's joy at picking fruit on a hillside, seeing blueberry juice
stain her face purple, knowing she will understand that good things do
not always come pre-packaged from supermarkets. Sometimes, in fact, they're right there next to us,
waiting for us to notice them, even if we need someone else to point them out.
Travel bag
We came on our French holiday with Keycamp without a car - unusual for this sort of holiday - after catching the Edinburgh-Poitiers flight. That has not stopped us getting about - we are just using other modes of transport. Tonight we surveyed our collection of buggies, cycles and assorted travelling paraphernalia parked outside our mobile home. Here is an inventory:
1. One brand-new Maclaren buggy (black and grey), brought from home. Excellent for city streets. Disastrous in sandy conditions.
2. Two all-terrain buggies, standard Keycamp issue (small hire fee). Fixed front wheel. Can be dragged across sand dunes, rather like Scott hauling his sledge acoss Antarctica. Except weather here rather better.
3. One infant car seat. From home; for taxis.
4. One booster seat. Doubles as toy. Also from home.
5. One bicycle. Hired from Keycamp. For visiting beach, pine forests, supermarket, restaurants and countryside.
6. One bicycle with Hoppelopnikon* attached. Also hired from Keycamp.
*A Hoppelopnikon is a trailer where small children can be stowed and towed. In fact, it should probably be named a 'Stow N Tow' - except that Button sees the whole contraption as an affront to her peace and happiness. So, for her, it should probably be named 'Instrument of Cruel and Unusual Torture'. That said, by the end of today, Button was warming to being towed along: Beanie likes it very much; she said it was 'like being in a wee house.'
7. One red wheelbarrow-type contraption for hauling small children, bags and shopping. Would do Santa Claus proud.
Windy city
The combination of hills and gales make Edinburgh tricky to navigate. I am pushing Button uphill in the Tank (imagine an armoured vehicle, but without the weapons of mass destruction) with one hand. With the other I am holding Beanie's hand. The ferocious wind is slowing progress. "Want cuddle, Mummy," says Beanie. I put the Tank brake on, and pick Beanie up with both hands. The wind is lashing our hair about our faces. As if in slow motion, the wind shifts, catches the buggy containing Button and whips it backwards. The Tank overturns, tipping Button back towards the pavement. My heart jumps out my chest. I thank my lucky stars I remembered to buckle Button into her seat before we set off. She is sprawling at pavement level in her harness but looks unharmed. And unpeturbed. Beanie and I rush to her side, expecting her to scream in distress. She just looks slightly taken aback. But pleased to be getting attention. I right the buggy. Look around - both daughters present and correct. The tight, panicky feeling in my chest subsides. And they call Chicago the Windy City?
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.
Activities Buses Daughters Edinburgh Fun Home Husband Out and about Paradoxes
"Eglantine, Eglantine...."
After promising to post at least once a week, I've been most remiss in failing to hit my stated target. Apologies. I'm not yet back at (paid) work but, as many of you would know, life spent looking after two small children is busy (I've written this before, haven't I?) - and also, let's be honest here, more fun than messing about in the blogosphere. Am stealing a few moments to write this as both girls watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks - only the eighteenth such viewing in two weeks. This is a quick round-up post. Beanie has started ballet lessons and I am extremely proud. Va-vay is singing again - mostly snatches from Beanie's DVDs, a sample being "Eglantine, Eglantine, my how you shine!" We have joined Edinburgh Zoo - a year's family membership costs a stiff £110, but since we've already been there three times in just one week, and an individual visit costs close to £30, it's not looking like bad value. Button finds her elder sister vastly entertaining and does everything in her ability to copy Beanie's escapades. Just as soon as Button can get that second arm out she'll be crawling. We have embraced soft play. The dreaded Nipper 360 Out and About buggy - I went for the side-by-side model in the end, not the stacking Phil and Ted version, which might, hard to be sure, but might have been a mistake - is finally proving more biddable. I've overcome my faulty spatial dynamics chip (the same one that gives me problems with parking, though on the plus side this means I have met several nice neighbours who park the car for me) to judge door width and manoeuvre the buggy's vast girth. We trundle over with the beast of burden to the Botanics most days. We still help fuel the brisk trade in babycinos and dinosaur boxes in local cafes. The washing basket has magically acquired the ability to reproduce on its own. Hourly. I am doing a few botanical courses that I'm enjoying. All ordinary stuff - but I'm loving it. Well, okay, maybe not the washing, but the rest of it. I'm going to be helping the Pelvic Partnership, a charity that helps women with pregnancy-related pelvic girdle pain, with generating press coverage. On a less positive note, training for June's Moon Walk has faltered, since most evenings I'm good for nothing but supper and bed. All normal, I know. But since I've started collecting sponsorship money for the walk, I have no excuse for this kind of loafing about and plan to start pounding the Edinburgh pavements again at the end of this week. Some kind readers have already generously given money for the cause - many thanks again to you all. The event aims to raise money to support women with breast cancer and fund research into treatment. I know money is tight for lots of people right now, but if anyone can spare a few pounds for this worthy cause it'd be much appreciated. You can donate on-line here.
Two readers each won a copy of Instructions Not Included, Charlotte Moerman's book about bringing up her three small boys. They are Kate Stewart Roper and Avril Davidson.
Okay, and on that note I can hear from the TV that Eglantine, Mr Brown and the children have despatched the Nazis back to Germany with the help of family solidarity, Walt Disney and a few magic spells. My signal to close here.
Activities Daughters Edinburgh Fun Out and about Pelvic girdle pain/SPD
Giant step for womankind
Anyone who saw me seven months ago, when pelvic pain in pregnancy made it a struggle
to reach the end of the street, might be surprised - and pleased too, I hope - to hear I've signed
up for this year's Moon Walk
- a fund-raiser for Walk the Walk, a charity which supports women affected by breast cancer and
funds research into this dreaded illness. It's amazing the difference a
few months and some decent physiotherapy can make. The walk will take me, together with my fellow
walker and great friend Vanessa from Fidra Books,
much further than the end of the street. Together with around 12,000
other people, we'll be walking 13 miles through the darkened streets of
Edinburgh on the night of 20th/21st June. A close friend of mine is
fighting breast cancer and my mother has recently lost a friend to it. Nearer the time, I'll be asking you if you can spare a few quid in
sponsorship for this fantastic cause.
We have begun our training. But no point in overdoing things. Vanessa, who writes here
about her motivation for doing the walk, and I are building up slowly
to the full 13 miles. This is humbling. Five years ago, I
could walk 20 miles in a day without undue effort. Last week we managed
our first two practice walks - of three miles. It was
knackering. My legs hurt. My pelvis hurt. Worst of all, my pride hurt. This week, we might - might - tackle four miles.
But what a difference compared to being pregnant with Button. One
Saturday in summer last year, ten days overdue, I made it as far as the fabric
department of a local store. Quite an achievement in those days. All
around us, women were trying out pink feathers, sequins and ribbons,
giggling and holding them up to their chests to see what they looked like. "What's
going on?" I asked the assistant. "It's the Moon Walk tonight," she
explained. "It's to decorate their bras for the Moon Walk. To raise money for breast cancer." That was my introduction to the event. I'm thrilled - and only just a little bit daunted - that this year, all being well, I'll be out walking the walk too.
Coming up soon: reviews of My Bump and Me, by Myleene Klass, and Instructions Not Included; One Mum, Three Boys and a Very Steep Learning Curve, by Charlotte Moerman.
Button Edinburgh Friends Out and about Pelvic girdle pain/SPD
Blog re-think
Regular readers of this blog might have noticed I haven't been posting much of late. Sorry about that. I do have a good excuse. New baby and all that. Many of you being mothers yourselves, there's little need to describe the chaos - joyful chaos, mind, but still chaos - involved in caring for a newborn. But Button is now more than six months old, sleeping through the night, eating three bowls of gloop daily (if you don't count the stuff that goes on her bibs) and beaming at us the rest of the time from her bouncy chair in the kitchen. Life has settled into some kind of tentative new equilibrium. I must admit I feel nervous writing things like that. As if tempting fate to throw everything up in the air again. Really hoping that doesn't happen. Could quite enjoy a nice, calm stretch of time. Facing nothing more momentous than a new route for the nursery run. Or going to this place for morning coffee; instead of this one. Life on a grand scale. But anyway, it's time to revisit the blog. After a longish gap from regular posting, I'm taking the opportunity to rethink what I want this site to be about. Until I work that out, my plan is to post around once a week on random subjects connected with pregnancy and parenting, none of them, it must be said, particularly connected with being a late starter mum, just things I personally happen to find interesting and that could be relevant to mums of all ages. Have done a couple of recent postings on help for pelvic pain in pregnancy, a subject close to my heart since, like an estimated one in five of all pregnant women, I suffered from the condition myself in both my pregnancies, and I'll be posting more on this subject from time to time. Partly to promote awareness of the problem, partly to offer support to women left immobile in their pregnancies by it. On a lighter note, now that I'm back on my feet and getting out and about more, I'll also be writing more about local activities in Edinburgh for toddlers and babies, looking at what's available and providing a few reviews. Last month I started classes in this practice, (pictured) which Button and I are both loving, and at some point in the next couple of weeks I'll be writing more about my experiences there. I've already posted about my adventures in the local park with other neighbourhood mums. There'll be other postings, too, looking at the pros and cons of different activities such as Baby Cinema, playgroups and the like.
Blogging Daughters New baby Out and about Pelvic girdle pain/SPD
Coming soon to a park near you....
Have joined a local exercise class that gets a group of new mums running round the park pushing their babies in buggies as they go. There's nothing like that shared sense of us all experiencing the same pelvic sagginess that the classes are designed to correct. In full formation we make quite a sight. As you might imagine, there's no shortage of comments from passers-by, almost all supportive, if also amused. "Holidays are over, girls," shouted one old lady to us, giggling as we trundled past. Another shook her head as she saw us, turned to her dog, then said: "You couldn't make this up." Someone else yelled over: "Well done!" and I wanted to hug her. New daughter (blog name yet to be decided) was delighted with the entertainment provided and grinned her appreciation at me from her cocoon. When all the mothers lay down on their waterproof mats for floor exercises she became a little fretful, obviously worried the power-walkers had taken mummy hostage, since I was out of sight to her up in the buggy. But she settled again quickly when I took her down from her buggy onto the picnic blanket with me. This is one of the areas where a class like this scores so highly - you can combine it with childcare, no need to arrange babysitting or beg a partner to watch the baby. It's obviously weather-dependent and classes are sometimes rained off (though the instructor was saying they'd been out in Edinburgh's January snow a week earlier) but people get round cold weather by running in gloves, hats, thermals and even leg-warmers. Theoretically, I could save money by running around the park on my own with daughter and buggy and get the same benefits, but I wouldn't have the nerve to do it alone and, in any case, it's more fun with other people. Edinburgh park-goers - you have been warned.
Double trouble
Can 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?"
Under the wire
Six weeks until baby due date. Yesterday escaped flat for first time in days. Took daughter and her Granny out for lunch (tapas). Even managed to walk there and back, helped by orthopaedic truss under bump and lessons in this technique. In restaurant, Granny and I leapt back in horror at sight of enormous spider crab sat on counter. Waving its claws at us. Horrified eye meets. Two-year-old daughter unpeturbed.
Hoisted daughter into high chair, grappled with chair straps, slumped down, ordered usual tapas favourites. Spanish waiter made fuss of us all. Rush of pleasure at being back in world. Daughter ordered an apple juice. Looked around room. Surveyed the scene. Pronounced: "Like it."
Pregnancy made easy
How does Angelina Jolie do it? How can a pregnant woman manage to look that good? She makes pregnancy look easy. And she's expecting twins, for goodness' sake. Plus she's due in just a couple of months. But here she is, glowing with radiance in every single picture I've seen of her at this year's Cannes Film Festival. She's there to promote her new film, directed by Clint Eastwood, about a single mother in 1920s America whose son goes missing. Looking at the press pictures at lunchtime, I couldn't imagine her suffering a moment's morning sickness, joint pain, indigestion, constipation or cramp. I suppose she is an actress, part of the deal is putting a good face on things. Even when she just wants her bed. With a bottle of this elixir near to hand. But really, I must make more of an effort with my appearance.
Edinburgh Book Festival appearance
Nicola Morgan, head of the Society of Authors in Scotland, and the Edinburgh International Book Festival have asked me to do a writer's workshop at the festival in August on blogging, social networking and books. Wonderful news, but I did feel honour-bound to point out that following the collapse of The Friday Project I don't currently have a book contract. I didn't want them to take me under false pretences. Were they sure they still wanted me? Not a problem, said the organisers. They already knew all about my publisher going bust (very sorry, sure something good would come of it) and could I please talk a bit to the audience about my experiences with The Friday Project? Well, fine. I can do that. Only other snag is that I'm due to give birth just six weeks earlier. But my friend Vanessa has offered to look after the baby in the refreshment tent while I do the workshop. So looks like we're in business. Anyone in Edinburgh in August, do please come along if you get the chance. I'll do my best to make it informative and fun.
Activities Blogging Books Fashionably Late - the book Out and about
Chasing butterflies
At the weekend I took Beanie to a place called Butterfly World,
on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the city where we live. She has been
talking about it ever since. Oh, that feeling of being able to do
something that made her happy. Wonderful. Butterflies (Beanie calls
them 'flies') fluttered overhead in an old greenhouse converted into a
sort of tropical paradise. Followed us, pirouetted, swooped out of nowhere. Beanie stumbled towards them, hands held out in greeting. Trays of oranges hung from the ceiling. Butterfly nosh?
We threw money in a wishing well, inspected carp, goldfish and a
catfish, eyed up iguanas, looked at terrapins and had a quick look at the reptile and creepy crawly section in a room at the back.
Being there made my skin crawl. But Beanie and I both loved Butterfly World.
Something alarmed me, though, as I bought my ticket. Sellotaped to the
counter was an advert. It read: "For sale. A large python. £40 ono.
Friendly and easy to manage."
Back on the buses
When I was a childless Londoner I used to sneer at bureaucrats who wanted to take our beloved Routemaster buses
off the streets. Those open platforms. Too dangerous, they said.
Dangerous? Hardly, I would think, hanging off the edge of the 19 as we
travelled along the King's Road, a barrage of rain, wind and grime
blowing in my face. 
Today whenever I see a Routemaster
(the one pictured left has been turned into a cafe) it reminds me of a
vanished era of first jobs, flatsharing, overdrafts, friendships and
early love affairs, of a time when I was unafraid of life. Of my first, often
bungled steps towards becoming a grown-up. Standing on the open
platforms, holding on with one hand, I felt, well, I felt free. Almost
as free as the occasional bedraggled pigeon that used to fly on board
to join us. Arriving in London from provincial 1980s Edinburgh, there
was a thrill to standing on the open platforms, careering through the
streets of the metropolis. Able to hop on and off at will. No need to
wait for officialdom to release us at a bus stop.
They phased out the final Routemasters
a few months after I got married, left London for good and became
pregnant. It was Ken Livingstone who got rid of them. The same Ken who
once said, "Only a dehumanised moron would get rid of the Routemaster".
This weekend my husband Va-vay was in London and brought back a wooden Routemaster
bus (No 43 to London Bridge) for Beanie. To her father's dismay, she
was more interested in the body lotion he brought back for me,
discarding the bus after a cursory inspection and spending half an hour
annointing her cheeks and arms with jasmine and ylang ylang cream. As well as her eyes, mouth, hair and tongue. She
gave me a pitying smile when I pointed out to her that her two-year-old
skin didn't require hydrating. The same way I ignored my mother when
she told me I didn't need full make-up, aged 13.
As for me, all I could think of as I looked at the bus was how hard it would be get a buggy on board one of them (an issue close to my heart).
How frightening it would be if the buggy rolled back off the bus onto
the road. Whether the brake would be strong enough to keep baby and
buggy safe. Spiritually, you see, I have become as one with those bureaucrats.
Weekend, or, what if you die?
Shedworking, one of my favourite sites, is running a theatre review I wrote for them about a production of Walden, a one-man show from Magnetic North about a man who flees civilisation to live in isolation in a hut in the woods. It was great fun going to the theatre (they even gave me a complimentary press ticket, something I haven't enjoyed in years) and because I went on my own I chatted to other people in the audience afterwards. Nothing to do with late parenting, but a mini-highlight of the weekend.
Somewhat closer to home, Va-vay, Beanie and I went to our local Home Birth Support Group at the
weekend. Beanie was entranced when a pregnant lady stuck her tongue out
at her (in a friendly way) - and revealed a rather splendid tongue
piercing. I knew I needed the Support Group after I told a friend last
week I was planning a home birth and he said: "What if you die?" Huh. It's one thing for me to criticise the NHS, but I don't like it when other people do. The Support
Group nodded and smiled when I recounted all this, before bursting into tears, and said they hear this kind of thing a lot. They said that
statistically home births are safer than hospitals. That people who are
negative about you having a home birth are often just worried for you.
Beanie beamed as I sat cross-legged on the floor, weeping, then made
friends with a small boy wearing a T-Shirt saying "Born at Home". Although not yet two years old herself, Beanie loves pointing out "babies" she sees out and about, saying the word "baby" in great excitement, as if the child in question belongs to a different generation from herself. When in fact there's an age gap of twelve months between them. She
spent the rest of the event cuddling the "baby". His mum was there too. Alive and
well.
Other News
A friend is organising a fertility afternoon at the Aditi Yoga Centre
in Edinburgh on Sunday 2 March from two till five. This is a chance to
hear expert speakers on how to improve the chances of becoming
pregnant, maintaining a healthy pregnancy and much more. Topics
covered include acupuncture, chinese herbal medicine, homeopathy, mind
and the body, natural ovulatory cycle, nutrition and yoga. Open to
all. Donation £5 per person.
Activities Angst Childbirth Daughters Dilemmas Friends Fun Health Home birth Out and about Pregnancy
Auld Lang Syne
Friday 25 January is Burns' Night here in Scotland, when we celebrate the life of national hero and poet Robert 'Rabbie' Burns. Va-vay and I are excited about going to a Burns' Supper in honour of the great man - Va-vay's first Burns Night - and Va-vay has even hired a dinner suit for the occasion. He did have the option of wearing a kilt, but with him being a Sassenach (Englishman) we thought the DJ option best. I'll be wearing a flowing empire-line dress that sort of hides my bump. Erica from Littlemummy has a great guest post at Scribbit on Rabbie Burns and the tradition of Burns Suppers.
Off duty
Beanie went to Granny's for a night at the weekend. So Va-vay and I went out and painted the town red, clubbing till all hours.... okay, no, we didn't. But we did manage dinner out at one of our favourite restaurants, where we did lots of the usual soppy stuff like reminisce about how we met, dream about moving to France one day and plan our next holiday. What a treat to stroll home via Edinburgh's cobbled Georgian streets, without worrying about rushing back for babysitters. This is the first time Beanie's stayed at her Granny's in a year and my goodness, did I enjoy it. I hadn't realised how much time I spend worrying about whether she's okay when on duty. It was delicious lying there in bed not wondering if Beanie would wake up, whether I should try Calpol, or take her into bed with us. But of course, in the morning I missed her cherubic little face, the sound of her giggles, her toddler truck slamming into a wall, a half-eaten rice cake waved in greeting. We rushed over to Granny's, where we found Beanie and Granny had worn each other out - with Beanie settling only at about midnight. Beanie cried at being parted from her Granny. For her part Granny, who normally never sleeps during the day, said she planned on catching up on sleep after lunch.
Enchanted
The first-trimester nausea has gone, so I
suggest a cinema trip to an old friend. "Sure," she texts back. "How
about The Kite Runner?"
I look it up on-line and am scared even reading about it. No way can my
addled hormones handle a story of childhood betrayal, exile, civil war,
the Taliban and sexual violence. I suggest something called Enchanted - a romantic comedy that looks sufficiently non-threatening. "OK, see u there 30 mins before," texts my friend.
The only other people in the audience are teenage girls (this is the
evening showing). We are the oldest people there by about twenty years. I sense that the
matinees are probably full of eight-year-old girls.Does it matter? Not a bit. The 2-D animated opening
introduces us to Giselle and her magical animal friends who frolic and
sing in the woods. Friend and I exchange looks. I pretend to be
mock-horrified - but deep down I'm loving this film. Giselle meets a
handsome prince, who asks her to marry him. She accepts. But on the day
of the wedding, his evil stepmother, Queen Narissa, steps in to stop
the marriage, knowing she will no longer be queen if her son marries.
Narissa throws Giselle down a wishing well, saying she'll send her
to a place 'where there are no happy-ever-afters' - this turns out to
be modern-day Manhattan. However, here (in live-action) Giselle
(still in her wedding dress) eventually meets well-to-do divorce lawyer and single dad Robert, who takes her in for the night.
Robert and Giselle start to fall for each other, but things get
complicated when Queen Narissa follows Giselle to Manhattan, to be sure she's seen the last of her would-be
daughter-in-law. Narissa tracks Giselle down to a ball, where,
disguised as a toothless old hag, she finally persuades her to eat a
bite of poisoned apple.
Giselle collapses, and only the kiss of true love (delivered by
Robert) saves her life. Unfortunately, Narissa doesn't take this set-back
well, turning herself into a huge dragon and grabbing hold of Robert
before thundering out onto the roof of the skyscraper where the ball's
taking place. Giselle follows, and forces Narissa to let go of Robert.
Still in her dragon persona, Narissa falls from the roof and dissolves
into glitter on the pavement below. True love triumphs.
It was an entertaining film, full of witty touches - though I did
feel like an imposter being there without any young children. Later, I recount the plot to Va-vay.
"So you see, Va-vay, it really started with his mother not wanting them
to get married because then she wouldn't be queen any more."
"Really."
"But then the conflict is resolved when the dragon falls from the skyscraper."
"I thought one of the design features of dragons was they could
fly," he replies. "This must have been a freak, flightless
dragon."
Some people will insist on being so literal.
Take to the hills
Edinburgh residents reading this will know about the beauty
of the Pentland Hills that surround the city to the south, guarding it in a semi-circle of heather, hill, reservoir and woodland that gives
views stretching over the town to the sea beyond. It is easy to forget
Edinburgh is a coastal town, coming to a halt at the water's edge,
perhaps because the weather does so little to encourage a trip to the
seaside. Yet out on the hills, the city looks like an island or peninsula, lapped by water.
Before we bought a car earlier this year, we had limited means of
getting out to the hills. On one occasion we resorted to taking a taxi to the start
of a walk, dressed in walking boots, fleeces and gaiters (buses didn't go there). It reminded
me of a journalist who boasted he had to take a taxi to the front line
of a war somewhere in Africa. I forget where exactly. Hope he was still able to claim on expenses.
Now we have the noble beast, we drove out
to Harlaw Reservoir under our own steam. I still find driving stressful, almost a year after buying the car, but there doesn't seem much alternative if we're to go anywhere interesting.
We waited inside the car until all
the dogs barking and milling about the carpark had moved on. I'm useless with dogs. Beanie used to love them; now I fear I've passed my phobias onto her. She gets nervous too.
Beanie travelled in a
backpack carried by her father. We managed a full circuit of the
reservoir, overseen by the charred hulk of Black Hill (501m), whose blackened slopes are
the result of 'muirburn'.
We spotted greylag and pink-footed geese, that roost in the Pentlands in winter-time (living in Greenland the rest of the year, greylag geese see Edinburgh as the equivalent of a winter holiday in the Caribbean or Florida), sheep, horses and some cows. Beanie greeted them all, except the geese, with the word: 'bear'.
On our return to the car we realised we'd lost one of Beanie's shoes somewhere on our walk. If anyone reading this spots a girl's shoe (size 4.5) out by Harlaw reservoir, please drop me a line.
Ring and a prayer
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.
A spot of shopping
"What is it with you and your clothes?" I ask Va-vay.
We are sat in an Edinburgh cafe planning the final shopping onslaught before Christmas. My cup of hot chocolate must steel me for the fight with battalions of shoppers who are advancing on the city's shops like scavenging hordes. I have presents for everybody except Va-vay, who is unable to think of a single thing he might like for Christmas (saving arcane items of geekery that I do not understand well enough to purchase).
"What do you mean?" he replies. "I buy clothes, I wear them; they wear out. That's it."
This description barely does justice to the war of attrition Va-vay wages on his clothes.
"Yes, but Va-vay, the clothes disintegrate on you. Within months. Weeks even. Remember the Thomas Pink shirts?"
We both fall silent at the memory of the shirts, now reduced to dish rags and eking out their last days in a bucket under the sink.
"That wasn't my fault," says Va-vay. "Something in the fabric attracted stains." As if a laundress had put a curse on them. A Vanish-proof jinx that would defeat the housewives of Harry Potter.
"What about your socks, then?"
I've got the trump card here. Va-vay (who has size 14 feet) has issues with socks that not even his optimism can deny. They tend to sprout holes within weeks and his toes peep out to greet the world.
I've bought socks from all the obvious sock-buying places,
thinking somewhere must have some that fit his feet. In vain. Our home is full of
greying, unmatched socks that have wilted at the challenge of clothing
Va-vay's feet. At night, his feet stick out the end of the duvet. Large and vulnerable.
I have offered to knit him socks, but Va-vay has declined, saying his skin allergy makes him sensitive to wool. Yes, it's hard to believe this is the same man who dashed across a busy B road to save the life of a caterpillar he saw stranded on the tarmac.
"Don't buy me expensive socks for Christmas," he says. "They're no better than the cheap ones."
"Va-vay, you do want something for Christmas, don't you?"
"You've got me a hat. That's enough."
"No! It's not enough. I want to buy my husband a nice present for Christmas. Why won't you co-operate in this? There's pleasure in giving as well as receiving, you know. You're making it very difficult."
"Oh, alright, alright. What about a pair of trousers?"
As well as having feet at the more err, generous end of the spectrum, Va-vay is also tall (around 6ft 6in). As you might imagine, trouser-buying has its challenges. We trail from shop to shop, meet assistants who laugh at us or cannot help, while elbowed by fellow shoppers who refuse to move aside for the buggy. I am paranoid that a stranger will touch me and cling to Va-vay. Our search for the right sort of trousers is proving fruitless.
Eventually, I spot a countryside shop purveying guns, Barbours, goggles, corded strawberry trousers, tweed caps, padded waistcoats and any other accoutrement you could imagine the sporting gent about town might need.
"Look, Va-vay, we could get you a pair of plus fours!" I tell him in excitement.
Va-vay glances in the window at the dummy done up in a pair of moleskin pantaloons that finish just below his knees. A shotgun trails by his side. Compared to his friend (in canary yellow trousers), his get-up looks almost sophisticated.
"Any pair of trousers is like plus fours on me," he says, with resignation.
We turn from the knickerbockers, and head for home.
Dilemmas Domestic chaos Edinburgh Husband Likes/Dislikes Out and about
Motherhood: a marathon for us all
Wonderful to read of Paula Radcliffe's victory in the New York Marathon, just nine months after giving birth to her daughter Isla in January. Brilliant news, especially after her terrible time in the Athens Olympics. Radcliffe, who's thirty three, is talking about competing in the 2012 London Olympics and having another child before then. Which could conceivably make her an older mum. Go, Paula. It's not just the British flag you're flying. You're an inspiration to us all.
Fill your boots at Fidra Books
A quick reminder that Edinburgh's new, independent children's bookshop opens its doors for the first time this Saturday (10 November). You can find Fidra Books at 219 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh, just along the road from Holy Corner. Vanessa Robertson, the firm's director, is a staunch ally of this site and fellow blogger who deserves every success with the new shop. I'm chuffed to bits for her and telling everybody I know about the launch. Please go along and support the shop by buying some of her books. She's stocking more than a thousand titles, including the fifteen Fidra has published. Aside from Vanessa being a personal friend (I think she'd agree with that) we need shops like this to stop our high streets melting into a parade of identikit chains.
More personally, I can hardly wait until Beanie's old enough to enjoy browsing in Vanessa's shop. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting bookshops with my mother, and I want to do the same thing for my daughter. I come from a fairly modest background (despite what certain readers of the Edinburgh Evening News think) but my mother believed books were the best investment you could make and used to produce her James Thin account card for all sorts of children's books like Ballet Shoes, Tom's Midnight Garden and The Secret Garden. They opened the door into a new and enchanted world I never wanted to leave.
As Vanessa's written on her blog, many people have an emotional attachment to book shops possibly because they remember buying books there that have shaped their lives, ideas, aspirations, dreams, perceptions and imaginations. Buying on-line is never going to be the same for a small child as wandering around in a cornucopia of real books. Go on, if you get the chance, pay a trip to the new shop. Just don't expect to find any Katy Price pony books, though. Vanessa won't be stocking any. As she told The Scotsman, "We won't stock rubbish." Quite right too.
Coming over all McCall Smith
An incident last week involving the Noble Beast - our car - has proved what I've long suspected: my life is turning into
something out of one of Alexander McCall Smith's books about Edinburgh. It was past midnight, my husband Va-vay was snoring lightly by my side, Beanie was
asleep next door in her room - the 'Beanerarium’. I couldn’t sleep for
worrying if I remembered to tether the Noble Beast properly.
In my defence, just after I stabled the Beast earlier that evening I got a bit
flustered because as I was putting Beanie into her buggy - the 'Travelling Beanerarium’ - a large silver Mercedes
drew up very, very close to us.
“Could you be careful! There’s a little girl here,” I shouted,
pushing the buggy away as fast as I could. Unfortunately progress was slow on the uneven
cobbles of the Edinburgh New Town.
The man wound down his window and drawled in a hateful,
posh accent, as if he couldn’t be bothered if he mowed over an entire
kindergarten: “I am fully aware of that.”
Still a bit upset about that, and busy thinking up pithy rejoinders it was too late to deliver, I couldn't sleep. So instead I lay there for another half hour, keeping myself entertained by running through the
possibilities of what might happen to the poor Beast:
a) Drunken pub-goers break into car, urinate everywhere, trash her.
b) Car thieves steal the Beast and take her to Glasgow, where Lard McConnell, well-known Glaswegian crime lord and good friend of Bertie Pollock is waiting to take delivery of her
c) Insurers refuse to pay up because it was my mistake. S**t!!!!
"Va-vay," I say, quite loudly, in the darkness. "Va-vay, I think I forgot to lock the car."
The poor man gets dressed, stumbles out of the house looking half-asleep and heads back to the scene of the crime.
He returns twenty minutes later, gets undressed again, and climbs back into bed. All without saying a word.
"So, err... was it okay?" I say apologetically.
"Yes, all locked up." Within seconds he's snoring gently again.
Oh dear. A classic Irene Pollock moment.
Vote on your 'Treasured Places'
Those of you who live here in Scotland might be interested in Treasured Places, a free on-line poll to choose the country's favourite historical image. It's run by the Royal Commission on Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland , a heritage organisation that documents Scotland's past, and voting remains open until Thursday (25 Oct). The Commission is staging the vote to celebrate its 100th anniversary next year. 
Voters can choose from a hundred pictures that range from shots of the Dean Bridge, Edinburgh (top left) to Craigievar Castle, Aberdeenshire (middle left), Drum Castle, also in Aberdeenshire, (bottom left) and Elgin Cathedral in Moray. There are some gems in there, such as images of the Churchill Barrier at Scapa Flow, Abbotsford House in the Borders, the Bell Rock Lighthouse in Angus, and the Bilsland Crest from the Thistle Chapel in St Giles Cathedral. Or you can nominate your own image.
The top ten images will feature in a major centenary exhibition at the Edinburgh City Art Centre in 2008 and the winner will be celebrated by a poem written by Valerie Gillies. The winner will be announced on Saturday (27 Oct). Lest you wonder about my involvement in the project (and, please, no jokes, thank you all the same, about historical monuments/older mothers, really not in the mood), let's just say one of the organisers is a close relative of someone who comments on this site frequently. Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
Activities Edinburgh Fun Holidays Out and about Older mother
First year of motherhood tests us all
For most new mothers the year after having their first baby turns out to be the loneliest in their lives, according to a survey from Tesco and Mother and Baby magazine. Cut off from families, friends and work colleagues, almost half of new mums feel 'lonely and isolated'. Nine out of ten miss the social life they enjoyed before the baby arrived and around two-thirds 'feel cut off from normal life'. Only around a quarter lived in the same town as their parents.
The Mail quotes Elena Dalrymple, editor of Mother and Baby, saying: "Leaving work and having a baby is a huge physical and emotional adjustment for women. Friends without babies drift off, grandparents live miles away, neighbours are barely on nodding terms, other mums you bump into at the shops aren't your type and the social life you once knew has ground to a halt."
My experience was quite the opposite: I found myself meeting all sorts of new people when Beanie arrived and have been extremely fortunate in making friends with other mums from our ante-natal class and other groups. It's not over-stating things to say they've been a life-line in some difficult times.
Having a child also meant I got to know some of our neighbours. We used to have a little cafe at the end of our street and before it closed would gather there for coffee and a chat, without having to make any arrangement beforehand. We'd just wander in and chat to whoever was there. Having a child has helped me feel part of a community. It's been great.
On the downside, I've inevitably met people with whom I had little in common except having a child at the same time - but that's hardly surprising. Some of the mums-and-babies events have had their excruciating side.
Sample conversation:
- "Which school are you thinking of for Beanie?" Beanie being two or three months old at the time of questioning. Mind you, I am also guilty of this line of questioning. Schooling is an Edinburgh obsession. Perhaps also elsewhere?
- "My little Fionulla's been sleeping through the night since she was ten weeks. We have to wake her in the morning." GRRRRRrrrrrrr.....
- "Surely you feed her 100% organic! Don't you know what goes into pesticides?"
- "Ranulph's such an active little boy. Girls are so much more passive, aren't they?" On hearing this, a little girl called Arabella (nine months) clouted poor Ranulph (her junior, at six months, and not so very active after all) round the ear. Sins of the parents and all that...
- "Was that a shop-bought cake I spotted?"
These days I don't see as much of Ranulph and his doting mum. But many of us mums who had babies around the same time still enjoy meeting up. Perhaps if I hadn't seen this survey published next to a story about how successful, beautiful women can't find boyfriends, (not something I've ever noticed) it wouldn't have made me think of a comment by Julie Burchill that some newspapers can't bear the idea that there might be a woman somewhere in the world who is - terrible thought! - enjoying herself.
Sharp exit
Sorry not to have posted in a couple of days, but I've been unwell. It came on in the second half of The Winter's Tale, just as everything in the play was looking so promising. Florizel and Perdita were off to Sicily to escape his disapproving dad, all the unpleasantness in the first half (Leontes, pictured below with Paulina, going mad and accusing poor Hermione of adultery) was in the past and things had taken a turn for the better. We even had good seats, despite finding our £13 tickets for an upper-circle box meant we could see about a quarter of the stage. An usher, summoned by Va-vay, agreed there was no view from our box worth seeing and showed us to the front of the dress circle. 
All was well, until I couldn't help noticing, really noticing the smell of a glass of red wine belonging to the woman next to me. The vapour wafted out of the plastic cup like there was super-strength alcohol in there, making my stomach churn. Someone else's perfume smelt stronger than usual. The theatre was too hot, my head started to spin and I whispered to Va-vay that I wasn't well. We beat a retreat, without seeing the 'statue' of Hermione come to life in the final scene.
The evening finished with me being sick in the car park - spattering my new suede boots purchased
in France in the process - while Va-vay paid for our parking ticket. I did get hopeful this sickness might mean I was pregnant, until Va-vay reminded me it was probably the same bug Beanie had earlier in the week. Still, at least we stuck around long enough to see Shakespeare's most famous stage direction: ''Exit,
pursued by a bear". Without wanting to snigger. As exits go, not so much less dignified than our own.
Dog days
On holiday it seemed that Beanie greeted every slavering cur, half-rabid wolf and barking hound like long-lost friends, crying out 'dug' to them, oblivious to my maternal fears. 'Dug' is a recent addition to her vocabulary, a popular one, but Avignon pavements are narrow; its dogs can be unpredictable.
Imagine, then, her delight when, on a train journey home one day, we happened on a tiny 'dug' nestling in a woman's handbag. Combining as it did two of her greatest loves - 'dugs' and handbags - Beanie could not have been more entranced.
"Dug! Dug! Dug!" she pointed, desperate to ensure that I, too, had noticed this two-for-one miracle, this holy grail of travel accessories, the benchmark by which all other bags will now be judged. "Dug! Dug! Dug!"
"Yes, Beanie. Dog," I told her, a trifle pedantically, it must be confessed, but loving her innocent enthusiasm.
"Can she touch the dog?" I asked its owner in French.
"Ah, no, he has sharp teeth. Likes to bite." The woman made biting gestures.
"Beanie," I whispered to her "The little dog might bite. We'll just look at him for now."
She listened to what I said, clambered back up on my lap and watched the puppy from afar, interjecting every so often: 'dug!' - and then again - 'dug!' until both she and the dog fell asleep.
Children's bookshop opens in Edinburgh
Like all right-thinking people, Va-vay and I love bookshops; maybe it's the thrill of knowing something I find there might change my life, the studious atmosphere, the smell of paper and ink, neat rows and shelves of books. We even went to one (Borders at 120 Charing Cross Road) on a first date together. So we're delighted that Vanessa from Fidra Books is opening a shop specialising in children's books here in Edinburgh, at 219 Brunstfield Place. The shop opens on Saturday 10 November and we can't wait to spend Saturdays there browsing and buying books.
Despite being a City of Literature and home to the annual International Book Festival, Edinburgh suffers from an acute shortage of bookshops, unless you count the many charity shops in Stockbridge that sell second-hand books. Last year's closure of the much-loved Ottakers' store in George Street has left a gap in the lives of book-lovers. So news that Vanessa is opening up her store couldn't be more welcome.
While we were in France we enjoyed visting a children's bookshop in Avignon, where I ended up spending far more money than I really intended on several books, including one about a little girl called Mouflette Papillon and one of the popular Babarpapa titles. Now I'm even more excited about the Fidra bookshop opening.
Fidra Books is an independent Edinburgh-based publisher that specialises in reprinting neglected children's classics by authors including Josephine Pullein-Thompson, Elinor Lyon, KM Peyton and Victoria Walker. Vanessa, a fellow Edinburgh blogger, will also be running her publishing business from the new shop, a bit like Persephone Press does in London.
Vanessa's promised that when Fashionably Late, the book I'm writing about becoming a mum later in life, comes out, she'll have me round to her shop to do a reading for new mums and mums-to-be. I'm still at the stage of roughing out my chapter headings, but that's an incentive to keep me on track if ever I heard one.
Long before that, I'm looking forwards to the shop's launch on 10 November, when the doors open for business and Vanessa will be giving away lots of Maisie Mouse gifts to the first customers over the threshold. There will also be the chance for children to meet some of their favourite characters from books in real life.
Oh, and that's Christmas sorted then.
New 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.
Grand finale
Beanie's playgroup reconvenes later this month in our local church, now that the Polish theatre group performing there has packed up its lorry of props, grease paint and other kit and headed south like swallows.
Come snack time this autumn, when the toddlers are feasting on slices of banana, bread sticks and raisins, it'll be nice to think the church was home for a while in this year's Fringe to a troupe of actors who saw the snack area as their performance space. The buggy park was their box office; playtime their showtime.
Judging by their press board, the group had a good season; they won lots of awards in the local and national press, and played to packed houses. Their being here in the neighbourhood lent a touch of glamour to these all-too familiar streets and made me proud to have them here.
So proud, in fact, I didn't even mind (well, not that much) when they stood outside on the streets smoking roll-up cigarettes and looking blank when I asked (politely!) if they could let me get the buggy past. They looked so young, in their uniform black jeans and jumpers. Ah me!
All the other actors, comedians, authors, musicians and film-makers who have made Edinburgh such a fun place to be in August have also packed up for another year. Last night marked the finale to the Edinburgh International Festival, with the Bank of Scotland Fireworks Concert (pictured) that Va-vay and I were lucky enough to be able to watch from our sitting-room window.
There are lots of good things about the end of the Festival. Easier to get a table in cafes. Freedom to walk through town without reluctantly accepting a dozen cards for shows I have no intention of seeing. No feeling bad that performers put their heart into this event, and yet so many Fringe shows attract an audience not much out of single figures. Fewer posters of needy, identikit comedians.
But when I saw workmen dismantling the marquees for the Edinburgh International Book Festival in Charlotte Square I couldn't help but suffer a small pang of loss.
The Book Festival was fantastic; I travelled back to fourteenth century England when Simon Armitage spoke about his translation of Gawain, wished I had half the talent of Kitty Aldridge and Esther Freud, who spoke together about their new novels, felt I learn more in an hour at a wonderful creative writing class by Kate Mosse and Greg Mosse than I've done in a term at other classes and was scared stiff by Ian McEwan in conversation with Ian Rankin (so much so that afterwards I sprinted across the rain-logged lawn to locate Beanie and be sure she was still safe).
I delved into the hidden world of obstetrics at a talk from Janice Galloway and Alan Warner, imagined myself travelling the silk road with Colin Thubron and braved Arctic ice with Benedict Allen. Closer to home, I was entertained by Antonia Swinson's uplifting stories of life on her Edinburgh allotment. It's been inspiring and magical by equal turn. So while it's good to have playgroup back, I'll see it with different eyes after this summer.
Count-down
The wedding in Ireland takes place just over two weeks away. Two weeks in which I must primp, pluck and preen away two years of self-neglect. Two weeks in which to pray that the summer's long diet to rid myself of post-pregnancy weight has worked well enough for me to fit into a fashionable outfit. An outfit sans even the merest hint of smocks, peasantry or burgeoning bellies. An outfit I can wear with no-one, but no-one, not even the kindliest and most well-meaning, pointedly asking me about due dates or plans to have more children.
Two weeks in which I must:
1. Brave the Lewis' hat department to choose something called a 'fascinator' for my hair. Preserve it from Beanie's merciless ministrations. Wonder which Potter book it appeared in. Convince self I do not look ridiculous in it.
2. Repair to the local Floatarium for revitalising hour in a water tank. Resist temptation to draw unflattering parallels between self and Bertie's mum, the fictional Irene from Alexander McCall Smith's Scotland Street. A lady who also frequents the Floatarium - in her case, with controversial results.
3. Brush up on non-baby-related small talk. Perhaps find out if a World Cup beckons later this year. So that when people talk about 'the match' I'll know which one.
4. Psyche self up to be in roomful of mostly new people. On my own, without Va-vay (who's babysitting).
5. Remove, by scrubbing if necessary, any rejected fish pie or other gloop engrained on my person, hair or clothes.
6. Resist temptation to tell everyone I meet at the wedding that they should have a blog.
7. Unearth the nice underwear I last wore on honeymoon, before I got pregnant and outlawed underwireds to the back of the chest of drawers. As a friend said: "They did their job well, those bras." Probably repress dismay that I'll never again be a 36C. Try to be happy that at least Va-vay is pleased by my increased chest size.
8. Get hair do. Rejoice in freedom to have highlights done - as not pregnant.
9. Find wedding present
10. Remember to apply expensive face creams Va-vay brought back as gift from his weekend away. Dismiss negative thoughts that he might be trying to tell me something with this choice of present.
11. Train myself not to coo, trill, babble or sing at adult wedding guests.
12. Savour thought of returning from travels with handbag mysteriously devoid of crumbled infant rice cakes.
13. Look forward to being on plane where it will not be my job to soothe, feed or hush my poor, traumatised daughter as her ear drums get sore, and she wails in despair that she doesn't understand where she is or what's happening to her.
14. Try to convince myself I won't miss her like mad, that I won't be thinking of her every minute I'm away from her.
Can it be done? I'll let you all know. The last one, number fourteen, will be the hardest by a long chalk. Wish me luck.
Bad mother
It's a tricky business, being a mum and an individual. This morning I did something bold and daring, something few mums dare to do - I did something for myself. It wasn't easy, but I persevered, despite all my torment and guilt.
My first crime: taking the phone from my daughter so I could make the necessary calls.
An attempt to placate Beanie by offering her the TV remote control fails.
She simply gives me a look that said: "I'm no fool, you know. I see straight through you. I know you're trying to fob me off with some silly pretend phone."
I feel crushed, though no words have been said.
I remember how only an hour or so earlier she kicked her legs in delight when I fetched her out of her cot and beamed her best smile at me, how she laughed and smiled so readily at me when I played peek-a-boo from behind the shower curtain, how she tried to feed me some of her breakfast, even though I had my own toast and marmalade.
But I really, really need the phone to book some tickets for a couple of Festival events this evening.
I make the call and all hell starts to break loose. Not only have I stolen Beanie's favourite toy, but (my second crime) I am ignoring her and I think she might have also sensed my longer-term objective (third crime) of planning an evening out on my own while her dad babysits.
At first I hope she might settle down after a few minutes. Fat chance.
An attempt to buy on-line doesn't work any better and the computer freezes as I go to click 'submit'. By now tears are rolling down Beanie's face, and I feel like the worst mother in the world as I fight my own rising hysteria.
The guilt's almost unbearable and I force myself to remember how when I was pregnant I was so sick with nausea and joint pain I managed to go out roughly four times in the entire nine months. One of those occasions was an ill-fated trip to the Edinburgh Tattoo, which ended in me throwing up outside the Castle under the wary gaze of a soldier armed with a machine gun.
Someone once told me: 'The healthy mother takes time for herself'. Why can't I believe that's true?
Intermittent shrieking has intensified into one long wail, punctuated only with heart-wrending pauses to draw breath. Only ten minutes have passed, but it feels like eternity.
The computer creaks back to life. 'Your order is confirmed' flashes up on screen. Just as this happens a human being speaks to me on the phone. At least, I think it's a human being, though Beanie's screaming so hard it's difficult to be sure.
Then my brain clears and at last I know what to do. I pick up my daughter, cuddle her close to me and listen to her heaving sobs subside.
Will my guilt lend an extra piquancy to the festival events? Or will I sit there kicking myself for being so selfish? Who knows. She's sleeping now, as I write this. When she wakes up I'll give her my undivided attention - all afternoon.
Angst Books Childcare Daughters Edinburgh Festival Guilt Out and about
The way to a girl's heart
The Bean remains in the smash-and-grab phase of her infancy, an uncompromising stage in which she displays no inhibitions whatsoever about seizing other people's belongings, but hangs onto her own with grim determination. Since I'd like her to grow up with at least a few friends, we're working on those social skills, and so while browsing in the signing tent at the Edinburgh International Book Festival yesterday (oh, okay, I admit it, hanging around to sneak glances at Richard Dawkins who was there signing copies of his latest book The God Delusion), I found this lovely book by Julia Donaldson, author of The Gruffalo, called Sharing a Shell. 
I've bought Sharing a Shell in the hope it will help teach Beanie about sharing and friendship, since the book is a gentle parable (of sorts) about how we relate to other people, but now I'm wondering if we can learn that sort of thing from a book, whether in fact these are life lessons we have to figure out for ourselves. But I'm such a believer in books' abilities to have transformational effects on our lives I couldn't resist purchasing a copy.
Watching our sixteen-month-old children playing last week in a walled garden at an Edinburgh art gallery, and laughing kindly at my attempts to rein in Beanie's exuberant behaviour, a friend commented to me that children really learn mostly by example, while telling them what to do achieves little. When I look back at my own childhood, that's certainly true, and I think (though others may disagree) that children are acutely sensitive to parental hypocrisy (saying one thing, doing another). Oh dear, in that case I'd better behave myself then and set a good example to my daughter of sharing and friendship.
Still, I don't think Sharing a Shell will prove a bad purchase, if only because, as the cover rightly publicises, it has "Glitter on every page". Now only rarely, very rarely, can that be a bad thing, and Beanie absolutely loves it. Indeed she was so enthralled with her new acquisition yesterday afternoon that she spent about ten uninterrupted minutes fingering the glitter with rapt attention, pausing only to scream at me in indignation when the book fell out of her buggy.
Daughters Etiquette Friends Books Edinburgh Festival Out and about
Strangers
Just back from an unpleasant encounter in a local cafe. An elderly man came across uninvited to our table to talk to Beanie.
"You're a smiling wee baby, aren't you?" he started.
Fine, but then:
"My wife doesn't smile at me like that."
Cue sinking feeling in my stomach, while I simultaneously steeled myself for battle.
"You're very pretty," he told her. Was this really happening? In a coffee shop in broad daylight?
Sure enough, his hand went out to ruffle her hair.
"She's not public property," I told him. "Take your hands off her."
Filthy look in my direction, he slunk off.
Despite my outburst, he still insisted on sitting at the table next to ours, while Granny and I drank our skinny lattes double-quick so we could make our escape.
"Taboo, taboo, taboo," he muttered to his wife as she joined him. Yes, the same one he described so flatteringly earlier.
After a short muffled conversation, his wife turned to me and informed me that they were respectable people who meant no harm. I nodded at her without saying anything. I began to feel guilty for saying anything, wondered if I'd misinterpreted his comments.
But if he'd been as well-meaning as she insisted he was, then wouldn't he have backed off? Possibly even apologised? Or left us alone as I asked.
I find this area so difficult. I believe my daughter has the right to go about in public without strangers touching her. But I hate embarrassing confrontation as much as the next person and I lose confidence in my own judgement.
My difficulty is that I don't want her to grow up seeing the world as a bad, dangerous place, since most people are absolutely great. Beanie is a friendly, outgoing child and I would hate for her to become paranoid and suspicious of everybody she meets.
The truth is I don't really mind when some people pat her on the head, or give her a cuddle.
But there is a tiny minority of people like today's plat du jour at lunchtime.
The guy today just gave me a bad feeling, a creepy-crawly feeling up my spine and sick churning in my stomach, even before the comparison between my 16-month-old daughter and his wife.
How do other parents handle this sort of thing?
Prize money
The unthinkable has happened - I've made some money from blogging! And it's all been unintentional. Vicky and Piers at Little Legends, the free service to allow parents to find out what's good in their area and share their views, have given me a £50 joint-first prize for my comments on the site. I'm absolutely delighted, not least because I didn't even realise there was a prize available, and also because I'm now enjoying planning how I'll spend my winnings on a family day out planned around local activities suggested on the Little Legends site. Once the rain stops...
For those who don't already know it, Little Legends is a great way of allowing parents across the UK to share knowledge and ideas about schools, nurseries, activities, days out, classes, clubs, parks, hotels, pubs and cafes. Since it started at the beginning of this year, it's gathered more than 36,000 recommendations.
Despite having three little boys to look after, Vicky still finds time to write an entertaining Little Legends blog about fun things to do as a parent. Do have a look and visit the site. It's a valuable resource for all parents. The more people who contribute to the site, the better it will be!
On the subject of prizes, Flowerpot has kindly given me a Thoughtful Blogger Award. Thank you, Flowerpot. I'd like to pass it on (in no particular order) to Mid-Lifer, Land of Sand, My Wee Scottish Blog, Guineapigmum and Elsie Button. Ladies, you're all a great read.
It's Showtime
Continuing my occasional series of Edinburgh Festival updates, that I plan to run on Mother at Large throughout August, this rather forbidding Edinburgh church normally serves as home to Beanie's weekly playgroup, but has thrown out the babies to make temporary space for a Polish theatre group. Somewhere along the way it's also had a make-over for the Fringe, as these chalked sign posts show you. So instead of the usual melee of mums, buggies and babies milling around outside, earnest and unsmiling Polish thesps hang out, soaking up the ambience and having a quick fag. I haven't quite got my head around how the babies' snack area morphed into Theatre 2. But this is Edinburgh in August, after all....
Fringe benefits
Here's another picture from our weekend out and about enjoying the Edinburgh festival; with The Bean in the foreground on my shoulders. I'll be running pictures most days throughout the various Edinburgh festivals to give you an idea of how much fun the city can be come showtime in August, when it becomes home to the world's largest arts festival.
One of the nicest things about being a parent in Edinburgh at this time of the year is the super-abundance of street theatre to entertain and divert children. On Saturday Beanie and I enjoyed watching a group of about twenty youngsters enact a graceful Oriental dance in Princes Street Gardens, under the stony gaze of Sir Walter Scott. The dance involved some clever stuff with red fans, that made a sound like gun shots as the dancers unfurled them.
Someone from the dance group gave Beanie a show flyer they'd found time to craft into an origami bird. I hate to be a cliche, but because all of this is so new and amazing to her, I find myself enjoying these seemingly simple events with a new appreciation and delight. That said, Beanie wasn't sufficiently overawed by the beauty of her origami bird to desist from chewing the poor creature's head off. But that could have been a sign of her appreciation. It's not always easy to interpret these things.
Later, up in the High Street, she enjoyed sitting on my shoulders to watch a unicyclist, the entire length of his back tattooed with feathery wings, entertain the crowds. Her dad took this picture of her, and has patiently explained to me about three times already this morning how to re-size it for the web. I think I've got it now.
Fringe Fun
The Edinburgh Festival Fringe has begun. Withnail-esque types in trailing overcoats have overrun the city, declaiming on street corners and entertaining us all with their madness. One flat in our street has turned into an art gallery, and the nearby church where Beanie normally goes to playgroup has evicted the babies to make way for a troupe of heavily-bespectacled Polish aesthetes, some of whom look like the living incarnations of Jean-Paul Sartre. It's not quite the Parisian Left Bank, but the city's great fun in August.
We got very excited when we heard the Tblisi Marionette State Theatre was doing a daily show nearby - perfect for the Bean! Though it was
performed in Russian with simultaneous English translation. Potentially quite hard-core for the under-fives. But even we flinched at the story content: a re-enactment of the Battle of Stalingrad.
We did take The Bean to her first ever live performance on Saturday, The Greatest Bubble Show on Earth, running at the Carlton Hotel, North Bridge, at 12 midday until 27 August. The Amazing Bubble Man made big bubbles with people inside, a foggy moon bubble, helium-filled and edible bubbles. He illuminated, sculpted and kissed bubbles. One man's love affair with... the bubble. It lasted 45 minutes, long enough to feel we got our money's worth, but not so long that the hordes of small children there got bored.
Strolling up the High Street, the epicentre of the month-long event, Beanie and I also met The Selfish Crocodile (pictured) who actually seemed like quite a friendly fellow when we bumped into him, we had a quick chat with an adventurous pigeon that wanted to drive a bus, and watched a knight in chainmail from Sword in the Stone clank past. Ooh, I love Edinburgh in August.
To Market
Yesterday, for the first time, we went to the Edinburgh Farmers' Market, which takes place every Saturday from 9am to 2pm on Castle Terrace. It's not a bad place to take a young child, though it can be hard to get a buggy through all the legs and there are no specific activities for kids that I could see.
But needless to say, The Bean was in heaven, with lots of people paying her attention, the smell of roasting meat, the holiday atmosphere - and of course the delicious, if rather expensive, food to sample, taste and buy.
We didn't focus on the more brutal side of the market and rushed her past the roast pig splayed out across the width of one entire stall, its snout tilted at an indignant angle, and the bloodied plastic bags of locally-reared ostrich and venison.
For my part, I liked the sense of being out in the countryside, even though the market takes place on the top of a multi-storeyed car park, about as urban a venue as you could imagine. All that locally-grown produce and so many farmers - I could almost smell haystacks in amongst the concrete.
The Bean notched up a couple of firsts - first taste of icecream (strawberry, fat-free) - and first taste of roast lamb, from a stall run by Cairns Farm, based out in the local Pentland Hills where Va-vay and I enjoy walking. She loved both, though I suspect a marginal preference for the ice-cream.
Queueing for my lamb roll, I did have a momentary pang for the poor beast that Beanie and I were to eat, and wondered if we'd maybe even seen the unfortunate lamb in question while on a walk. But then I decided I was being ridiculous and didn't let it bother me too much.
Va-vay, who is far more principled than me, is vegetarian, and made do for his lunch with a hummous sandwich that I thought looked pretty ordinary next to my roasted lamb. But he didn't seem to mind. One of the most annoying things about Va-vay is his saintliness.
One downside to the market is the shortage of benches and tables. We had to perch on the pavement next to a tree to eat our comestibles, as Va-vay likes to call food eaten on the move.
Once we started eating I became anti-social in the extreme to my lunch companions, just grunting mono-syllabically from time to time as I ate my lamb, garnished with both apple and mint and rowan jelly.
Too much chatter gets in the way of savouring every mouthful in peace, you see. As you can probably tell, I don't get out much these days. As we lose the bunker mentality of The Bean's first year, I'm hoping that will change.
Over the sea
I'm still getting the hang of blogging, so might be wrong about this. If so, please let me know. But I get the impression postings about things that go less well in my life are more interesting than happy rhapsodies about the Scottish countryside, flora, fauna and trees, or similar. Even I can only take so much of the "Hello Trees!" type of posting.
I would drop my cheerier postings altogether but I like to let you know about the happy side of my life. You see, I don't want to give the wrong impression that my life is one long misery-fest, because nothing could be further from the truth. So I try to include some more upbeat postings about the nice things that happen. But the nice postings can be, well, let's be honest, a teeny bit dull.
Perhaps all writing thrives on conflict, including blogging, and there ain't enough of that in 'my family day out' on the hills. But one of the several reasons why I blog - Gather material for a book on parenting! Release the frustrated journalist in me! - is to create a record of these early years with the Bean.
Before I blogged I kept a diary, now dusty and neglected, in which I recorded her milestones and stories of our days together. Mother at Large is the on-line equivalent. So I want her to see we had fun together, in amongst everything else.
Though speaking of family days out, there's one coming up next week that could be filled with conflict aplenty. Granny, Bean and I are planning to try and take the new hovercraft across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh to Fife (the Firth of Forth is pictured above) one day next week. For people who don't know Scotland that well, the Forth is a narrow strip of sea that runs inland from the North Sea across a good chunk of central Scotland.
Granny's especially keen because OAPs get on board free. Provided, that is, the grandchild of the OAP in question hasn't ransacked their handbag and lost their free bus pass.
I say 'try' to take the hovercraft because the Edinburgh papers are full of accounts of long queues for this service, with bust-ups between other OAPs who've had the same idea as Granny and have been waiting hours to get aboard.
The OAPs won't be the only ones to get tetchy at delays. Beanie will tolerate ten-minute waits max, before she goes nuclear, so if the queues are still as bad next week we'll have to turn back.
I'm not even sure what there is to do in Kirkcaldy, assuming we manage to get there.
The town's dubious claim to fame in my family is as the erstwhile home of my father's aunt - a redoubtable old lady who made her disapproval of my mother quite plain. According to Granny (who is from Yorkshire) this aunt said to my father at their engagement party: "Och! Could you not have found yourself a nice Scottish girl?" We didn't see much of this aunt - transport links to Fife and her range of social pleasantries being what they were.
I'll keep you posted on how we get on next week.
Daughters Dilemmas Edinburgh Etiquette Granny Out and about Domestic chaos Fun
Wedding bells
A letter arrives this morning addressed in calligraphic swirls of black ink. Someone has inked each letter with strokes, curlicues and loops that make The Bean's beginner alphabet letters on her wooden blocks stark and almost impoverished in comparison.
Writing like that promises only good things. And these flourishes, swoops and upstrokes do not disappoint. Inside is an invitation to the wedding in Ireland of an old friend and her long-term boyfriend. They got engaged in India at Christmas.
We became friends as flatmates back in London. Our flatsharing wasn't a huge success: when we protested at a proposed 20% rent rise, our landlord responded with an eviction notice. But our friendship survived this set-back and continued. Even after we both became home-owners ourselves and later moved away from London.
She flew back from New York for the weekend to be at our wedding, so a trip across the Irish Sea doesn't seem much to ask in comparison. Suffice to say, we're very excited and looking forwards to a jaunt to Waterford in September.
Food, food, glorious food
My friend and fellow Edinburgh blogger Erica from Littlemummy, one of my favourite parenting sites, has tagged me in a food meme. Yum, yum, yum! Lots of lovely food in my tummy! So has dear DJ Kirkby from Exquisite Dreams (and Random Ramblings from an Anxious Mind) and Adventures of a Wild Hippie Child.
Ladies, are you trying to tell me something?!!! Well, okay, I confess, you've got it right. I am fond of my nosh. Though I'm not that large..... actually I'm normal-sized (but tall).
The Hippie Child blog, by the way, is excerpts from DJ's fascinating and colourful novel in progress about her bohemian childhood. Anybody who liked Esther Freud's enchanting child's-eye view novel Hideous Kinky
DJ's already changed the food meme rules, so I'm feel less bad that I'm going to write about one of my favourite eating places, as well as restaurants (as requested in the original meme). I didn't even know what a meme was until a few days ago. Oh, the shame of it. Here goes, then.
1. Hilltops (like those in the picture!)
Even the grottiest cheese sandwich tastes like manna from heaven if you've had to climb a hill before eating it. Same for a thermos of tea. Warming, refreshing, comforting in the great outdoors. Ordinary in most other places.
I take the time to appreciate food more when I've had to carry it on my back up a gradient all morning. And I've worked up an appetite. The last mangled sandwich I'd throw away at home becomes treasured sustenance outdoors.
Husband and I still rhapsodise about some Waitrose plum tart we shared atop a hillock on the South Downs when we were still "just friends".
2. Sprio & Co, 37 St Stephen Street, Edinburgh
Stylish and friendly Italian cafe in one of Edinburgh's loveliest streets. It rubs shoulders with the second-hand shops that reportedly inspired Edinburgh writer Anne Fine, author of Madame Doubtfire
3. A Room in the Town, 18 Howe Street, Edinburgh
Great for larger get-togethers. Convivial and bustling. Its big mural, pictured (left), gives an idea of what to expect. We go mostly at weekend lunchtimes, nowadays with The Bean. Lovely, warm atmosphere. Great food - at surprisingly reasonable prices. Meals work out cheaper than at Pizza Express. Locally-grown produce. Lovely, friendly staff. They still tease me about waddling in there 42 weeks pregnant with The Bean.
4. Petit Paris, 38
Family outing
It'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.
Car Daughters Edinburgh Fun Husband Kit Likes/Dislikes Out and about
Drug-free birth
So the smoking ban means the last, die-hard English smokers will have to huddle on pavements, unable to find shelter while they enjoy their gaspers.
It's all very well, but I'm worried the Westminster government hasn't quite thought through the consequences of this smoking ban. Let me explain why.
Ten days after the smoking ban became law here in Scotland last March I was lying in a labour suite at the local hospital, nine and a half months pregnant with The Bean, waiting for a doctor to hasten her reluctant arrival into this world.
It was a nervous time. Not least because it was only when they wheeled in a plastic cot that I finally had to come to terms with the fact this pregnancy lark was going to result in a BABY.
Up until that cot appeared, all the ante-natal classes and pregnancy books had given me the impression I might be sitting an exam in beginners' obstetrics. No need to worry about actually giving birth myself.
Frankly, as the birth approached, the exam seemed like the easier option.
I lay there, strapped to a monitor, my husband's clammy palm clasping mine. The unmistakeable smell of tobacco drifted in through the open hospital window.
Me: "Mmmmm... is someone smoking out there?"
After giving up smoking about eleven years previously, by last year I'd hardly thought about it. But desperate times, desperate measures - and all that.
Husband: "Might be. Let me have a look."
Husband (frown on face): "Yes, there's a man smoking out there. Smokers have to go outside now, don't they, with this ban. Would you like me to go down and have a word with him? Tell him to move away?"
Me: "No! Don't do that. He'll go soon enough."
Then, disingenuous: "Stay here and keep me company. You don't want to miss any of the action."
A few minutes passed. What would those contractions be like when they finally arrived, hurried along by their cocktail of artificial hormones, I fretted?
When the NCT teacher said 'agony', might she be exaggerating?
How would I cope with being a mum? Oh hellfire.....
Me (inhaling deeply): "Could you open the window a bit wider?"
Protest march
I've always been a literal-minded sort of person.
So when the Bean began screaming in protest today as I strapped her into her summer chariot it was something of a double whammy.
Firstly, though I suppose I would say this, her hysterical anger seemed a tad out of proportion to my crime. You know, maybe a little OTT when I was only trying to take her home for her tea.
My only response to her fury was to adopt my automaton air hostess voice. Something along these lines: "Will passenger Bean please remain calm, return to her seat, stow her seat table away and fasten her seat belt."
They'd have had her up for air rage on any flight. She countered by rearing up out of the buggy, a full two feet of small girl held rigid with the force of her rage.
I looked round furtively, afraid lest someone might hasten to the Bean's aid and call social services.
As if that wasn't bad enough, I'm doubly dismayed because the Bean is only 14 months old, a stage I thought was still meant to involve cherubic innocence. Too early for pram strikes, sit-ins (well, stand-ups, in this case) and unpredictable boycotts. And if this is the warm-up, what's the main event going to be like?
So it seems I was too literal when I thought the terrible twos were exactly that, an affliction that began on second birthdays and ended on the third. I never reckoned on this stuff beginning a full ten months before she turned two.
I blame nursery. She must have got together with the other babies.
They've been giving each other ideas as they hang out, drinking Babycinos, doing their chalk drawings.
Yes, they've clearly been talking to the
union, finding out their rights, ganging up on their poor, frightened bourgeois parents.
Mark my words, one day it's pram strike, the next they'll be toddling through Paris to
overthrow the reactionary 'system'.
Where will it all end?
Lauriston Castle
We drove out on Saturday afternoon to Edinburgh's Lauriston Castle, which overlooks a narrow stretch of sea known as the Firth of Forth that coils out towards the North Sea. A misty mile or so across the water were the patchwork fields and hills of Fife, rising up from the sea. Poor, impoverished Fife is the butt of many an Edinburgh joke. "Best viewed from a distance," goes one saying. 'NFF' or 'Normal for Fife' is a cheeky medical term to describe alcohol and tobacco intake most of us would consider wildly excessive. Yet despite the reputed disappointment of its close-up reality, Fife offers a tantalising vista to all who live this side of the Forth.
On this misty Saturday Lauriston was grey, Edwardian and mysterious, untouched by time, as if pre-war beauties and their beaus might at any minute stroll through the clipped box hedges, past the Italianate rose garden, for a spot of tea on the lawns. Fittingly, the place turned out to be home to several croquet lawns (pictured above), not, it must be said, a sport I have ever had previous reason to associate with Scotland.
It wasn't just the croquet that reminded me of England. In places the grounds were almost as lush and verdant as the English countryside, testimony to the wet 'summer' we've been having up here.
Beautiful, mature trees - horse chestnut, cedar, oak and monkey puzzle - were dotted thickly across the grounds. Inspired by frequent visits to the Royal Botanic Gardens of Edinburgh, I'm learning more about trees from a small book from Dorling Kindersley. The trouble is matching up towering great trees with the little pictures in the book. The guide does have a little stick figure drawing next to its tree pictures, to show the scale, but I can't as yet always translate that to the jumbled mass of branch, trunk and leaf in real life.
Almost as unexpected as the untypically Scottish croquet lawns was stumbling on a beautiful Friendship Garden created in the castle's grounds to celebrate Edinburgh's links with the Japanese city of Kyoto. Formal, yet peaceful, that garden was more relaxing than aromatherapy, massage or The Bean's Baby Lullabies CD. Helped by two recent viewings of the film Lost in Translation, I managed to identify some Japanese cherry trees there, which made me happy. Soon I'll become a paid-up tree spotter with anorak, measuring tape and notebook.
The Bean was entranced by the pebbles in the 'dry' garden, which required some methodical sorting, examination and tentative licking before she allowed me to replace them.
The Mad Hatter would have felt quite at home inviting guests to a tea party in the grounds of Lauriston Castle. The Queen of Hearts could have held court, while the yew trees came to life and watched her preside over a ghostly game of croquet on the lawns, played perhaps by some of the castle's stone lions that she had ordered back to life for the occasion.
Striking out
Golf clubs and other private members' establishments will no longer be
able to ban women members from their bars or discrimi
nate in any other
way on gender grounds under a shakeup of equality laws unveiled today.
Oh happy day. And about time, too. Delighted to read this story in today's Guardian, after my weekend rant about being thrown out of a stuffy Edinburgh golf club a couple of years ago while six-months pregnant for wearing trainers.
The Guardian quotes a source at the Department of Communities and Local Government, which
is publishing today's green paper, saying: "We firmly believe that people
being treated as second class citizens when a club is open to all is
simply not on." Hurrah. It's not that I want to hang around golf clubs, you understand, in Edinburgh or elsewhere. But I'd like to make my own mind up about that, thank you very much.
Years ago I had to interview a self-important old buffer at his "gentlemen's club" in St James' in London. The porter insisted I don an ancient elasticated club skirt before going into the restaurant, lest the "gentlemen "- huh, as if - be upset by my Jigsaw trouser suit. Hope they legislate against that sort of nonsense too, soon.
Hug a tree
My 14-month-old daughter is afraid of trees. This is what comes of living in a city-centre flat. No garden, no shed, no trees. Never mind. I have plans for our astragal (Edinburgh-speak for minute iron balcony, home to pot of red geraniums) and last week I took her to the lovely private gardens up the road from us in Edinburgh's Queen Street, annual subscription £70 (visited four times, not my best investment). As we inspected the trees she ducked her head down onto my shoulder and hid in fear. She thinks they are alive - and out to get her. In younger hippy days I used to hug trees. Nowadays I feel too inhibited. But how could my daughter not love them too?
Rain rescued her. We packed up the vol-au-vent, said goodbye to the scary tree people, and took refuge in a local cafe/photography studio/gallery opened last month in Howe Street by photographer Robyn Rowles. Daughter might not care much for trees, but a vanilla-flavoured babycino is another matter altogether... she was in heaven, bedaubed with milky froth. Robyn captured the moment on camera for us, giving us one of the best pictures we have of The Bean.
Escape to the hills
J and I escaped to the hills today while K stayed at home ransacking her Granny's handbag. We have beautiful hills practically on our doorstep - half an hour's drive took us to the foot of the Pentlands - but usually by the weekend we're too exhausted to go anywhere much.
We parked below Swanston village, found the stony track as instructed in the wonderful Cicerone The Pentland Hills: A Walker's Guide and followed the signpost for Allermuir Hill, barely visible through its carapace of heavy mist. Robert Louis Stevenson, who grew up not far from where we live, also used to walk these hills, which was why we chose this route.
Out of breath, we struggled up the hillside past picturesque thatched whitewashed cottages, through kissing gates, before reaching open ground covered with thick, prickly yellow gorse, and pausing to pick some lucky heather. After I gave my last piece away to a sick friend, I had a miscarriage, so this walk was partly to replenish supplies. I don't think it was a good omen that I had to tug really hard at the stuff, which was oozing sap, before some came away in my hand and I could store it in a special heather-guarding pouch in my rucksack.
Happy 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.
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 for another two days. 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.
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Mother at Large dreams of crossing the Pyrenees with her young daughters. And might just do so one of these days. To find out more read her full profile.
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