March 2007

PostingDucks, dossers and rocking horses

K has her first birthday next week, so last weekend we went en famille to Edinburgh's Grassmarket to visit a toyshop called Pinocchio to find her presents. J's mother found the shop on the web and suggested it might be a good place to buy a wooden rocking horse, which we were to buy on her behalf.

Unexpectedly, it was quite an illuminating experience, in ways I hadn't even thought about before we set off. What we found made me re-think some of my ideas about Edinburgh and made me realise some of them no longer match up to its modern reality.

It was strangely bizarre to be on such a wholesome errand in a part of Edinburgh that I remember from my childhood as full of doss houses, rough pubs and desperate, homeless people. Today's Grassmarket is so very different to the place I carried in my head for so long. Thirty years ago this was not the place to come if you were in the market for hand-made French wooden puppets.

Long, long ago it was where public hangings used to take place, and the place still carries something of that atmosphere. The Salvation Army had an outpost nearby and homeless men, often alcoholics, with red, bulbous features distorted by drink, used to loll about in the central square gulping 60% booze from bottles in brown paper bags. I remember being afraid of them as we hurried through on the way to more salubrious parts of town, I don't exactly know why, since the people they hurt most were themselves. They never took any notice of me. I think even then I was scared by the knowledge that homelessness, alcoholism, though I didn't know the words then, were things that really could happen to people.

According to my mother, one time we were walking through the area, I stopped and asked her: "Mummy, why is that man asleep on the pavement?"

I can't believe Edinburgh's homelessness problem has disappeared, but the tramps have certainly all vanished from the Grassmarket, at least there were none about on the sunny Saturday morning when we visited. The doss houses are gone, in their place boutique city hotels that serve complimentary peanuts with low-alcohol mixer drinks. The rougher second-hand clothes shops are now vintage clothing outlets.

I shouldn't complain too much. We found a wooden rocking horse and enormous Edouard le Canard soft toy from Moulin Roty for K. Edouard told me when we got home that he would like to stay in my bedroom for the week or so before K's birthday. I find him comforting.

Posted 27 March 2007 20:26 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingLast days of breastfeeding

Yesterday K and I had what I know was our last breastfeed together. We sat in the rocking chair and she suckled for a few minutes, then noticed something on the carpet that demanded closer inspection. She detached herself from me, indicated in no uncertain terms she wanted down, and crawled off to look at whatever it was. She didn't look back, and somehow that seemed right, and I took it as confirmation of doing the right thing, though part of my heart was hurting.

Posted 26 March 2007 21:53 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter

PostingDaddy on porridge strike

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food Home

PostingStanding start

This morning J erupted into our bedroom. "Are you awake enough for this morning's big news?" he began. Without waiting for an answer he rushed on: "She can stand up! Almost on her own!" J's vitality first-thing can sometimes overwhelm me but on this occasion I knew I had an edge.

This was old news. She stood up on her own yesterday while he was at work. If I'd been properly awake I might even have indulged in a look of knowing superiority. As it was, he'd been looking after her since we heard "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" coming from the musical Whoozit in her room at 6.30am and I needed my first cup of tea of the day, so I didn't feel able to say too much.

After triumph, disaster.

K practised standing for most of the day, giving me smiles as she did so that suggested she wasn't entirely oblivious to my maternal pride in her achievements. Then, around teatime, as she was wobbling next to the coffee table, she took her hands off the table, lost her balance and toppled backwards, cutting her lip on the table edge. She screamed and wailed.

I swept her up in my arms, wiped the blood from her lip and paced around the flat. Granny assumed emergency tea-making duties. All of us had tears in our eyes. Despite all my resolutions that today was the day I would stop breastfeeding, I let her feed for 20 minutes to try and comfort her.

Tonight at supper J and I discussed where we could find foam padding for the coffee table. The tone of the conversation was muted and co-operative. Surprisingly enough, neither of us made any attempt at one-upmanship.

Posted 22 March 2007 20:40 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingHailstones on Stockbridge

I tell J I'd like to wrap myself up in bear skins and hibernate for months.

"You might never emerge, except to go on little forays for cups of tea," he replies.

Joys of a Scottish winter.

Posted 19 March 2007 22:49 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Edinburgh

PostingDreamcatcher

K's favourite toy is a cunningly designed dreamcatcher purchased at Edinburgh's Floatarium. This is no ordinary dreamcatcher. For a start, there are no feathers or natural artefacts to help filter good and bad dreams. Instead, brightly coloured glass beads and baubles do the job.

In a genius move of New Age marketing this particular dreamcatcher also pays homage to another object beloved of hippies the world over and incorporates chimes. As the finishing touch, a sequinned red heart dangles from the whole. It's tawdry but I LOVE it.

Often in the mornings I lift K up in my arms to inspect it. Her face lights up. She reaches out a hand gently to stroke the heart, as one might a precious object. Gently she boffs at the chimes, marvelling at the sounds. She never gets annoyed or bored with it, as she does with other toys, most of which she throws away without any pretence of social nicety.

Not so the dreamcatcher.

Posted 19 March 2007 22:36 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingParenting paradox

Hours before J & I leave for our first weekend away from her, K and I have an exasperating five-minute tussle while she crawls away as I grapple with her poo-filled nappy. I yearn for my freedom, to be the old me. Within hours of actually leaving I'm missing her.

J and I have decided to abscond to Madrid for the weekend for some couple-time, the sort of thing we did successfully before K arrived. It's not quite the fun-fest I expected. It's as if a limb's been amputated, not having K there. Between my arms is an emptiness where I think she should be. I find myself checking my breasts to be sure the milk hasn't disappeared.

After I phone home twice that first evening, Granny orders me to stop calling and enjoy myself.

The sun shines on me and J as we sip coffee in the Plaza Mayor on Sunday morning - Mother's Day. We eat tapas at an authentic tapas restaurant filled with sober-suited Madrilenos standing at the bar in their Sunday best. In the course of the weekend we row on the boating lake in the Parque del Retiro, walk hand-in-hand past magnificent architecture and look at Picasso's Guernica.

Through it all I gaze at other people's babies, seemingly everywhere. I peer into prams, guessing the age of the baby, noting the buggy make.

Posted 19 March 2007 09:18 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingThe generation gap

Parenting books scare me, but not as much as one suggestion scared poor Granny. Some grandmothers press their "bosoms" (my name for them as a child) back into action and "relactate" to look after hungry grandchildren. Granny looks affronted when I mention this.

Posted 12 March 2007 22:53 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingOn weaning

"When do you think I'll stop actually making milk?" I ask J, as we discuss plans to wean Katy completely.

"I don't know," he replies. "I have no direct experience of the subject."

Posted 11 March 2007 21:03 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

Breastfeeding Daughter Husband Food

PostingBehind the Scenes at the Museum

Ever since Katy stopped long periods of crying inconsolably, days out have become good fun.

This Sunday afternoon at the National Museum of Scotland I actually had a chance to take in some details of what we were seeing. I really enjoyed Scotland Transformed on Level 3 of the Museum of Scotland building.

I was tickled to read that the first written mention of the word "golf" occurred in 1457, when an Act of Parliament banned the sport because it was interfering with archery practice.

The café in the wonderful atrium – "like a giant Victorian conservatory or miniature Crystal Palace," in J's words - is a visual and culinary delight. J started dropping hints about its sage scones and Lawrence cake early this morning. Even the new menu that's changed sage to oregano isn't enough to bother him. Lots of mums meet here mid-week and at weekends the place is packed with the full parental complement.

I love the airy lightness, cream-and-gold décor, view up to the glass roof, tiled floor, totem pole, clock that chimes every quarter of an hour and goldfish in two coin-strewn pools.

Posted 11 March 2007 20:53 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingTransport matters

Jack and I must be contenders for most car-phobic couple in Edinburgh. We met on a walking holiday and sometimes it feels like we've been walking most places ever since, with the only the odd token bow to public transport. This is somewhat unfair – Jack did arrange a Bentley to ferry us from wedding to wedding night hotel. But transport has been the source of long-running tension between us, since neither of us are willing or confident drivers.

Since Katy arrived there's been a series of agonised conversations in which I plead the need for a car, Jack agrees, then nothing happens. In truth, we are each as scared as the other of taking to the road and I am hoping to devolve the responsibility onto him, a burden he's refused to take on. Jack, meanwhile, is trying the same ruse – with more success – on me.

Years as Londoners meant we got along fine without a car but now we're out-of-towners and have a child, we need to rethink. A Lothian Transport rule, which the drivers enforce rigidly, allows only one unfolded buggy per bus. I spent the winter months standing at bus stops watching approaching buses, praying there wouldn't already be a buggy on board, otherwise Katy and I would have to wait for the next bus.

The turning point was a traumatic trip on the 34 bus that took us on a mystery tour of places I'd only previously seen as bus destinations. I was almost shrieking with frustration as the three of us toured pebble-dashed Edinburgh suburbia, never one of my favourite places at the best of times, one Saturday afternoon, going the opposite way to where we wanted to be going. I wanted to weep with powerlessness.

Two weeks after that we took delivery of our Ford Focus. Since then I've been driving it to work a couple of days a week, and today Jack fitted Katy's throne in it so we could have our first proper family outing – to the seaside, at Cramond. I was suprised the seat fitting wasn't a bigger deal; in the event it only took about 15 minutes, but it seems I was wrong to relax about the seat too soon.

Good to get there and back under our own steam – wonderful walking along the front in gale-force winds. But in truth it was quite a stressful experience; Jack and I had a stupid spat afterwards in a supermarket carpark about how tight Katy's seat straps should be; the lightning conductor for our fears about road safety more generally. Jack maintained he needed to adjust the entire strap mechanism every time he put her in her chair – quite a time-consuming process. I disagreed.

This is his thinking (I think): "I can't fasten the belt around Katy when the straps are tight enough to fit safely. I need to loosen the belt, fit her in, then tighten them again." Whenever Jack is uptight or worried he becomes hyper, hyper safety-conscious. In saner moments he's asked me simply to tell him when he's being like this, but when he's in the thick of a safety neurosis he never takes any notice of what I say. This was one of those days, when sanity flies out the window.

It all seemed to hinge on the number of fingers involved. "You should only be able to insert one finger under the straps," he insists. "Does it really matter if it's one finger or two?" I retort, holding up an indeterminate number of digits to him, feeling mildly hysterical. "I mean, is it really going to make that much difference? Other people don't readjust the belts like this everytime. I know! I've seen them! I have! I see people strap their babies in, oh, almost daily!"

He takes on his knowing look: "How many fingers can you fit under those straps now? Go on, try. Have you read the instructions?" And so on. Dusk is gathering. Without admitting it, we seem to realise how ridiculous we are. We call a truce and go home.



Posted 11 March 2007 13:02 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingAdrift in a sea of gloop

Katy gazes at the sea of cold green pasta stretching out before her and turns to give me a look that seems to say: "You must be joking if you think I'm eating this". She looks worried, unsure she'll be able to prevail, that maternal force majeure will compel her to perform the hideous task of swallowing this nastiness down.

Katy prefers her food orange (sweet potato, carrot, squash all top favourites), or beige (apple puree, "pairritch") - and she's indicated in no uncertain terms that both are more palatable warm. She'll tolerate spaghetti bolognaise in small quantities or a pink Petit Filou. Avocado - both the wrong colour and temperature - is a no-no.

Inside the pasta sea small fluorescent monsters are swimming. One has a long black hair wrapped around a tentacle. My stomach turns. But another little baby grabs at the baby-sized serving spoon adrift in the pasta and pushes at it. The fun begins. Katy holds back a while longer, watches and then finally starts to copy, relief visible on her face that this is just another bit of grown-up silliness she can laugh along with at no cost to herself.

The Mucky Munchkins class works on the basis that they let babies smear themselves in as much pasta, gloop and non-toxic paint as they want, then someone else clears it all up afterwards. When they say mucky, they ain't lying. Next to the pasta is a washing-up bowl filled near the brim with what looks to be vomit - a substance I've had enough experience with already this week, thank you very much - again peopled with monsters. Mess is what we're here for, I have to keep reminding myself.

I've been trying to kid myself we're doing this entirely for Katy, but the truth is that after starting back to work two days a week or so in January I've been lonely and out of sorts on the days I do look after her. However little I have in common with the other mums here, Mucky Munchkins is at least some kind of landmark we can organise the day around, an escape from the long, formless slump of home life, with the promise of some adult conversation.

So here we are, Katy covered in yellow porridge in a room at the local library, me twittering nervously about whether she can eat the gloop in safety. We move on to finger paintings, with me encouraging Katy to daub cut-out shamrock (a nod to St Patrick's Day next week) and rainbow shapes.

Come the end of the class, I want to find the shapes she "painted" and pick up a rainbow that looks like it might have been hers. Another mother clears her throat. It's clear I'm about commit some solecism. It turns out to be the work of her offspring, or so she says. "We're taking that home to show Daddy, aren't we?" I'm no longer sure which painting is ours. Bless them, but the babies haven't yet discovered a distinctive style and one besmeared shamrock looks very much like another.

Briefly, I consider forgetting the paintings and keeping Katy's vest as our memento of the morning - installation art for infants, if you like - since it's got more paint on it than any of the paintings. Nah. Too bizarre. Then I spot a shamrock that looks like it might be ours. Phew.

The woman running the classes wants to take it from me to lay it out to dry with the others but after my run-in with the other mum I'm taking no chances and hug it to me protectively. This might not be top-end office politics, but on the mums-and-babies circuit you do get a few opportunities to stretch yourself. I wrap the shamrock, lopsided from undried lumps of orange paint, in a binliner and pop it in my rucksack.

Posted 09 March 2007 18:18 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Daughter Play Playgroup Work

PostingNocturnal ramblings

Katy is sick last night, properly grown-up-style sick, the first time she's thrown up more than a mouthful of regurgitated milk. I go in to check on her at 11pm after a night out at our local Pizza Express with some other mums. She's the wrong way round in her cot and something I can't quite define doesn't look right. Maybe her colour, her breathing or the way she's lying crumpled up.

As I watch, she starts coughing and in seconds she proceeds to throw up a fountain of milk, fish, yoghurt and sweet potato, all done lying flat on her back and mostly with her eyes shut.

This is full-on smelly sick that makes the whole room rank. It sticks to her face, hair, hands, sleepsuit, grobag and mattress. She opens her eyes and emits a new cry I've not heard before - one of puzzlement, distress and indignation. It goes straight to my heart and I want to pick her up and cuddle her but feel myself shamefully repelled by the vomit. I immediately launch into an silent progamme of blame apportionment, attacking myself for taking her to nursery, where she must have picked up some bug, wondering if this would have happened if I was still breastfeeding her regularly.

On a more practical level, I pick her up, holding her at a distance from my Chinese silk jacket donned in honour of the night out, clean her up, and wash her head under too-hot running water, while Jack tackles the manly business of cot devomification.

"I'll sleep in here tonight with her, on the thermarest," I tell him. "No, I'll move her cot into our room," he says. "Jack, you can't, it's far too heavy." He goes silent, something which two years of marriage have finally taught me not to mistake for acquiescence.

We girls sit on the end of the parental bed and I breastfeed Katy in the hope (probably crazy) that this will help her fight whatever's upset her stomach. At eleven months old, Katy seems already to understand what it's taken me a lifetime to learn; that sometimes it's simply less wearing to go along with male ideas on domestic arrangements, however bizarre and unnecessary they might be, than waste time fighting them.

Jack brings in first the mattress mentioned earlier in despatches, then the board it sits on. Katy and I watch, wordlessly, while Jack lugs half a tonne of white-painted pine across the hall. Without its inners, all that's left is the outer sides of the frame and, for reasons best known to himself, Jack has decided to jump inside those to push the cot into our bedroom. The scenario resembles nothing so much as a adult man driving a large pretend wooden car. I decide, all things considered, not to tell him so.

Posted 08 March 2007 10:24 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

PostingSpring sunshine

To the Botanic Gardens. Katy and I enjoy the sunshine and admire the slicks of purple crocuses. I nod and smile at other mothers. Katy stares at anyone who takes her interest, smiling sometimes. We squeek (unoiled buggy) up the hill to the cafe, where I treat myself to latte and scone.

An assistant has to bring them over - I've my hands full. "She can't see in the sunshine," he points out. I move Katy so she's no longer squinting. She glugs down a full 6oz of milk, sat in her grubby plastic highchair. I remember breastfeeding her here 10 months ago. So much has changed since then. On the way home I think again about our hopes for another child and spot two magpies.

Posted 07 March 2007 13:32 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingA spoonful of porridge

Granny picked Katy up from nursery yesterday and returned with bad news. Katy ate only a spoonful of porridge for breakfast. When her father got home and learnt this he was horrified. Every morning for six months Jack has made Katy her porridge.

He microwaves the oats and milk for three minutes, then adds apple puree to cool them down. Katy sits in her high chair to supervise. He's even written down the quantities needed. I don't know why. Jack's English - Home Counties born and bred. But he likes "pairritch".

Yesterday was the first time Katy had breakfast at nursery. It was Monday morning; full days in the office ahead for me and Jack, article to write later. Kitchen a bombsite.

Jack seemed to recover from the porridge setback . Her daily nursery information sheet said Katy managed "dancing, singing, books, music box" - a lot for an eleven-month-old baby who can't yet walk or talk, but Jack was pleased.

Today Granny greets me with the latest bulletin. Katy's been "out a walk" twice and managed an hour and a half's sleep. For lunch she ate "half of pureed veg" and "half of banana and peach pudding".

But under the entry Breakfast there's a big line crossed through the box. Oh, no. Katy's boycotted breakfast.

Jack gets home, kisses me, kisses Katy. He hides behind me while I hold Katy, making her giggle. I hold back the porridge news. After Katy's asleep I show him the sheet.

"She didn't have any breakfast at all today," I start.

He looks unperturbed.

"At least yesterday she managed a spoonful," I say.

Why so calm, I wonder?

He turns to me with a smile.

"We can't have our little girl dancing and singing all day on a spoonful of porridge. I made her a bowl of porridge first thing and she polished off the lot. "

At least he doesn't smirk.

Posted 06 March 2007 21:34 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingChanging times, changing tables

Katy is doing acrobatics on her changing top as I dress her. She giggles, wriggles, turns onto her front and makes for the edge. I pull her back, she lunges again. So it goes on. I grab an arm. She frowns and shakes free. I grab. She shakes free. I adopt my Supernanny voice. "No! Katy!" She ignores me. As soon as I get one arm in a sleeve and start on the next one, she pulls the first one out. She grins, triumphant.

Some days she's co-operative in this game and will put her arms up, as I put a top over her head, as if making it easier for me to dress her. Today is not one of them. Her father suggests we "retire" garments with an abundance of buttons and poppers to speed up the process. Not easy. It wouldn't leave us with a big wardrobe.

The changing top is a piece of wood that fits over her cot. It's the second changing accessory we've bought. The first was a table that took up most of the bathroom. Now its dismembered parts live in one of the cupboard shelves along with other discarded bits of baby kit we're keeping "in case". The top is neater, less obtrusive than the table, but presents other problems.

I fear Katy will dislodge it, while exploring her cot underneath, making it fall on her. I can't decide whether this is new-mother paranoia or genuine cause for alarm. I err on the safe side. So every time she has a sleep in her cot, I take it down. It weighs a tonne. I resent the £40 spent to acquire it, especially because it can only be a matter of time before the top joins the table in cupboard heaven. That, or we recycle it as some kind of climbing frame when Katy's older....

Posted 05 March 2007 00:06 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingShock! Horror! New parent has lie-in

When Katy was little I fed her several times a night "myself". All her dad could do was occasionally bring her to me for a feed then put her back in her cot afterwards. We used to joke about his man boobs lactating, and I think he would have fed her if he could have done. But most of the time he slumbered on, fair enough given he had to get up the next day and go to work.

Around this time, Jack started getting up early with Katy to look after her in the early - and I do mean early - mornings. He let me sleep on to catch up on the missing night-time sleep. Sometimes his day started at 5.30am.

Now, though, ever since she started on baby rice at five months, Katy has slept well, settling at 7pm and not waking till gone 6am. So the argument for me getting the lie-in has gone. But Jack still gets up early with her, even at the weekends, letting me sleep on. I've always been a late-riser and Jack an early bird. I tell him that waking up early for me is like being stuck at the bottom of the ocean. He replies the ocean is not yielding up its treasures. I'm not quite sure what he means, but sense this marital iniquity can continue no longer.

Posted 04 March 2007 06:14 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingBedtime bliss

Jack has a tinkle on the ivories as I put Katy to bed. Lullabies wafts through the flat. I look down at her little face glugging her bedtime bottle. Contentment spreads through me. These are the iconic, hard-won moments I dreamt of for years, before actually becoming a mother. I allow myself to cherish the moment, be in the moment. My daughter. In my arms. Beautiful and healthy. This is happiness. Here and now. Katy waves away the bottle. I lift her in her new 18-36 months grobag (taken in under the arms to make it fit) into her cot, next to Mr Bear, Basile and Miffy the Rabit, kiss her goodnight and creep out.

Posted 03 March 2007 22:29 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingSing a Long sorrows

I post off my cheque to the Sing a Long lady, filling out a form bedecked with crotchets and quavers. This plays to my notion of myself as renaissance/earth mother, in some way I can't quite define. A few weeks later I notice the cheque's been cashed from my depleted bank account, but I hear nothing from the organisation.

I call and email a few times, hearing nothing back. In frustration I leave another message, suggesting their approach is “unprofessional”. I swiftly receive a voicemail in response, hotly denying any such thing.

Despite this unpromising start, Katy and I turn up at the venue, home to a variety of holistic therapies and counsellors. An unsmiling, earnest-looking woman, clipboard in hand, asks me to take my socks and shoes off. “Why?” They have had several “accidents” on the stairs, or so it transpires.

I tell her I'll take my chances, live on the edge, whatever, and chance it with my (husband's, holey) socks on. There's a time and place to go barefoot outside my own home – and that's usually on a beach. “As long as you understand you are doing this at your own risk and responsibility,” she says, sounding exasperated.

I have to confess to more than a little bravado here. Inwardly I wonder if I'm foolhardy. But we make it up the stairs, despite my reckless sock-wearing and inside are some friendly, familiar faces, other mums I know.

The teacher is sporting a nose ring. She asks our names, writes out a sticker with Katy' name and, without asking me, sticks it onto the pink top I bought Katy in France last year. Katy dribbles down onto it; the ink runs and the label turns to hard-to-remove mush that I spend the next 15 minutes trying to pick off her top.

I go home and tell my husband that evening that Sing a Long has proved a fiasco. “If they can't provide a safe environment for the class then you shouldn't be there,” he says. I agree, but decide I can't be bothered to complain. A couple of days letter a letter arrives. Sing a Long is as disenchanted with me as I am with them. No apology, but an admission things haven't worked out and a full refund for my money. They beat me to it! Huh!

Posted 03 March 2007 22:22 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

PostingOf sockets, handbags and chairs

Katy crawls towards a socket. Once there, she does what any right-thinking baby would and sticks one of her digits inside. I leap towards her, heart pounding, and pull her away. “No Katy! That's dangerous!”

Katy (11 months on Monday) was intent on self-electrocution while I was getting round to changing our bed. After starting back to work in January, the house is neglected. Katy looks insouciant as I lift her away, avoiding eye contact.

No harm done, this time anyway. We've fitted safety covers on most of the sockets in reach but ran out before we got to this one. Looking after a baby is merciless. You can't cut corners, I've learnt. We'll order up more covers tonight when Katy has settled down.

This type of episode with the socket happens about 20 times daily but I decide it still merits a cup of tea. This will turn out to be a mistake. While making the tea I turn my head away. I turn back and in slow-motion see Katy reach up from the floor to my handbag, slung over a kitchen chair at the other side of the room. She loves nothing better than a good old rummage in other people's. She pulls down at it. Handbag and chair tip over. They move so slowly, just not slow enough for me to get there in time.

Chair and handbag pin her down against the washing machine. Her little face crumples. She flails. She doesn't hold back this time and gives full vent. I rush to rescue her. The commotion's enough for her dad to come rushing in from making a wooden fireplace in (of all places) the bathroom. He clowns around, hiding his face, saying “Boo!” Soon her little tear-stained face is smiling. She sits behind me now, safe in her playpen, licking the face of Icky Ticki Ta Ba the caterpillar as I write. I don't want her to be in a cage for her toddler years, but for now, just for a very little while, it seems the safest option.

Posted 03 March 2007 22:12 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments