Blog to Book - Fashionably Late
I am writing Fashionably Late, an irreverent guide to having children later in life. Did you become a mother over 35? If so, and you'd like to tell me your story please contact me at mail@motheratlarge.com.
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July 2007
Kindergarten cop
Good news following my posting earlier this month about security at The Bean's nursery. As I mentioned before, the nursery took immediate action when I spoke to them. That same evening they reminded each parent individually to ensure they shut the security doors behind them.
They also got a locksmith out a few days later to check one door in particular was closing properly.
And they stationed the largest of the male nursery staff at the door at going-home time. Poor chap. Not exactly bouncer material. But good to see him there, the Arnold Schwarzenegger of Edinburgh nurseries.
In short, I'm impressed with how they've responded.
The best news of all is that following suggestions from The Good Woman and others (oops, sorry, just been pointed out to me it's Iota, thanks Good Woman), I've persuaded the nursery to install a new self-closing door. When I wrote to the owner suggesting this, she replied saying she understood I was protective of my daughter, that her grandchildren were at the nursery too, and she'd buy a new door as we suggested. She didn't once imply that I was silly in my fears, even though that's what I partly suspect myself.
Before I had The Bean, I would have thought all this security was complete paranoia. In some ways I still do. But it's a relief to know there's a good system in place.
Thanks to everyone who commented with suggestions. It was good and helpful feedback.
Inspirational Blogger
DJ Kirkby has given me an Inspirational Blogger award, and said lots of nice things about this site that made, well, so delighted when I found out I had to shout across the flat at Va-vay to tell him the good news. Va-vay has promised to help me out with re-sizing the logos later. Please bear with me while I sort that out (now done!). 
I'd like to pass the award on to the following people:
Ingenious Rose - good to see you back and blogging again, Rose
Wife in the North - I don't know if she reads this blog or is into awards, but she's one of the reasons I started blogging, and if that's not inspirational I don't know what is... And she was kind to me when I started this site.
Zornhau - Smiting and Writing - we more or less grew up together, and still live in the same city, though nowadays we communicate mainly via comments on each other's blogs. Zornhau was one of the first people to comment on this site, and his support kept me going in the early days. Oh dear, I'm getting all cheesy. Sorry. Anyway, I remember when his mum and dad got one of the first BBC computers - I'd never even seen a computer before! - and let me have a go on it. Now I'm addicted to the wretched things. Yes, I suppose I have Zornhau to blame for that too.
The Fidra Blog - Vanessa has set up her own publishing company, Fidra Books, to re-publish neglected children's classics. As soon as The Bean's old enough I plan to start buying some for her (not that this is in any way, shape or form a pretext for reading them myself, let's get that straight).
Dulwich Mum - wicked blog. Her book about the trials and tribulations (sigh....) of being a Dulwich Supermum is published next year by The Friday Project.
Winners, please visit the Writers' Review to pick up your awards ready for engraving.
New me
Let's start with the good news. A mere 15 months after the Bean's arrival, I have slimmed down to the point where I no longer need to wear my old maternity clothes. People have, thank God, stopped a) asking when the baby's due (from the more brazen) and b) looking pointedly at my stomach.
And the bad news? The bad news is:
1. Trauma of ridding wardrobe of old and beloved maternity pantaloons
2. I have hardly any normal clothes left, not ones I fit into or could use anyway
3. After 15 months with a mix of statutory maternity pay and part-time freelance work, there's not much money to buy new threads.
4. The worst bit - I'm not doing very well at coming to terms with a symbolic end to The Bean's baby years.
First I piled up all my old maternity trousers, with their funny elasticated rigging that I dimly remember once, long, long ago, striking me as peculiar. They now seem alarmingly normal. The strange tweed maternity skirt from the Formes sale that I had to keep hitching up over my bump even at nine months. Cheap tops from Dorothy Perkins that fell apart in the wash.
Then I set to work on all the breastfeeding gear - breastfeeding nighties, breastfeeding camisoles, breastfeeding winter tops, breastfeeding T-shirts. Looking at the unironed pile of flannel on my bedroom floor, I did wonder if breastfeeding really does work out cheaper than bottles; that lot must have filled the NCT coffers by a few hundred quid. Here, too, it was hard to say goodbye. Flannel is very comfortable against the skin, you know.
Like maternity clothes, breastfeeding tops are another clothing peculiarity. From afar they seem normal, that is until you inspect them more closely and see the strange flaps, slits, panelling and apertures tucked away. The sight of them brought back happy memories: on a trip to the local art shop, the owner had to point out to me I'd neglected to close the flaps up again after feeding The Bean. Oops. Very bohemian.
About a dozen lovely glamorous greying nursing bras, including the badly-fitted one that had me in agony with a blocked duct, followed them into a storage basket. Even after all the early traumas of breastfeeding I was upset to see them all go, but I've steeled myself to draw a line and move on.
Then the following day, in one of those coincidences that are so uncannily in tune with personal circumstances they really shouldn't be a coincidence, a woman in the street stopped me to ask if I knew any good maternity wear shops in Edinburgh. I suppose she must have guessed I'd know, judging from The Bean's age. As I pointed up the hill to one place, tears welled up in my eyes, I cut the conversation short, and pushed The Bean away.
Update later the same day... it seems I spoke too soon. My kind neighbour saw me struggling in with five shopping bags earlier, and insisted on carrying two of them up the stairs to our second floor flat.... because she thought I was expecting. This is just intolerable. I look more pregnant than some of the women who really are. I have had to explain again I am not pregnant, though God knows I wish I were, (I spared her that part) and that I had a miscarriage. She looked mortified at her mistake, and I have just come off the phone to Va-vay in floods of tears.
Childcare Edinburgh Kit Pregnancy Breastfeeding Miscarriage Money
Rockin' Girl Blogger
Midlifer, has given me a Rockin' Girl Blogger badge, which has put a big smile on my face. Thank you very much Midlifer.
I'd like to pass it on to Iota at Not Wrong, Just Different. This is a thoughtful and perceptive blog about Iota's move from Scotland to the US Mid-West with her husband and three children. Here's wishing you every success in your new life, Iota.
I'd also like to pass the badge on to Flowerpot, over at Flowerpot Days, who writes a cracking account of her life in Cornwall with Himself, their cat Buster and Jack Russell dog Mollie. It's a great yarn, Flowerpot!
Food fight
Following my Wednesday rant here about how nonsensical it is to blame working mums for the rise in child obesity, it seems the food companies are getting worried they might end up taking the rap after all. Maybe passing the buck to working mums isn't, errr..., working so well.
Eleven US food firms are about to announce voluntary self-regulation on how they advertise to children. The UK's Chartered Institute of Marketing is urging British companies to follow suit. The Institute's David Thorp said: "Companies must now face up to their responsibilities and decisions must include the likely impact on society. Responsibility no longer ends at the retailer's shelf and those who market to children must look for ways of promoting a more healthy [sic] diet and lifestyle."
I'm sure the thought never crossed their minds that voluntary self-regulation was a palatable pre-emptive to legislation. Still, any development that stops the ridiculous suggestion that working mothers are responsible for children's expanding waistlines is welcome.
Breaks and Ladders
Interesting piece in The Economist about patterns of female employment. According to Sylvia Hewlett of the Centre for Work-Life Policy in New York, more than a third (37%) of all professional women drop out of work at some point and even more will spend time working flexibly. Depressingly, getting back into work isn't easy: only 40% manage to find full-time jobs. And even those women who do make it back full-time suffer a huge loss of earnings - a 38% fall for those who've been out of the office for three years or more compared with those who stayed. The report says the big accounting firms do more than many employers to retain "off-ramped" female staff, offering formal career breaks, flexi-time, home working and seasonal schedules which can fit with school holidays. A couple of other employers offer project work to women who don't want to take on full-time positions. Let's hope more employers follow suit.
Leave us mums alone
The children of working mothers are more likely to be obese or overweight, says a new study. Around a quarter of the 13,000 children studied by the Institute of Child Health in London were overweight or obese by the age of three. No prizes for guessing who's allegedly to blame.
"Long hours of maternal employment, rather than lack of any money, may impede young children's access to healthy foods and physical activity," said the researchers.
The more successful mothers are, the worse the problem, which I find hard to believe. Children in households earning £22,000 to £33,000 were 10% more likely to be overweight than in households earning under £11,000.
In the last 25 years stay-at-home mothers have fallen from nearly 55% of the total to just 21%.
Reading studies like this, I wonder why working mothers seem to attract more flak than convicted criminals/fraudsters/estate agents.
What's behind these studies that attempt to guilt-trip hard-working and loving mothers, doing their best to keep a roof over their families' head?
Why don't we see reports criticising the government for lack of affordable, flood-free UK housing that would mean more mums could stay at home?
Or a study calling for better-paid, higher-status part-time jobs, with more flexible working, that would mean fewer parents have to work full-time?
Or more criticism of the food giants that make their money peddling fatty convenience foods to young kids?
Leave us mums alone, I say.
Breastfeeding blues
Next week sees the start of World Breastfeeding Week, now in its sixteenth year. This year's theme is the importance of breastfeeding in the first hour of a baby's life.
Educating women in the benefits of breastfeeding is only one part of the equation.
We need more health workers who can teach first-timers how to breastfeed, because I don't think it's an innate skill, despite what some people say.
"Every newborn, when placed on the mother's abdomen soon after birth,
has the ability to find her mother's breast all on her own and to
decide when to take the first breastfeed," say the organisers.
Sadly, it
wasn't like that for me, nor for many of my friends, though most of us mastered breastfeeding in the end. The Bean was too busy trying out her lung capacity to do the "breast crawl".
I was ready to throw in the towel at various points in the early weeks and give Beanie a bottle. Only support from Va-vay kept me going. And stopping the 'nose-to-nipple' latch-on they taught me in hospital that made me dizzy with pain.
After that, everything slowly got easier. Until we got to the point where breastfeeding was actually enjoyable. But by that time I felt under almost as much pressure to stop as I did to start in the first place.
World Breastfeeding Week runs from August 1-7.
Blogger Awards
Lovely Ingenious Rose has made my day and given me an award. I'd like to put it on my mantelpiece but for now I'll post it here: 
Thank you very much, Ingenious Rose! I'm delighted.
Ingenious Rose, who writes a cracking blog about her life as single mum to Ingenious Junior, explains more in her posting: "The Thoughtful Blogger award is for those who answer blog
comments, emails and make their visitors feel at home on their blogs."
You can read the full description of the Writer’s Review Blogger Awards
HERE."This means it's now my turn to make five awards, which is a tougher task than it might sound. I'm only sorry I can't make awards to more of the many, many blogs I enjoy.
Anyway, here goes: I'd like to award the Thoughtful Blogger to the following people:DJ Kirkby - I've never met DJ, but feel as if I know her well, thanks to her lively blog about life with husband Chopper and their three boys, the youngest of whom has an autistic spectrum disorder.
Omega Mum at 3kidsnojob - well-crafted and hilarious tales of how pneumatic Bad Lindy is wreaking havoc in a small town somewhere in England.
Drunk Mummy - lots of understated humour, her blog combines accounts of her life as a busy parent with wine appreciation. What more could anyone ask for?
Stay at Home Dad - writing that captures what's so special in the everyday moments parents share with their children.
Littlemummy - a great site for ideas and tips on parenting, quite a few of which I actually incorporate into my life!
All these bloggers respond to comments left, and I enjoy visiting their sites. Congratulations!
I'll leave the final word to Ingenious Rose, who explains:
"To collect their awards they need to wander over to the Writer’s Review Award page where they can read the award rules and pick up the one with their names engraved on."
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.
Daughter 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.
These shoes
Granny and I have been vying for weeks for the honour of buying The Bean her first proper pair of grown-up shoes. You know, actually paying for them, actually handing over the debit card to buy them. Having that thrill of being a part of this landmark in The Bean's personal history, facilitating her first steps into the world. So that in years to come, when's she's probably owned more shoes than she'll ever remember, one or other of us will have that distinction of purchasing that first, most special, pair.
Then last week I discovered that Granny has found a lump. Near one of her breasts.
I discovered this only by accident. I wasn't "meant to know". She didn't want me fretting. "You've got enough to worry about. With the baby..." She means the one I lost, though does not like to say so. Fussing hands, no eye contact.
My dad blurted it out by mistake when I rang. "She's not here. She's at the hospital." Hospital? The ice-cold dread trickles down my chest.
We spend five days waiting for the results. On Monday it's good news from the doctors. Though even Granny, normally resolute and chipper, looks shaken by her experiences when I see her the following day.
There's no question about who'll buy the shoes now, I know, and seeing the pleasure on her face today as we inspect rows of buckled shoes for The Bean is something I hope to remember for a long time.
The only other time I've ever seen her as happy is dancing round my kitchen with her grandaughter in her arms, singing The Blue Danube tunelessly, a look of joyful contentment on her face that made me, too, happier than I can remember.
In the event, The Bean is initially a little scared of the foot measuring device the young male assistant wields at her. But she consents to play along long enough for us to deduce her size. By the time she tries on a pair of white sandals, made from interlocking leather flowers, she is enjoying herself so much she shrieks when I try to take them off. Eventually we settle on a pair of beflowered pink shoes.
When we get home we hurry to show our purchase to Va-vay. For reasons I'll explain, I'm particularly keen to see his reaction to our daughter's first pair of shoes.
On one of our first afternoons together, back when I still lived in London, we were walking along Oxford Street. Normally I hated the place, yet even the grotty pigeons, cheap tourist tat and street stalls seemed romantic that October day, because I was with him.
Va-vay, who has very large feet, said in an embarrassed way: "If you want a laugh, we can go into a shoe shop and watch their faces when I ask for a pair of size 14 shoes." He sounded so apologetic about his big feet, something in my heart went out to him. I loved him so much more for that moment of vulnerability, than for all his competence and cleverness.
One day The Bean will probably have big feet, both Va-vay and I being tall. But as I think you'll agree, looking at this photo, she's got someway to go before she can rival her dad.
First-timer
Thanks to everyone who visited and commented on yesterday's posting on being an older first-time mum. You all cheered me up no end. So much so, I've climbed out of the slough of self-pity and hardly worried about withered ovaries or early menopause at all today. Okay, I jumped ahead a few decades or so. I admit it. It's just my 40th is coming up in a few months and there's nothing like a landmark birthday to make a person jittery...
There are big upsides to being a little bit older:
1. The Bean doesn't know she got landed with a late-starter. She doesn't care what age I am. As long as I'm not late in getting that milk ready.
2. After her first visit to our home, the health visitor never again asked if The Bean was "assisted" in her creation. For the record, she wasn't.
3. I've done the painful business of growing-up, even if it lasted well into my early 30s, so can now concentrate on helping someone else negotiate that.
4. The health visitor said I must be "very selective" to have waited until I was 37 to settle down.
5. Lighter sleep patterns = good for night-time feeds.
6. Healthier bank balance = less stress. More time at home.
7. Playing with The Bean makes me feel younger. It's fun!
8. After spending so many years wanting to be a mum, I don't mind the hard graft side of parenting too much. But the same is true of many mums... I read in people's blogs - certainly all the ones in my blogroll and others besides - of so much selfless hard work for their children, that they do without complaining or expecting anything much in return.
9. I wish I could add greater life experience to the list.
10. A better sense of who I am. Makes it easier to resist the latest fads in parenting.
An older woman
As some of you know, I am an older first-time mum. I had The Bean at the grand old age of 38 - which in medical parlance made me a senile primagravida. Oooh, how attractive does that sound..... like an elderly gorilla with dementia. But I never really felt old until I started going to mums and babies groups, where everyone else looked so young. And no, I'm not just talking about the babies.
A lot about being an L Plates mum seems to be the same whatever age you are. I've sat down to write about the differences in being an older first-timer and am racking my brains to think of any. This is what I've thought of so far:
1. Like any minority group, we older first-timers tend to band together for protection. One friend said early on in our friendship she wanted me as her friend to be able to prove to her child when he was older that he wasn't the only one to have an 'older' mum. We've agreed that at the school gates we'll be pointing to each other, telling our respective children: "See! You're not the the only one who's got an uncool mum! Look, Johnny's mum got her bus pass last week too."
2. Acceptance of restrictions. I don't think I minded staying in every night for about a year after my daughter was born as much as some of the younger mums. Now this really is showing my age, but when I was younger I did my share of partying. So nights in with The Bean, Va-vay (as she now calls her dad) and the breastfeeding pillow were fine by me. Tiring, but fine.
3. After being with The Bean all day not only did Va-vay's face look monstrously large in comparison on our pillows, when we collapsed into bed at 9.30pm, but my own looked like the withered mask of an old woman when I looked in the mirror.
4. Pressure to procreate. I met Va-vay only when I was nearly 36. Most inefficient of me, as he keeps telling me. We had a short interlude of doing nice stuff like strolling through the countryside, going to the theatre and having foreign holidays. But it's no exaggeration to say it's been serious reproduction pretty much all the way ever since. No! Not like that...
I've either been pregnant or breastfeeding for most of the time we've been together.
Still, maybe I should just count my blessings... after my miscarriage in May I'm so very glad we started a family straightaway. The Bean arrived a few days before our first wedding anniversary. Having her with us is all that really matters.
5. A sense of mild, but residual embarrassment that I crossed some kind of finishing-line years later than most of my peers.
6. Disbelief any of this is happening. I spent so many years on my own, or in bad relationships, I can't believe I'm a happily-married mother. Well, Va-vay and I argue sometimes.... but even so.
7. I feel like a kid myself next to women of the same age, most of whom have children much older than The Bean.
8. Sometimes I find myself calculating how much longer Granny, Va-vay and I'll be around to pester The Bean with offers of breadsticks, milk, payment of nursery fees, or similar. Hmmm... must break morbid habit.
9. Shock at cynical commercial targeting of babies!!! When did the marketing departments get their hands on baby products? Back in '67 we babies didn't have branding. We didn't even have animal pictures on our towelling nappies. The best we could hope for was Tommee Tippee on our potties come the advent of toilet training (which as my mother never tires of telling me, often in front of Va-vay, happened when I was 13 months old). Sorry. Too much information...
What do you all think? Does it make a difference how old a mum is when she has her first baby?
I don't know enough about the medical or physical side of
things to write about that. Also, it should go without saying, but I'm writing about personal experience here. Obviously these
things vary according to different individuals.
Naughty corner
Flying daleks hold few terrors for me nowadays. The only television
that really scares me concentrates on small children with behavioural
issues. Not many shows are more alarming for me than those featuring a 'naughty corner'. Luckily, The Bean is only 15 months old and, so far, reassuringly normal in her behaviour. When I see the 'corner' on telly I fear it as the possible shape of Things to Come.
The sight of Supernanny riding round America from one maladjusted mansion to the next in that ridiculous black cab of hers makes me worry that one day I might end up on one of these programmes. Obviously sans the ranch-style mansion. Or any decent parking for the cab. Plus up here people might try and hire it. Instead of marvel at it as a foreign novelty, as they properly ought. But with an uncontrollable child. While upstairs I act contrite as Supernanny tells me where I've gone wrong.
Watching these programmes I fear I'll appear on them one day, a husk, defeated by my own defective parenting. Sent to the parental naughty corner that is humiliation on national television. And made to stay there for a minute of every year of my age. Which in my case would mean nearly 40 minutes of advice from Mary Poppins.
Programmes like Supernanny make me fear that unless I get this parenting business absolutely right, then in
a couple of years The Bean might win some kind of infant ASBO the government will have been forced to introduce, to combat the unruly pre-schoolers ruling the domestic roost. Perhaps called a BASBO. There, I knew I couldn't write anything about parenting without resorting to acronyms.
The ASBO for pre-school kids would be a kind of souped-up, institutional 'naughty corner'. Bans on hoods on the cardigans their grannies knitted. A large pacifier sign stamped on the front door to indicate naughtiness within. Community toddles to keep them from hanging round softplays with too much time on their hands. Curfews on drinking babycinos after certain hours. I can't see it
catching on as a badge of honour in NCT circles.
When Supernanny US came on the other week, my husband did his utmost to make me switch channels, as he knows my fears well. I didn't listen to him and watched a restaurant owner and his wife meekly receive advice on the many errors of their slack parenting ways.
The damage was done. The next day I was a little bit stricter with The Bean than I'd normally be, thinking I'd better set some limits before Jo Frost's taxi arrived at the door. She was playing on the floor in the kitchen, while I tidied up. Sensing my attention was elsewhere, she made a beeline for a kitchen cupboard containing lots of precious china that we haven't got round to child-proofing yet. When we moved into our flat, The Bean hadn't arrived. So I didn't know back then it was a stupid idea to put china in cupboards at ground level when you have a child.
Just so you know I am not a complete spoilsport, I do allow her to put things in the washing machine. These range from tea-towels to toy bricks and nappy cream. She then enjoys unloading them, in a methodical fashion, before reloading them in the barrel of the washing machine. But I try to keep her away from cupboards where she could break the contents, or hurt herself.
"NO!" I thundered at her, louder than I normally would. "We do NOT go in that cupboard." All credit to her, she smiled up at me, quite unmoved, and went back to sucking on the packet of her Baby Bonjela teething gel. Her mother might deserve some time on the naughty corner. But she's doing just fine.
Home work - oh, and I'm a Rockin Blogger!
After six months of working from home, I'm finally realising there are ways to make it easier on myself and the rest of my family. It seems only polite to share these ideas on home-working with you all. So, here are my suggestions.
Please feel free to disagree or jump in with any ideas of your own.
1. If your budget can stretch to it, invest in a decent office chair.
Using a dining room chair for my work was threatening to cripple me. So I've just ordered a proper swivel chair with good back support. I couldn't stand up straight after some days hunched over the laptop. How I wish I'd done it sooner.
2. Don't use your ordinary home phone for work calls.
Safeguard your privacy. Get VOIP (voice-over internet protocol). Calls are cheaper. And you won't risk picking up the home phone thinking it's your mum or husband, only to find yourself talking to an important client, who will thrill to the accompanying shrieks from your small and attention-deprived child.
3. You might think you're working two days a week. Many of your contacts won't. Set boundaries - politely.
This is a tricky one. Tip 2 helps. Obviously, it's important to strike a balance, and remain flexible to maintain important relationships. After all, this is work. Unless I say "no" sometimes, my 'two-day' week could include every available crack of time, morning, noon and night.
4. Ensure you get some fresh air daily.
It's all too easy never to leave the flat, especially if my husband takes The Bean to nursery. A stroll round the corner to escape the citadel cheers me up no end. Coffee at the local deli/cafe on my own is a real treat.
5. Remember that office workers march to a different beat
How dare my husband get short with me when I've phoned up for a good long chat?
6. Make an effort to meet people
When even the postman is walking faster as you hove into view because you've spent so much time gabbing about weather/holidays/postal strike, it might be time to meet other work-at-homes for a quick coffee.
7. When you're cursing your solitude, remember all the things about office life that got you down
I'd better be discreet here.
8. If you're setting up on your own, give yourself time to get established
Don't expect instant miracles. Be patient. Suffice to say, I am not a patient person. I wish I were. I married someone patient, hoping it would rub off on me. So far it has not worked. I cannot ask for my money back. I cannot send him back now to the lovely vicar who married us. It's too late. The 'return-by' period has expired. I could not imagine living without him. You see, I need his patience.
9. Try to keep at least one day weekly completely work-free
Okay, it's hard to resist a sneaky daily look at that inbox. But at least one day a week of minimal work is refreshing.
10. Don't feel too bad about frequent tea breaks.
Think of all the time wasted in offices catching up with what colleagues did at the weekend. Or hawking round birthday cards. Not to mention "internal meetings". You probably get more concentrated stretches of work done at home.
11. Never buy biscuits
Self-explanatory, I should think. I didn't get this blog title by accident.
Other news:
Erica from Littlemummy has made me a Rockin' Blogger! Thanks, Erica. I'm delighted!
That means it's my turn to award the Rockin' Blogger to two other sites.
So, here goes... I'd like to choose Omega Mum from Three Kids No Job and Beta Mum from Keir Royale. They both write warm and witty blogs about their lives that I find quite addictive. Omega Mum, Beta Mum, over to you! Your turn to award two blogs you like this thumbs-up.
Erica, thanks also for setting up a UK Parents Blog Ring (details in the blogroll, right). I've already signed up and understand from Erica new members are welcome!
Mum-upmanship
Ever worried about 'mum-upmanship' at mum-and-baby coffee mornings? Thought there was something wrong with you for fretting you had little in common with the other mums? Had 'knickers made of barbed wire' tugging at your post-natal stitches?
If so, help is at hand. A small and entertaining book, Staying Sane
There are lots of great tips on keeping it together through your child's babyhood and toddler years that struck a chord with me.
These are some of my favourites:
1. When motherhood seems intolerable, remind yourself quite how much you disliked being a childless singleton.
2. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you have to make instant friends with everyone from your nearest Mums and Babies group.
3. When contemplating the desirability of divorce, go to a party. "Chances are you will have your evening spoiled by a self-important oaf whose prejudices, politics or misogyny ensure that when you snuggle up to your husband in bed that night, you thank your lucky stars you ended up with him," writes Miller.
PS - I know this tip is true. It worked a treat for me at my French evening class.
4. "Just because you coped with tricky types at work doesn't mean you should do it now," she warns. "Try to concentrate on women whose company gives you a boost and don't let yourself be undermined by competitive, critical or gossipy women."
5. "Avoid complete paranoia by resolving to consult a medical dictionary as rarely as possible to check up on childhood ailments,"she says. Otherwise you end up catastrophising about all manner of ailments. Same would go for internet, presumably.
The tone is cheery, light-hearted and positive. There are lots of lovely cartoon illustrations by Louise Quirke. Miller doesn't patronise her audience, or preach. As a mother of three young daughters, two of them twins, she plainly knows what she's talking about.
I didn't agree with every suggestion - there was one about wrapping your head in a pashmina I couldn't understand - but overall I liked Staying Sane a lot. It'd be a good gift to any new mother. Along with the valium and ready meals.
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
Thin line
It's a fine line between diligent parenting and utter lunacy, as Dulwich Mum was saying the other day. The trouble is telling when you've crossed the line. What self-respecting lunatic parent is gifted with self-awareness?
A nasty bout of what could be parental paranoia kicked off yesterday morning. Or then again it might be normal maternal instincts to protect my child. Don't ask me.
It started when I staggered up the hill to take The Bean to nursery. She couldn't be happier at nursery these days, sometimes waving and clapping as we approach.
I wasn't so thrilled, though, at our arrival. My heart started pounding and my knees went
shaky at the sight that greeted us. Was I being negligent in leaving The Bean here?
The security gate into the front garden was swinging open, beckoning in anyone from the street. This isn't just a garden gate; it has an intercon and buzzer for access to the inner nursery sanctum.
Big boys and girls - by which I mean pre-schoolers - play in this garden, admittedly watched over by nursery staff. It's about the fourth time in a fortnight I've found it wide open.
I wheeled her through the garden, past the climbing frame, discarded tractors and trikes, to a second security door in the actual nursery buildings. That, too, was wide open.
The nursery insists its biggest defence is that staff never leave the children alone. I can't relax knowing the doors are often left open.
Nursery has been responsive to my concerns. They've put up notices remininding people to shut the doors behind them. And they've promised to get a locksmith to check the latches.
There's not a locksmith in the world can do anything about people who won't shut the door or gate behind them.
So yesterday I explained again to The Bean's key worker why it's maybe not such a good idea to leave the doors open. She said a locksmith was coming out again this week to ensure the doors locked properly.
At times like this, I rejoice in the sheer good fortune of having a husband. This called for reinforcements.
Once on the case, he called the nursery, then rang back with good news. The nursery was planning to remind every parent individually that same evening to shut the security doors.
When I went to pick The Bean up later that day, a nursery sentry stood guard at the garden gate.
The upshot? Relief, but also fear I made a big fuss about nothing. Since the miscarriage I've had heightened fears of all sorts about loss - awake and in dreams. So this might be personal paranoia. Or maybe it's the reaction of any responsible parent.
I'm not alone in these concerns. Caroline Dunford writes amusingly about how she handled similar dilemmas in leaving her little boy, 'The Emperor', at playgroup in her wry and entertaining book How to Survive the Terrible Twos (published by White Ladder Press at £7.99). I've just finished Caroline's book, but fear I may be referring back to it frequently in coming months.
What do you think? Please leave a comment!
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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.
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Baby police
Following my mid-week rant about acronyms polluting the world of mothering, one of my correspondents
has gamely suggested I call myself Acromum. I'm flattered!
I could use the small remnants of my time not spent blogging, working or
looking after The Bean, to fight acronyms wherever I see them, armed
with nothing more than a hefty changing bag, toddler reins, broccoli
spears and some smelly old nappies.
That should bring people back to
earth and get them to drop these silly titles like SAHM and WAHM.
The ultimate deterrant, of course, would be disemvowelling.
If I had an arch-enemy, perhaps someone from the acronym-rich military
or medical professions, or even someone over at the Parenting Police HQ
- Ofmum - they could fight by wheeling out a copy of the Book of Acronyms that Ingenious Rose
alerted me to.
At the sight of the dreaded volume, I would instantly
wither into a pile of meaningless letters, spouting received wisdom set
down by well-meaning but mostly childless bureacrats who equate life
for a newborn in rural, war-torn Africa with arriving in a neurotic,
middle-class family in the Edinburgh New Town.
Much of the advice on
breastfeeding in the UK comes from global organisations concerned
primarily with developing countries. Yet it gets applied across the
board in developed, as well as poorer regions, even though the worst
many of us have to contend with is a scrap over parking places in
this city. Not exactly equivalent to civil war and the West Side Boys in Africa.
Though talking of conflict, there's also the issue of
differing parental opinions on the finer technicalities of parenting.
For example, how best to warm a bottle - which can lead to vicious,
internecine guerilla warfare.
"Don't add the powder before you heat the water, I've told you a million times!"
"What difference does that make? You're undermining my parenting!"
"You've got to add the powder afterwards. It's the microbes in the milk."
"Microbes? You're making this up. Oh, don't tell me you read it in one of your books."
Guess we forgot to be grateful there was no trip to a dank well involved. And took sterile water for granted.
Perhaps the Ofmum bureaucrats are right - and there's something to be
said for one-size-fits-all parenting (oh dear, almost felt an acronym
coming on there) - with baby police around the world marching to the
same step.
Then again, important differences remain. At least in Africa the enemy isn't someone who's meant to be on your own side.
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