Life imitates art

The most popular children's books - at least for children as young as E - seem to fall into two categories:

There are stories about the details of daily life: going to bed, pets, families, trips to the park. And the stories where animals take the starring role.

Most books in both catergories feature families with a mummy and a daddy. Whether human, bear or anaconda, hetreosexism rules.

To be fair, that's not really true. More and more books about different kinds of families are appearing all the time. And there are alternative families aplenty once you start looking: Meg, Mog and Owl are hardly the typical nuclear family and there are few more 'confirmed bachelors' than Frog and Toad.

And anyway, who would want to discount wonderful books like 'Peace at Last' or 'Peepo' simply based on the gender mix of the parents?

Yet, wanting some books on our shelves that reflect E's family life with two mummies, we bought Spacegirl Pukes. And that's when our problems began.

'Spacegirl Pukes' started to reflect family life a bit too closely. Let me explain, Spacegirl is story of girl with two mummies, one gets sick, then the other, then the cat. She even succeeds in infecting the ground crew, before successfully being launched into space.

E seemed to take on board the identification with spacegirl with gusto. A few weeks ago she got sick, then I got sick, then R started to feel queasy...

A pause, before it spread to uncle, grandad and finally granny - who had to miss her own wedding anniversary meal as a result.

This is how life is with babies. I know I can't really blame the book. But next on my list of recommended titles from Out for our Children is billed as a "funny story in the family life of one-year-old Emma, her Mama and Mommy, and her siblings".

It's called 'Mama Eat Ant, Yuck!'- and I'm just a little nervous at what might result after reading this one.

What's for dinner?

Like all parents, R and I are watching E as she develops to see which of our traits, passions, habits and features she picks up on and makes her own.

As a non-biological parent, I am rooting for nurture over nature. I haven't shaped her genes, but I can shape the person she becomes as she finds her place in the world.

But already it seems that there's one thing that E hasn't inherited from me - and that's an enthusiasm for eating.

She will eat. Sometimes. A little. And every and now again she will astonish us by polishing off a whole pot of yoghurt, an entire egg, a punnet of raspberries. But most meals resemble the Very Hungry Caterpillar's Saturday feast - a bite of cheese, a bite of sausage, a bite of cake and so on.

Today, R has left me looking after E with instructions to make sure she has plenty of protein ('that's eggs, meat, quorn, fish...' she helpfully explains in case I forget what protein is) and plenty of carbohydrates ('that's rice, pasta -' I cut her off, reminding her I can cope and anyway it's me who usually does the cooking whenever we have guests).

After all, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always turn to Annabel.

Annabel Karmel, the Nigella of the 0-1s. Better known in our household as Annabel Caramel, a name which suits this gourmet goddess with her straight honey-coloured hair, perfect grooming and trim figure.

If you've got a baby, you've got her book. When you hear one mother say to another 'Have you done her salmon and chives yet? It's divine' you know she is talking about Annabel.

Disappointingly on Annabel's website there are very few pictures of her spooning individual shepherd's pies into the mouths of toddlers wearing cashmere cardigans and NO BIBS. These are a particularly enjoyable feature of her book.

It's the no bibs that I find especially shocking. Even after wearing a bib, our baby constantly looks like we have dipped her in food, making it easy to identify what was on the menu that day simply by examining her trousers. Not wearing a bib at all is truly Extreme Dining in my view.

It's true we have a love/hate relationship with Annabel. Thanks to her we have eaten some pretty delicious meals, as well as the optimistically and inaccurately titled 'tasty liver casserole'.

But we have learned to take her advice with a pinch of salt (no, no, not literally, we are not feeding salt to our child, don't send in the baby police) since I got up early one Sunday to make individual rolled pancakes from scratch.

E took one look at them, held one delicately between her thumb and forefinger and then dropped it straight on the floor.

I, on the other hand, scoffed the lot. Well, I figure if she is going to eventually inherit my enthuasism for eating, it will be all thanks to my setting her a good example.

Ten minutes to a frazzled mother....

Before E was born we read lots of baby books - books for dads, books for mums, books for lesbians, books on eating, books on sleeping, flimsy free pamphlets and huge tomes. It's easy to feel in control of your life if you've got a book to refer to.

But, out of all the hundreds of words I read, there's one phase that stuck with me. It's from Lucy Atkins' excellent 'First-time parent':

"Ten minutes to a frazzled mother at the end of the day is ten hours to normal people. If you are late, expect to find her standing at the door ready to hurl a wailing baby at you, rugby style, as you cross the threshold."

I think about this every day, when I try to spring from my desk on the dot of five in order to get home for the much promised - and seldom achieved - time of 6.15.

I'm lucky that my workplace prides itself on being family-friendly and offering flexible working. But even so, every extra ten minutes spent trapped in an overrunning meeting, waiting for a delayed train or trying to coax a response from a crashed computer feels like ten hours to this frazzled mother - and that's not to mention how R feels.

There's the guilt, about leaving R literally 'holding the baby' when she's been on duty all day.

There's the disappointment, about missing out extra playing time with E.

But there's something else too: the fear of becoming a different kind of person, of losing my spontaneity.

My every minute is now planned. I know exactly where to wait on the platform to make a quick dash to the exit on arrival. I save valuable seconds, but stand by the same people and look at the same ads, day after day.

I don't say yes to an unplanned drink with a colleague or decide to take a more scenic route home. I find myself becoming a more aggressive commuter, jostling and tutting behind tourists on the escalator, don't these people realise I'm in a rush?

My journey has become a means to an end: distance to be travelled as quickly as possible, instead of time when unexpected adventures could unfold.

So what is the solution to my dilemma? On my journey home yesterday, I came up with a few options.

a) I move house to be nearer to my job
b) I move job to be nearer to my house
c) I go freelance so that my job and house (and, of course, my baby) are the same place
d) Er... is that it?

No, it's not it. None of these options is an answer. You can't arrange to be more spontaneous by planning a major life change.

It may seem like there's now less space in my life to notice the unusual, to try new things or to wander off the beaten track. And maybe there is when it comes to life away from my family.

But it's also true to say that every day being with E brings new experiences and opens my eyes to new ways of seeing the world. And that's worth rushing home for.

Mistaken identity

We’re having coffee with some other lesbian parents, whose baby is a few months younger than E, when R tells them the story about me being mistaken for her mother.

Naturally, they have their own stories to tell. One partner's north American accent has led many people to assume she’s the nanny, over in the UK to earn some cash and enjoy London’s nightlife. Others ask them, as they often ask us, ‘who’s the mother?’ and then the explanations begin.

There are many, many practical advantages to being in a same-sex relationship, from sharing clothes to being able to pretend to be the other person on the phone without having to put on a funny voice. But it does confuse people.

Being in a same-sex relationship and having a baby confuses them even more.

And being two mummies, co-parenting with two daddies, why, that tops the Richter scale of confusion.

I honestly don’t mind people being confused. I’m confused enough myself about what’s going on around me most of the time. And confused is better than hostile any day. But it does lead to some interesting conversations – and long explanations.

D takes E to Jo Jingles every week, work permitting, which leaves both of them in a state of intense excitement for hours afterwards. One week, when D couldn’t make it, R took E instead. ‘Where’s your husband?’ people asked, ‘he and E always have such a good time.’

R is not one to evade an issue, quite the reverse: ‘D’s not my husband. I’ve got a wife and we’re E’s mummies. D’s the sperm donor.’ Silence.

‘Well,’ says the group leader loudly, ‘Isn’t that lovely?’

And, actually, it is.

Are you jealous?

I'm a lesbian parenting guru. It's official.

A friend of a friend invites me out to lunch and tells me that her partner's expecting a baby in December. She's got lots of questions for me and I, feeling rather chuffed to be asked, do my best to provide experienced answers.

'What sort of buggy should they buy?' she asks. 'Is it advisable to attempt to fly to New Zealand with a six month old? We have an enormous 4x4 style buggy because it came secondhand from a friend, and have never embarked on even a short hop flight with E, so my answers are somewhat vague.

But then she asks one question where I think I know the answer straightaway. Until I realise a few days later that I don't.

We talked about how each couple had decided who would be the biological mother and who would play the supporting role. It turns out we'd each made this decision in very different ways and for different reasons. 'So, are you jealous?' my lunch companion asked.

I'd never wanted to be the biological mother. For me, the wonder of watching a baby emerge squashed and squalling into the world is much preferable to the pain of pushing that same baby out.

I know that however exhausting and frantic it proved trying to balance my worktime with time looking after E during those first few months, I find doing both is enriching. I'm secretly glad to escape the world of toddler groups and competitive baby-rearing and find refuge in my adults-only office.

So am I jealous? No way.

Then on Saturday, on my watch and as R slept, E rolled herself off the bed. Crash.

How she screamed. How I trembled. How we both went running to mummy to make everything all right.

And it turns out I am jealous after all. Not of R's status as biological mother, but of her confidence. She checks E for damage with no sign of panic, believing that no real harm's been done, and soon I can see that E begins to believe this too and her crying stops.

Similarly, when E won't sleep, R believes that sleep will come. Her confidence means there's no need for emergency pram-pushing round the block, just patience and calm.

That's not to say that R never gets cross or fraught or anxious. But something about having spent virtually every hour with E since she was born gives her a confidence that I am only gradually learning.

It's clear that I'm a long way off being a lesbian parenting guru. I'm not sure how much wisdom I might have to share with other people, but at least I've learnt something new about myself this week. And that's a pretty good place to start.

How to double your age in a single afternoon

On the days when I'm ‘working at home’ I get a glimpse into the secret life that R and E lead during the week while I’m not around.

Each Thursday it’s mums of steel, a frightening sounding exercise class at the recreation ground down the road. It’s also the day of Granny’s regular visit.

I’m disappointed to discover that the babies are not used as weights, but glad to spend the time with E while R is exercising. On a break from work, she and I head for the swings while R tones those muscles.

I haven’t met any of the mums of steel before, so I don’t know whether they know about me. Or more precisely, whether they know about the whole two mummies thing. But now I'm going to find out.

‘This is my partner’ R says, introducing me to a particularly steely-looking mum, who is doing stretches while balancing a baby on her hip. She says hello, smiles and quickly resumes the conversation about marathon running.

But she keeps shooting me strange little glances as I sit on the grass playing with E. Well, I reason, maybe she’s never met a lesbian mum before. We’re a fairly rare species, so it’s important to get a good look.

After a while E and I wander home, to find Granny chopping firewood. If this sounds more Little House on the Prairie than home counties suburbia, it’s because my mother-in-law would have made an excellent pioneer settler. She has already painted our front door, cleaned out the garage and made several trips to the dump this morning. One day I expect to return home to find she’s built an extension to the house or dug a swimming pool in the garden.

R bursts in, more sweaty than steely, and explains, laughing, what those strange glances were all about.

It turns out that the steely woman thought that I was R’s mother. At the start of the class, R had explained to the group that her partner and her mother were looking after the baby today. A partner must be a male partner. This woman had leapt to the obvious conclusion – I must be R’s mother.

I am 31. R is four years older than me. ‘She was amazed at how young you looked,’ R reassures me with a giggle. But I wonder whether perhaps I should start thinking about an exercise class too…

Spellbound

This week my daughter turned one. I'm struggling to believe it.

It's as if at her birth, storybook-style, a fairy godmother cast a spell over her - magically transforming her from a tiny curled up creature to a confident, crawling, chatting minature person. All in just one year.

The same spell worked its magic on R and me, but with different results.

From being independent, intelligent women, living in a reasonably tidy house, that pinch of fairy dust transformed us into sleep-deprived zombies, battling against ever-growing piles of dirty plates and dirty nappies, dazed, confused - and delighted - with our new way of life.

I've spent the last year, and the months leading up to E's birth, soaking up one new experience after another. Two years ago, I knew few parents and even fewer children. Now that's all changed.

I have my own daughter and parenthood has become a part of me. It's changed the way I see myself and the world around me. And it's changed how others see me.

Like all new mums, I've become a marketing target for everything from nappies to new cars, I've become a proud flasher of photographs to anyone who'll stop and look, and I've even - although I promised I wouldn't - started talking about poo in public.

But being the 'other mother' is different too. I've been the only woman in the 'dads' group at the antenatal class, the only one of my friends with babies who hasn't been on maternity leave or complained of sore nipples and I still haven't quite worked out what to say when a stranger tells me that E has my eyes.

I've been wanting to blog about this for some time. But there's always washing up to do, preparation needed for work, a baby who wants to play or a tempting bed with a warm duvet.

Will I succeed now? Well, that's up to the fairy godmother. A year on from casting her spell , I'm hoping she's finally going to give me a break...