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.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
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.
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.
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