What is it with shoes?
The Engineer once asked me why women like to buy shoes so much, or maybe it was why women liked to buy so many shoes.
Anyway my theory was that no matter what size or shape a woman is - and as we know, sadly, few women are content with theirs - all of us can go into a shop and buy a pair of shoes without fear of humiliation.
If, like me, you have had that hideous moment when you can neither get into nor out of a garment you don’t even want, while the size zero shop assistant waits just beyond the curtain, you will know what I am talking about.
But all feet are welcome in our culture, even big ones, thanks to the fashion industry's love of Amazonian beauties and the massive plates of meat they need to keep them upright on the runway.
So women and shoes is easy to figure out. But what got me this week was seeing the pride and excitement of our young Snooks on being bought his first pair of Real Big Boy Shoes.
He already owned a pair of what are called ‘prewalkers’ for which the rough translation is “He doesn’t really need them because he can’t walk yet but once the shop assistant had put them on his feet, they looked so cute, I could not resist.”
Luckily it was Christmas time so Santa was drafted in to foot that particular bill and the prewalkers have been a much loved and much envied addition to Snooks’ wardrobe.
But having now joined the ranks of the upright, Snooks was genuinely entitled to and genuinely in need of a pair of shoes for actually doing walking in.
It turns out that one of the many unexpected joys of having a baby is the vicarious shopping buzz it affords. When I first noticed the shift in our credit card bills from Mango to Mothercare, I was quite teary-eyed at the extent of my great selflessness and devotion to my child.
I have since realised however that in fact shopping for Snooks is at least as good a hit if not better than doing it for myself, as one enjoys the same anticipation and satisfaction of finding the perfect prize, but without any of the guilt.
So off we took ourselves to the most expensive children’s shoe shop we knew, the one that sells only children’s shoes and has teams of assistants waiting to tend to rows of tiny proffered middle class feet.
And this is where the remarkable phenomenon began to become apparent. Snooks, who would usually rather gnaw his way through his pushchair harness than sit still in any kind of shop, was perfectly composed and attentive as the assistant arrived with four little boxes containing tiny pairs of sandals of different designs for him to consider.
Not a sound as each one was tried and rejected on the grounds that Snooks’ dinky feet were swamped by even the smallest size available, rendering him resolutely immobile when invited to ‘have a little walk in them.’
Fortunately and predictably, there was just one other pair that came in a smaller size and was half the cost again of the other, average-footed variety. Of course they fit perfectly.
As soon as they were on his feet Snooks stalked over to the mirror to admire them, just as any twenty-something in her first pair of Jimmy Choos would do, and the deal was sealed.
Only a small debate followed over which colour would best suit Snooks’ look (we went for casual-sporty kind of mid-brown with red detailing), before we left with Snooks wearing the new acquisitions, as tradition on the distaff side of his ancestry dictates.
I was sort of joking when, as we arrived home, I suggested he go out into the garden to try them out. But as I watched through the kitchen window, I could see he was marching around with a new spring in his step, listening to the clackety noise they made on the path and enjoying the grippiness on the grass.
On the Engineer’s return from work, we celebrated the occasion with a loud burst of Paolo Nuttini’s tribute to the wearing of new shoes, to which the three of us danced around the lounge, at least twice.
It is the best way to break them in.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Sunday, 10 May 2009
oh boy!
Right. I have to completely retract my earlier statement about parenting books.
I got tempted by the title initially – Raising Boys - as it chimed with the name of the album, which was our soundtrack when Snooks was gestating and indeed on his way here, Raising Sand.
But in fact I had already heard of it, pricking up my ears when the first version was published in 1998; the idea that boys needed special attention was both very feasible and at the same time rather irritating.
In my family of origin (as you come to call them after a lot of therapy) there were two boys and two girls, two brunettes and two blondes. We were perfectly symmetrical and were treated as equals, all exactly the same. And we were all messed up in equal measure, which I suppose is at least fair.
Possibly as a result, I was already in Steve (Biddulph)’s camp on this even before I read his book. I believe the sexes are different and when it comes to looking after young children, the differences should be noted and celebrated, not ignored.
One has to be careful of course of stereotyping, a hazard the Engineer encounters whenever he meets other men. Being a kiwi and male it is assumed that he knows and loves all things about rugby. In fact he has to feign interest and if I catch wind of a conversation heading that way, I try to throw in a curve ball with a ‘dumb girl’ question like ‘Is that the one where they run with the ball?’ to give him an out.
And having not been exposed to our national sporting obssession during his own upbringing, he voiced a refreshingly unusual response to Snooks being born a boy. ‘Does this mean I have to go to football matches?’
I have already made many mistakes according to Steve. He says that parents are not as tender with baby boys as with girls. I had already observed, to my dismay, that I probably would be gentler in handling Snooks if he were a girl.
Of course I am gentle with him, but would I have stood him up on his little wobbly legs when he was weeks old and showed him how to kick a ball if he had been a girl? Mind you, if his recent form is anything to go by this wasn’t such a bad idea. He can already dribble pretty well and does a half decent kick when the timing is right, much to the amazement of some older and some very much older boys in the park the other day. A few dads stood by looking a bit miffed that Snooks had made off with the ball their sons were playing with.
He also warns against sexualising relationships with girls under the age of 16. Oops I Did It Again, in the words of the great Britney Spears. By the time he was six months old I had already agreed to marry him off to three of my friends’ daughters after a few hand-holding and naked paddling pool sessions.
Hopefully I have nipped it in the bud before too much damage is done. While I think the book is overly bleak about boys’ outcomes (is it really a life of gang-crime and Drugs Hell for all boys who don’t have a mentor, a father, a mother and regular access to a range of energetic and creative but non-competitive activities?) I do think there is a lot of sense in it.
And I was just explaining it all to the Engineer the other day as I was bathing Snooks, telling him how once he turns six I have to step back while they make for the shed to fashion things out of bits of timber (which actually they already do).
And how we have to help him with communication as boys can struggle when they start school because the girls are about a year ahead in fine motor and language skills.
No comment.
And how we should use the right words for body parts and demystify sex by discussing it with him, not just the mechanics but how we feel about it.
Still no comment. I am surprised to find, looking over my shoulder, that the Engineer is still present.
‘So. Where’s that lovely Botticelli?’ I say with a hand full of aqueous cream, ready to smooth on my boy’s beautiful behind.
Let’s hear it for Britney, One More Time.
I got tempted by the title initially – Raising Boys - as it chimed with the name of the album, which was our soundtrack when Snooks was gestating and indeed on his way here, Raising Sand.
But in fact I had already heard of it, pricking up my ears when the first version was published in 1998; the idea that boys needed special attention was both very feasible and at the same time rather irritating.
In my family of origin (as you come to call them after a lot of therapy) there were two boys and two girls, two brunettes and two blondes. We were perfectly symmetrical and were treated as equals, all exactly the same. And we were all messed up in equal measure, which I suppose is at least fair.
Possibly as a result, I was already in Steve (Biddulph)’s camp on this even before I read his book. I believe the sexes are different and when it comes to looking after young children, the differences should be noted and celebrated, not ignored.
One has to be careful of course of stereotyping, a hazard the Engineer encounters whenever he meets other men. Being a kiwi and male it is assumed that he knows and loves all things about rugby. In fact he has to feign interest and if I catch wind of a conversation heading that way, I try to throw in a curve ball with a ‘dumb girl’ question like ‘Is that the one where they run with the ball?’ to give him an out.
And having not been exposed to our national sporting obssession during his own upbringing, he voiced a refreshingly unusual response to Snooks being born a boy. ‘Does this mean I have to go to football matches?’
I have already made many mistakes according to Steve. He says that parents are not as tender with baby boys as with girls. I had already observed, to my dismay, that I probably would be gentler in handling Snooks if he were a girl.
Of course I am gentle with him, but would I have stood him up on his little wobbly legs when he was weeks old and showed him how to kick a ball if he had been a girl? Mind you, if his recent form is anything to go by this wasn’t such a bad idea. He can already dribble pretty well and does a half decent kick when the timing is right, much to the amazement of some older and some very much older boys in the park the other day. A few dads stood by looking a bit miffed that Snooks had made off with the ball their sons were playing with.
He also warns against sexualising relationships with girls under the age of 16. Oops I Did It Again, in the words of the great Britney Spears. By the time he was six months old I had already agreed to marry him off to three of my friends’ daughters after a few hand-holding and naked paddling pool sessions.
Hopefully I have nipped it in the bud before too much damage is done. While I think the book is overly bleak about boys’ outcomes (is it really a life of gang-crime and Drugs Hell for all boys who don’t have a mentor, a father, a mother and regular access to a range of energetic and creative but non-competitive activities?) I do think there is a lot of sense in it.
And I was just explaining it all to the Engineer the other day as I was bathing Snooks, telling him how once he turns six I have to step back while they make for the shed to fashion things out of bits of timber (which actually they already do).
And how we have to help him with communication as boys can struggle when they start school because the girls are about a year ahead in fine motor and language skills.
No comment.
And how we should use the right words for body parts and demystify sex by discussing it with him, not just the mechanics but how we feel about it.
Still no comment. I am surprised to find, looking over my shoulder, that the Engineer is still present.
‘So. Where’s that lovely Botticelli?’ I say with a hand full of aqueous cream, ready to smooth on my boy’s beautiful behind.
Let’s hear it for Britney, One More Time.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
two legs good
My clever little companion is walking!
It happened the other day in the garden when Snooks’ friend took the opportunity for a go on his beloved Ride On.
Snooks was on his feet in seconds and took two steps towards the vehicle, a rather snazzy VW kombi in sixties psychedelic orange and turquoise, to ensure it stayed put.
These were his first actual free steps but he did not walk again for a few days. Instead he took to a kind of Mowgli -like crawl, on hands and feet instead of knees. The Engineer noticed that he didn’t like the feel of grass and so we reasoned that his new modus ambulandi was to avoid knee-to-lawn contact. Therefore, it followed, this might be the place he would walk.
However many hours of kicking a football around the lawn later, with Snooks happily perched on the picnic rug like a season ticket holder in the Kop (we may live in London and I may be from Manchester but family tradition dictates that a Liverpool fan he will be) it became clear that this was the very place he would not walk. Tickly cold grass on warm feet? No thanks.
And so it was a couple of days later that I turned around to notice he had crossed the room but without the familiar plod plod plod plod of his komodo dragon-like hand and knee progress. He stood, hanging on to the ‘baby-proofing’ the Engineer erected around the hifi months ago – to protect the equipment, note, not the child – beaming with surprise.
His excitement and joy at the new discovery is catching. He is delighted with himself and after a particularly long stretch down the hallway, he wobbles into the lounge, hands above his head like a London Marathon runner crossing the finish line to our cheers and applause.
I am delighted too. It is wonderful to see him try something new and master it and to see the world of new possibilities open up before him. Suddenly his interest is at a new level, literally and he wants to know the names for all the things which are now in his line of vision – the plant, the fridge, the washing machine, the ball. Oh no, the ball.
His love of footballs knows no bounds and when we are confined indoors by the rain, he stands at the patio doors gazing longingly at the ‘outdoor’ football, occasionally banging on the window and pointing. The ‘indoor’ football, a softer smaller version with a nice dingly bell, will keep him going for so long. He particularly likes it when he is in goal – standing (or more usually sitting to be honest) with his back to the front door – while I take penalty kick after penalty kick. The aforementioned long hallway lends itself nicely to this activity as the ball rebounds off the hallway walls and so always meets its mark.
More prosaically, I am delighted to see him raised up from ground level for another reason. I have always tried to keep a sensible head about hygiene, knowing attempts to keep his hands or clothes clean would be a bar to any sort of spontaneous fun. But I could not help wince watching him crawl around the playground where the warning about the rat problem is posted on the gate. And each night as I examined the new crop of bruises on his little knees from the day’s activities on concrete and hard wood floors, I willed this day to arrive.
I have been warned against this by other parents, more experienced parents of older children, this wishing away the present and willing of change to come.
The Engineer, himself a father of two much older children, is especially hot on this; that each stage is precious and will never come back once it has gone.
He once remarked that once Snooks walked, the days of our little plodding komodo dragon would be numbered.
Sure enough, the first day after his debut as a biped Snooks was desperate to give it another go and so cutting short the usual morning snookle in bed, he wriggled out of my arms onto the floor to see if it still worked. It did. I am happy for him.
It happened the other day in the garden when Snooks’ friend took the opportunity for a go on his beloved Ride On.
Snooks was on his feet in seconds and took two steps towards the vehicle, a rather snazzy VW kombi in sixties psychedelic orange and turquoise, to ensure it stayed put.
These were his first actual free steps but he did not walk again for a few days. Instead he took to a kind of Mowgli -like crawl, on hands and feet instead of knees. The Engineer noticed that he didn’t like the feel of grass and so we reasoned that his new modus ambulandi was to avoid knee-to-lawn contact. Therefore, it followed, this might be the place he would walk.
However many hours of kicking a football around the lawn later, with Snooks happily perched on the picnic rug like a season ticket holder in the Kop (we may live in London and I may be from Manchester but family tradition dictates that a Liverpool fan he will be) it became clear that this was the very place he would not walk. Tickly cold grass on warm feet? No thanks.
And so it was a couple of days later that I turned around to notice he had crossed the room but without the familiar plod plod plod plod of his komodo dragon-like hand and knee progress. He stood, hanging on to the ‘baby-proofing’ the Engineer erected around the hifi months ago – to protect the equipment, note, not the child – beaming with surprise.
His excitement and joy at the new discovery is catching. He is delighted with himself and after a particularly long stretch down the hallway, he wobbles into the lounge, hands above his head like a London Marathon runner crossing the finish line to our cheers and applause.
I am delighted too. It is wonderful to see him try something new and master it and to see the world of new possibilities open up before him. Suddenly his interest is at a new level, literally and he wants to know the names for all the things which are now in his line of vision – the plant, the fridge, the washing machine, the ball. Oh no, the ball.
His love of footballs knows no bounds and when we are confined indoors by the rain, he stands at the patio doors gazing longingly at the ‘outdoor’ football, occasionally banging on the window and pointing. The ‘indoor’ football, a softer smaller version with a nice dingly bell, will keep him going for so long. He particularly likes it when he is in goal – standing (or more usually sitting to be honest) with his back to the front door – while I take penalty kick after penalty kick. The aforementioned long hallway lends itself nicely to this activity as the ball rebounds off the hallway walls and so always meets its mark.
More prosaically, I am delighted to see him raised up from ground level for another reason. I have always tried to keep a sensible head about hygiene, knowing attempts to keep his hands or clothes clean would be a bar to any sort of spontaneous fun. But I could not help wince watching him crawl around the playground where the warning about the rat problem is posted on the gate. And each night as I examined the new crop of bruises on his little knees from the day’s activities on concrete and hard wood floors, I willed this day to arrive.
I have been warned against this by other parents, more experienced parents of older children, this wishing away the present and willing of change to come.
The Engineer, himself a father of two much older children, is especially hot on this; that each stage is precious and will never come back once it has gone.
He once remarked that once Snooks walked, the days of our little plodding komodo dragon would be numbered.
Sure enough, the first day after his debut as a biped Snooks was desperate to give it another go and so cutting short the usual morning snookle in bed, he wriggled out of my arms onto the floor to see if it still worked. It did. I am happy for him.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe
Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea
Silver buckles on his knee
He’ll come back and marry me
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe
Bobby Shaftoe bright and fair
Combing down his yellow hair
He’s my own for ever more
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe
Now I see it written down it seems weirder than ever.
I sing this song to Snooks, bouncing him high on my knee to match the jaunty seafaring pace and the song seems to suit him. He does have yellow hair and is undoubtedly bonny.
But I am also reminded of the great moment in Friends when Monica and Chandler are watching the birth of the baby they plan to adopt and as it comes forth into the world and Monica sees that it is a boy, she shouts, “I am going to love you so much no woman will ever be good enough for you!”
Yes, we have all met one of those grown up boys in our time, haven’t we girls, and we all know those mums didn’t do them any favours.
So I find that when I sing ‘he’s my own for ever more’, I lose a bit of the jauntiness and become more sheepish, mumbling the line in the hope that neither he, nor anyone else who might be listening, thinks I mean it.
Snooks is handsome. I know you think I am biased and I surely am, but as well as that, I am constantly stopped by people in the street, in shops and even at the new playgroup we have joined to be told how extraordinarily handsome he is. One kind lady yesterday simply stared, for a little too long, and then remarked that he was going to grow up to be a stunning young man. Good heavens! Our little Snookie. He has been likened to Russell Crowe and Val Kilmer (I kid you not) and inspired a shop assistant in one of the more upmarket high street baby stores to call their marketing department and insist he be added to their list of potential models. We are still waiting for his big break.
I have learned to smile graciously in response to these most delightful compliments, rather than try the false modesty thing - “Oh no, not really, you’re being kind, his hair is a bit mad… etc” and also to brace for the moment when their face falls and they say, engaging mouth before brain, “He’s nothing like you.”
I have also learned to spot the next thought as it passes through their mind, but which they usually refrain from voicing, which is, “I wouldn’t mind meeting his father.”
In fact Snooks, like all babies, has moments when he looks a bit like everyone. His immediate impression is definitely of the Engineer and side by side, particularly when I unconsciously dress Snooks in the same colours that his dad left in that morning, they look hilariously alike. Then he smiles and I see my own baby mouth smiling up at me, which makes me want to kiss him. I assume this Narcissism is common amongst parents and in fact one of the reasons we instinctively love and protect our children so much. Or maybe it’s just me.
Then when his back is turned to me and his little head is tipped forward in concentration, the roundness of the back of his head, his dinky little ears and slight neck are so my father. Then his diminutive size and general all round cuteness is reminiscent of one of his antipodean uncles at the same age.
In one photo, taken with the timer on Christmas Day as we left for morning Mass, we three rather stiffly posed outside the front door in our Sunday best staring fixedly at the camera waiting for the red light to stop flashing, he could for all the world be my older brother, circa 1963.
So what with all that handsomeness and all that familiarity, it’s hard not to adore him and sing songs about being mine forever more.
And surely that all-consuming love would be just the same if he were a little girl (as sometimes, oddly, I dream that he is) and is undoubtedly what he needs from me just now. The time to let him go will come.
Of course he may lose his good looks as he gets older, break his nose on the rugby pitch, develop adolescent chipmunk teeth, dye his lovely silky blonde hair black and paint his fingernails to match.
Anyway, I figure that so long as I cut it out by the time he reaches puberty we should be ok.
He’ll probably be a bit over Bonny Bobby Shaftoe by then.
Silver buckles on his knee
He’ll come back and marry me
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe
Bobby Shaftoe bright and fair
Combing down his yellow hair
He’s my own for ever more
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe
Now I see it written down it seems weirder than ever.
I sing this song to Snooks, bouncing him high on my knee to match the jaunty seafaring pace and the song seems to suit him. He does have yellow hair and is undoubtedly bonny.
But I am also reminded of the great moment in Friends when Monica and Chandler are watching the birth of the baby they plan to adopt and as it comes forth into the world and Monica sees that it is a boy, she shouts, “I am going to love you so much no woman will ever be good enough for you!”
Yes, we have all met one of those grown up boys in our time, haven’t we girls, and we all know those mums didn’t do them any favours.
So I find that when I sing ‘he’s my own for ever more’, I lose a bit of the jauntiness and become more sheepish, mumbling the line in the hope that neither he, nor anyone else who might be listening, thinks I mean it.
Snooks is handsome. I know you think I am biased and I surely am, but as well as that, I am constantly stopped by people in the street, in shops and even at the new playgroup we have joined to be told how extraordinarily handsome he is. One kind lady yesterday simply stared, for a little too long, and then remarked that he was going to grow up to be a stunning young man. Good heavens! Our little Snookie. He has been likened to Russell Crowe and Val Kilmer (I kid you not) and inspired a shop assistant in one of the more upmarket high street baby stores to call their marketing department and insist he be added to their list of potential models. We are still waiting for his big break.
I have learned to smile graciously in response to these most delightful compliments, rather than try the false modesty thing - “Oh no, not really, you’re being kind, his hair is a bit mad… etc” and also to brace for the moment when their face falls and they say, engaging mouth before brain, “He’s nothing like you.”
I have also learned to spot the next thought as it passes through their mind, but which they usually refrain from voicing, which is, “I wouldn’t mind meeting his father.”
In fact Snooks, like all babies, has moments when he looks a bit like everyone. His immediate impression is definitely of the Engineer and side by side, particularly when I unconsciously dress Snooks in the same colours that his dad left in that morning, they look hilariously alike. Then he smiles and I see my own baby mouth smiling up at me, which makes me want to kiss him. I assume this Narcissism is common amongst parents and in fact one of the reasons we instinctively love and protect our children so much. Or maybe it’s just me.
Then when his back is turned to me and his little head is tipped forward in concentration, the roundness of the back of his head, his dinky little ears and slight neck are so my father. Then his diminutive size and general all round cuteness is reminiscent of one of his antipodean uncles at the same age.
In one photo, taken with the timer on Christmas Day as we left for morning Mass, we three rather stiffly posed outside the front door in our Sunday best staring fixedly at the camera waiting for the red light to stop flashing, he could for all the world be my older brother, circa 1963.
So what with all that handsomeness and all that familiarity, it’s hard not to adore him and sing songs about being mine forever more.
And surely that all-consuming love would be just the same if he were a little girl (as sometimes, oddly, I dream that he is) and is undoubtedly what he needs from me just now. The time to let him go will come.
Of course he may lose his good looks as he gets older, break his nose on the rugby pitch, develop adolescent chipmunk teeth, dye his lovely silky blonde hair black and paint his fingernails to match.
Anyway, I figure that so long as I cut it out by the time he reaches puberty we should be ok.
He’ll probably be a bit over Bonny Bobby Shaftoe by then.
Monday, 20 April 2009
time out
A couple of people have asked me how I manage to write this account of 21st century motherhood every week, considering the amount of wordage I give to how demanding it is in time and energy. I can see their point.
Ironic huh. She bangs on about having sacrificed herself on the altar of motherhood, and there she is, examining her own soul for the edification of you lot, week after week.
Well here is how it goes. The Engineer and I have a deal whereby he takes Snooks for a couple of hours each Saturday morning while I pretend not to be there. When we made this bargain (his side is quality time with Snooks) I had intended to spend the time lying in bed, gazing out of the window. This seemed the most pleasurable activity I could conceive of; the luxury to simply daydream.
Then other possibilities sprung to mind. I could start running again. I could have a weekly manicure. I could read the newspaper with a coffee in a cool café down the road.
But for some reason, when the first morning of freedom arrived, instead of seizing the chance to indulge in any of the above, I reached for my ancient laptop, which was lying under the bed like an old redundant toy, and started to write about life in Snooksville. And once I had been there, I felt compelled to return week after week.
The gift of time to dwell inside my own head for a while is a very precious one and although it does nothing for the external condition (still hankering after the running and manicures) it undoubtedly soothes and flexes the internal one.
Someone offered that a further use for my musings is the record it will provide for Snooks of his first year, or more accurately of my state of mind in his first year.
After the Julie Myerson debacle, however, I have become more circumspect about Snooks’ dignity. He may only be 13 months old, but he has a right to some consideration about what he may and may not want to be public knowledge in future.
I, on the other hand, can choose to splurge away about myself, willy nilly and live with the consequences.
So here I am, and today I am actually sitting outside the cool cafe having a coffee as the Saturday morning deal looked dangerously close to coming off the rails and a hasty exit seemed the best plan.
I joined a Pilates class recently and the teacher asked if I ever had time to myself. She mentioned Saturday mornings.
It seems we have joined a long tradition of time-out for
mums on Saturdays where there is a willing dad on hand to take over.
The Engineer was willing and the boys take off together into ManLand, constructing things and taking them apart again, hanging out in the park I avoid because it has a noisy road nearby (this being its best boy selling point apparently - those sirens get them every time) and playing with off-cuts of wood.
I retreat behind the bedroom door, and most weeks, I succeed in the illusion that I have time-travelled into another world, resisting the urge to investigate the occasional yelp from Snooks as his new Ride On (until last week this was simply the title of a Christy Moore song to me) collides with another unexpected obstacle, or to open the door in response to the drumming of his little fists on it.
On my way to the café this morning, at 8.30am, I passed a weary looking mum with a toddling boy. She was smoking and explaining to him that ‘daddy had to work.’ The little boy looked upset and the mum looked like she had last night’s clothes on.
I watched Snooks at the dinner table the other night as he looked from his father to me, and back again, beaming with delight.
I think he is a lucky boy.
Ironic huh. She bangs on about having sacrificed herself on the altar of motherhood, and there she is, examining her own soul for the edification of you lot, week after week.
Well here is how it goes. The Engineer and I have a deal whereby he takes Snooks for a couple of hours each Saturday morning while I pretend not to be there. When we made this bargain (his side is quality time with Snooks) I had intended to spend the time lying in bed, gazing out of the window. This seemed the most pleasurable activity I could conceive of; the luxury to simply daydream.
Then other possibilities sprung to mind. I could start running again. I could have a weekly manicure. I could read the newspaper with a coffee in a cool café down the road.
But for some reason, when the first morning of freedom arrived, instead of seizing the chance to indulge in any of the above, I reached for my ancient laptop, which was lying under the bed like an old redundant toy, and started to write about life in Snooksville. And once I had been there, I felt compelled to return week after week.
The gift of time to dwell inside my own head for a while is a very precious one and although it does nothing for the external condition (still hankering after the running and manicures) it undoubtedly soothes and flexes the internal one.
Someone offered that a further use for my musings is the record it will provide for Snooks of his first year, or more accurately of my state of mind in his first year.
After the Julie Myerson debacle, however, I have become more circumspect about Snooks’ dignity. He may only be 13 months old, but he has a right to some consideration about what he may and may not want to be public knowledge in future.
I, on the other hand, can choose to splurge away about myself, willy nilly and live with the consequences.
So here I am, and today I am actually sitting outside the cool cafe having a coffee as the Saturday morning deal looked dangerously close to coming off the rails and a hasty exit seemed the best plan.
I joined a Pilates class recently and the teacher asked if I ever had time to myself. She mentioned Saturday mornings.
It seems we have joined a long tradition of time-out for
mums on Saturdays where there is a willing dad on hand to take over.
The Engineer was willing and the boys take off together into ManLand, constructing things and taking them apart again, hanging out in the park I avoid because it has a noisy road nearby (this being its best boy selling point apparently - those sirens get them every time) and playing with off-cuts of wood.
I retreat behind the bedroom door, and most weeks, I succeed in the illusion that I have time-travelled into another world, resisting the urge to investigate the occasional yelp from Snooks as his new Ride On (until last week this was simply the title of a Christy Moore song to me) collides with another unexpected obstacle, or to open the door in response to the drumming of his little fists on it.
On my way to the café this morning, at 8.30am, I passed a weary looking mum with a toddling boy. She was smoking and explaining to him that ‘daddy had to work.’ The little boy looked upset and the mum looked like she had last night’s clothes on.
I watched Snooks at the dinner table the other night as he looked from his father to me, and back again, beaming with delight.
I think he is a lucky boy.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
like it or not
‘You enjoy being a mother don’t you?’ the Engineer said the other day.
At the time I was feeding Snooks a medley of vegetables disguised as cheese sauce with pasta and singing my own praises for my cunning ingenuity.
‘Well in the same way you enjoy being an Engineer,’ I said. He does actually enjoy being an Engineer so this wasn’t quite as snippy as it sounds. But I wanted to make it clear that I did not enjoy it like I enjoy receiving a back massage or roses or jewellery, or eating chocolate cake or lying on a sunny beach. I wanted to keep alive in his mind the fact that motherhood is Awfully Hard Work.
But then I began to think about it and realised that I never do - think, that is, about whether I am enjoying what I do. I am so bent on getting it right, whether it be studying, a job, a relationship, a holiday, that I rarely stop to consider whether I am enjoying it or not.
Looking back, had I asked myself this question once or twice before, it all could have been very different. But that’s another story.
So after some consideration I am duty bound to admit that the Engineer was right. I do enjoy it.
It seems strange as I am superbly ill-prepared for it, having had no younger siblings to practise on and no parental role model to follow. I say this with great respect for my dear departed Aged Ps. They were cool and clever and witty and they loved us, without a doubt. But um, parents, not so much.
And having denounced parenting books (sticks and stones) and rejected the popular clockwork routine - three square meals a day and bath-time and bed before dad gets home – I am having to wing it, making it up as I go along, stitching together the scraps of parental wisdom I have gathered from friends and family along the way.
It makes for an interesting cocktail. Good old-fashioned common sense stored somewhere on the hard drive - my mother bathing her newborn first grandchild in the washing-up bowl, using it as a boat in a bathfull of bubbly water so the babe had the floating bubbly sensation without the itchy skin and risk of drowning – mixed with the ultimate accessory of on-trend attachment parenting: a designer sling picked up at the London Sling Show after a mumfriend passed on her expertise on the benefits of ‘babywearing’ and the plain wrongness of the Baby Bjorn carrier.
Stir in the simple good taste of my childless gay friends who to a man/woman have demonstrated a savoir faire about children I long to possess, and have furnished us with the clothes and books for Snooks I like to have on show when people come round, and there you pretty much have it.
But I digress. You see. I am doing it again. Do I enjoy it?
I do. I like being needed, even though the demand can be excessive at times. I like being useful. After a lifetime of mental exercise, learning and regurgitating facts for other people to read and forget, I feel immensely useful, inventing a cheese sauce, which has cauliflower and sweetcorn imperceptibly blended into it.
I like being active. Despite the ‘still breastfeeding’ extra weight, my physical stamina is close to what it was in the days of seven netball practices a week with a rally thrown in on a freezing Saturday morning.
I like teaching and feel the thrill of satisfaction when Snooks puts the right shape into the right hole, or shouts ‘Burr!’ when we reach the page where teddy comes into the story.
I like walking hand in hand with him – he can toddle a good distance with a steadying hand – venturing forward together into the unknown, he the discoverer and I the protector and guide.
My sister once remarked that her youngest daughter, then two, was ‘very good company’. I did not understand then how one so young could be company at all, let alone good company.
Last week brought splashes of sunshine to London and Snooks and I made the most of it, enjoying a number of picnics a deux, which has the double bonus of encompassing a go on the swings for Snooks and no clearing up the lunchtime debris for me.
He and I have a dialogue, all-be-it rather one-sided, which brings forth observations about our food, about the weather, about the pigeons, the aeroplanes, the trains … our life, in that moment.
What's not to enjoy?
At the time I was feeding Snooks a medley of vegetables disguised as cheese sauce with pasta and singing my own praises for my cunning ingenuity.
‘Well in the same way you enjoy being an Engineer,’ I said. He does actually enjoy being an Engineer so this wasn’t quite as snippy as it sounds. But I wanted to make it clear that I did not enjoy it like I enjoy receiving a back massage or roses or jewellery, or eating chocolate cake or lying on a sunny beach. I wanted to keep alive in his mind the fact that motherhood is Awfully Hard Work.
But then I began to think about it and realised that I never do - think, that is, about whether I am enjoying what I do. I am so bent on getting it right, whether it be studying, a job, a relationship, a holiday, that I rarely stop to consider whether I am enjoying it or not.
Looking back, had I asked myself this question once or twice before, it all could have been very different. But that’s another story.
So after some consideration I am duty bound to admit that the Engineer was right. I do enjoy it.
It seems strange as I am superbly ill-prepared for it, having had no younger siblings to practise on and no parental role model to follow. I say this with great respect for my dear departed Aged Ps. They were cool and clever and witty and they loved us, without a doubt. But um, parents, not so much.
And having denounced parenting books (sticks and stones) and rejected the popular clockwork routine - three square meals a day and bath-time and bed before dad gets home – I am having to wing it, making it up as I go along, stitching together the scraps of parental wisdom I have gathered from friends and family along the way.
It makes for an interesting cocktail. Good old-fashioned common sense stored somewhere on the hard drive - my mother bathing her newborn first grandchild in the washing-up bowl, using it as a boat in a bathfull of bubbly water so the babe had the floating bubbly sensation without the itchy skin and risk of drowning – mixed with the ultimate accessory of on-trend attachment parenting: a designer sling picked up at the London Sling Show after a mumfriend passed on her expertise on the benefits of ‘babywearing’ and the plain wrongness of the Baby Bjorn carrier.
Stir in the simple good taste of my childless gay friends who to a man/woman have demonstrated a savoir faire about children I long to possess, and have furnished us with the clothes and books for Snooks I like to have on show when people come round, and there you pretty much have it.
But I digress. You see. I am doing it again. Do I enjoy it?
I do. I like being needed, even though the demand can be excessive at times. I like being useful. After a lifetime of mental exercise, learning and regurgitating facts for other people to read and forget, I feel immensely useful, inventing a cheese sauce, which has cauliflower and sweetcorn imperceptibly blended into it.
I like being active. Despite the ‘still breastfeeding’ extra weight, my physical stamina is close to what it was in the days of seven netball practices a week with a rally thrown in on a freezing Saturday morning.
I like teaching and feel the thrill of satisfaction when Snooks puts the right shape into the right hole, or shouts ‘Burr!’ when we reach the page where teddy comes into the story.
I like walking hand in hand with him – he can toddle a good distance with a steadying hand – venturing forward together into the unknown, he the discoverer and I the protector and guide.
My sister once remarked that her youngest daughter, then two, was ‘very good company’. I did not understand then how one so young could be company at all, let alone good company.
Last week brought splashes of sunshine to London and Snooks and I made the most of it, enjoying a number of picnics a deux, which has the double bonus of encompassing a go on the swings for Snooks and no clearing up the lunchtime debris for me.
He and I have a dialogue, all-be-it rather one-sided, which brings forth observations about our food, about the weather, about the pigeons, the aeroplanes, the trains … our life, in that moment.
What's not to enjoy?
Monday, 6 April 2009
the tyke test
We met Little Tyke again this week at the same playgroup and I observed something interesting.
You will recall that Little Tyke was cruising for a clout having wrenched toy after toy out of the hands of my much smaller, baby son.
This time, I was accompanied by two friends and their little charges, (not actually theirs; they are nannies) attending the group for the first time and the Tyke pulled the same stunt with them, accidentally-on-purpose crashing into the smallest baby girl and knocking her flat.
The Nannies, more experienced by far than I in this world, eyeballed him and then kept a close but indiscernible watch.
So my first observation was, to my relief, that it was not Snooks who attracted the bad-boy behaviour. He was not provoking the aggression nor transmitting a ‘bully me’ signal. He just happened to be new in town.
Then another interesting thing happened. I looked over just in time to see Snooks grab a car Tyke had been playing with and I intervened to return it to the older boy. (Remember my dilemma in socialisation. I have decided to go with Restoring Order for definite transgressions but letting it go where it seems a bit six of one etc)
He, Tyke, looked confused for a second and then reached over, found another car and handed it to Snooks. Aw Gawd Bless ‘im, we all think. Yes and I was just in the middle of an overly enthusiastic Thank You pantomime, when he did a strange thing. He looked over at mum, waited until he had her attention and then grabbed the car back, scooping up as he did so, as many of the surrounding toys as possible and held them to his chest like a desperate looter caught in the squad car headlights. Of course she came over and told him right off and took him away out of sight.
I opened my mouth to explain what had happened but thought better of it. Anyway, she didn’t make eye contact. She never has, through all our many vicarious tussles. With another mum, I have exchanged friendly eye-rolls as her daughter tries to feed Snooks pieces of plastic fruit (she has more success than I do with the real stuff) or persuade him into a toy pushchair to be her ‘baby’. I did step in when, frustrated with his refusal to be mothered (so with you there, chick) she tried to slam his fingers in the door of the plastic oven, which is housed in a mini kitchen unit I rather enjoy playing with myself.
So Supernanny was right. I was a devotee of the programme long before either Snooks or even the Engineer himself were a feature of my landscape. Back in the days of long solitary candlelit baths, healthy low fat dinners, full waxes, year round tans and early morning runs on the heath – i.e. committed singletonhood – I loved settling down in front of Supernanny, relishing the “thank god it’s not me” feeling as I watched mothers receive bites and blows from their children only to be told off by Jo Frost for not being enough fun.
But I remember the golden rules, which were drummed into withered parents the country over – don’t reward only bad behaviour with attention but do introduce consequences for it. You see, I was a good student. Perhaps I knew someday, somewhere it would come in handy. I watch CSI now (thanks to the Engineer) with the same diligence, noting how to gauge time of death by lividity, information I hope never turns out to be quite so useful.
So I softened towards Tyke, even as I watched him disrupt the singing while his mortified mother pleaded with him to sit down, as perhaps I understood a little about the motivation behind the bad behaviour and resolved to take time to play with Snooks every day, giving him my attention for fun instead of policing him while I go about my business.
It is easy to say and I shall probably forget to do it often enough. But I owe Little Tyke one, and not a clout this time.
You will recall that Little Tyke was cruising for a clout having wrenched toy after toy out of the hands of my much smaller, baby son.
This time, I was accompanied by two friends and their little charges, (not actually theirs; they are nannies) attending the group for the first time and the Tyke pulled the same stunt with them, accidentally-on-purpose crashing into the smallest baby girl and knocking her flat.
The Nannies, more experienced by far than I in this world, eyeballed him and then kept a close but indiscernible watch.
So my first observation was, to my relief, that it was not Snooks who attracted the bad-boy behaviour. He was not provoking the aggression nor transmitting a ‘bully me’ signal. He just happened to be new in town.
Then another interesting thing happened. I looked over just in time to see Snooks grab a car Tyke had been playing with and I intervened to return it to the older boy. (Remember my dilemma in socialisation. I have decided to go with Restoring Order for definite transgressions but letting it go where it seems a bit six of one etc)
He, Tyke, looked confused for a second and then reached over, found another car and handed it to Snooks. Aw Gawd Bless ‘im, we all think. Yes and I was just in the middle of an overly enthusiastic Thank You pantomime, when he did a strange thing. He looked over at mum, waited until he had her attention and then grabbed the car back, scooping up as he did so, as many of the surrounding toys as possible and held them to his chest like a desperate looter caught in the squad car headlights. Of course she came over and told him right off and took him away out of sight.
I opened my mouth to explain what had happened but thought better of it. Anyway, she didn’t make eye contact. She never has, through all our many vicarious tussles. With another mum, I have exchanged friendly eye-rolls as her daughter tries to feed Snooks pieces of plastic fruit (she has more success than I do with the real stuff) or persuade him into a toy pushchair to be her ‘baby’. I did step in when, frustrated with his refusal to be mothered (so with you there, chick) she tried to slam his fingers in the door of the plastic oven, which is housed in a mini kitchen unit I rather enjoy playing with myself.
So Supernanny was right. I was a devotee of the programme long before either Snooks or even the Engineer himself were a feature of my landscape. Back in the days of long solitary candlelit baths, healthy low fat dinners, full waxes, year round tans and early morning runs on the heath – i.e. committed singletonhood – I loved settling down in front of Supernanny, relishing the “thank god it’s not me” feeling as I watched mothers receive bites and blows from their children only to be told off by Jo Frost for not being enough fun.
But I remember the golden rules, which were drummed into withered parents the country over – don’t reward only bad behaviour with attention but do introduce consequences for it. You see, I was a good student. Perhaps I knew someday, somewhere it would come in handy. I watch CSI now (thanks to the Engineer) with the same diligence, noting how to gauge time of death by lividity, information I hope never turns out to be quite so useful.
So I softened towards Tyke, even as I watched him disrupt the singing while his mortified mother pleaded with him to sit down, as perhaps I understood a little about the motivation behind the bad behaviour and resolved to take time to play with Snooks every day, giving him my attention for fun instead of policing him while I go about my business.
It is easy to say and I shall probably forget to do it often enough. But I owe Little Tyke one, and not a clout this time.
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