mememememe

A slim magazine published by a major nappy manufacturer plopped through our letterbox this week, addressed to me.

‘Dear Mum’, it began, ‘You are probably getting used to being called mummy now.’

Wrong. Snooks resolutely refuses to name me. I am simply there, at the end of his outstretched arms. He does say quite a few other words though – ball (or balle - see say quoi), boat, bear, cheese, helicopter (actually perkeperkopter – very onomatopoeic) and car.

However, having binned the first 14 months’ of unsolicited mail from this company, including, I gather, quite a few handy coupons which I know it is the destiny of all mothers to collect, this time I read on

Perhaps tiredness had weakened my resolve. A 5.30am to 8.30pm working day can do that to ya. And it is not that I don’t think the nappy makers might have something useful to say, I just hate being forced to read it.

So anyway I started to flick through the pages, noting the subheads – Terrible Tantrums, Do Dads Have Different Rules? – and was hooked.

After tearing out the coupons, I settled down in front of the Wimbledon women’s doubles final, holding Snooks with one hand as he stood atop the coffee table about to step off into thin air and clasping the mag in the other.

(Anyone who doubts women’s ability to multi-task should watch a mother at home with children. Now that’s a transferable skill worth noting.)

It tells me that at 16 months old our Snooks is learning a sense of self, of his own distinct identity. For a long time, Snooks has enjoyed long sessions in front of our full-length bedroom mirror, smiling, crying, walking away and turning round to see himself and cuddling Clairebear. But it would appear only now is he able to understand that the image is himself.

Along with this realisation, I read, comes self-will and the need to express it. Wanting things his way is part of asserting his newfound identity. The fury at being denied therefore (i.e. a tantrum) is understandable. It all makes sense and comes as a relief.

Watching Snooks run from one end of the room to the other to bang both fists on the toy box lid because I would not let him play with the scissors was becoming a rather alarming daily event.

Frustration at not being understood also accounts for the outbursts, the booklet says. Once he can communicate better, this will ease.

Snooks and I already manage some kind of communication though it often arises from a lot of pointing (him) and holding up objects saying ‘this’ (me) until peace is restored. But I do cherish the thought that soon he will be able to talk to me and say what he needs. I am curious to know what is going on inside that lively little brain of his.

Even when we do fight (of course I bring my personality to the party too), we usually manage to reconcile pretty quickly.

I read, with some degree of smugness, that I have already instinctively instituted the recommended hug after a barney, which soothes me just as much as it does the boy. Long before Snooks was born, I vowed to myself that this would be a family which would know how to apologise to each other; there would be no fighting to the death in this house.

Also I was told by one of the many wise women of my acquaintance, when I tearfully confided to her that I had shouted at Snooks, to remember that this was a relationship, like any other. It ebbs and flows. And it grows.

Although signs of Snooks’ very individual personality have long been evident, it is only in recent months that I have begun to fully grasp that he is an entirely separate person from me.

I know this sounds odd but it has been hard to comprehend that he may be quite different to me: he may like beetroot and soft-centred chocolates; he may be more confident than I am; he may be more intelligent, or who knows, he may even be good at art.

Obviously I know objectively that he is his own man and let us not forget the fact that he is at least half Engineer.

But the truth is that this sense, this feeling of separation of self may be a little slower coming for me.

I wonder if the nappy makers have got anything useful to say about that.

say quoi?

I had the pleasure of the company of two delightful boys this week, grandsons of a friend of mine, who were on a month’s tour of Europe, visiting relatives in the UK and Ireland before returning to their home in Delhi.

The boys, eight and ten, were charming, beautiful and fluent in French and Hindi. They spoke in their mother tongue, English, with a faint Irish accent.

I met them while Snooks and I were hanging around in the foyer of a church hall where we had retreated as Snooks’ attempts to take part in the discussion inside were not being appreciated.

The boys were waiting for grandma and were instructed by her (an Irish matriarch of the old school) to entertain Snooks. “Tell him a story,” she ordered, before disappearing back into the meeting.

I looked at them in dismay. I didn’t think even I was capable of telling him a story, despite my inside knowledge of his cast of favourite characters (Daddy, Iggle Piggle, Clairebear and Barney the Dog), let alone these sleepy looking youngsters. I expected they would ignore this instruction and go back to the bored lolling they were doing when we arrived, regardless of grandmother’s wishes.

But to their great credit, within minutes, the boys came up with a game, which combined football with a bit of tickling, pulling faces and chasing. Spanning the age difference with gorgeous grace, these lovely lads engaged Snooks in play, which they let him lead but they nevertheless seemed to be enjoying.

It was a relief from the daily clattering Snooks gets from older toddlers at playgroups where anger and frustration are more in evidence than cooperation and tolerance, virtues which maybe these two year olds have not yet had time to learn.

It was also a far cry from the picture of aggression and testosterone-fuelled rebellion painted by Steve Biddulph (see oh boy!) as the natural development of young boys who have not been correctly nurtured.

As I pondered whether moving to Delhi was the key to raising happy boys (actually I asked my brother once how he had produced three such lovely children and he said he told them he loved them, every day. Delhi wasn’t mentioned) the younger of the two came over to talk to me.

"He speaks French," he announced in that marvellous matter-of-fact way children have of informing you of major events.

"Really," I answered, trying not to sound incredulous but with enough doubt in my voice to let this young fry know I was no fool.

A pair of watery green impassive eyes fixed me gently. He was obviously going to have to explain it to this mono-lingual unbeliever. He reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupery's Little Prince, perplexed by adults who can’t tell a drawing of a boa constrictor which has swallowed an elephant, from a drawing of a hat.

“He says balle and quoi. That means ball and what," he said, slowly and clearly.

It was true. He does say those things. Green-eyes had asked me earlier, before the games began, if Snooks could talk, assessing how best to approach grandma’s task, and I had said no, he was too young. I had clearly got it wrong.

“Well actually his cousins speak French," I said, throwing in a misleading fact, which only confirmed for him my lack of attention to my son’s linguistic development.

In fact distance in age and geography mean that unless Snooks is communicating with them telepathically, in French, he could not have picked up his cousins’ Gallic tongue.

Anyway the thing was, I wanted green eyes to be right, or at least to think he was right and so the case was closed and he ran off to tickle Snooks while wrestling the ball from him.

I was sorry when it was time to go and I had to break up the game and persuade Snooks back into the buggy for the long walk home.

“We’ll go home via the park so you can get out and run around on the grass for a bit,” I told him as I strapped him in with the aid of a sugar-free elephant-shaped banana-flavoured biscuit.

“D’accord,” he replied cheerfully.

Green eyes shrugged and waved bye bye.

domestic bliss

My son is on his way to becoming every girl’s (or boy’s) dream.

As I have mentioned once or twice before he is quite extraordinarily handsome (he just walked in here in his stripy Barnacle Bill t-shirt), has an easy laugh and a good grasp of the basics of kissing.

Most teenage girls settle for far less.

But there’s more. He can add to this fine personal profile a penchant for housework and in particular a keen understanding of the workings of the washing machine and tumble dryer.

Now at first I did not encourage this. I thought it was a fad and just waited for it to pass. But then it dawned on me as I battled to keep him out of the way while I whisked baskets and baskets of washing out of one appliance and into the other, that there could be another way. I should heed that famous pearl once delivered by former Prime Minister John Major, “Better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.” (I'm guessing he was referring to those pesky party faithfuls who never got over his succession to That Woman - but you get my drift.)

So I changed tack and started to teach little Snooks how to feed dirty washing into the washer drum, how to wait for the conditioner to go into the drawer before shutting it, how to shut the drum door and finally how to press the ‘On’ button, just once.

I see you more experienced parents nodding. Ah yes. She will regret that. Once he knows how to do ‘On’ he will soon move on to ‘Off’ and will employ his new talent to quietly sabotage future washes, secretly halting the programme to leave all our essentials unwashed and forgotten until moments before we need them. Oh yes, I have foreseen it all.

But so far, such rapprochement has brought only domestic harmony. I let him press the button; he does not put the clean washing down the toilet. I let him put it into the dryer; he does not drag the freshly laundered bedding around the garden attached to the back of his Combi.

And it does not stop there.

Just yesterday I found myself partaking in some voluntary Hoovering, partly to pick up the bits of organic-carrot-cake-made-with-oats-and-no-sugar-but-something-very-orange-which-stains-like-nothing-on-earth bar, which Snooks had spread from one room to the next, but mainly to entertain him.

You see, he is now the proud owner of his very own mini Electrolux upright, which is lovingly stored next to his cot each night where he can see it first thing the next morning ready for a new day of busy, busy, busy (if only it actually worked!) cleaning.

However, cute as it was to watch, I had to admit that he could hardly be mirroring me, as the times he has seen me use a vacuum cleaner can be counted on your one free rubber-gloved hand. The Engineer asked me once, when Snooks was about three months old, if he was afraid of the vacuum cleaner. I stumbled over the answer a bit, considered lying, and eventually answered truthfully that I had no idea.

This does not mean we have three months worth of dust on our carpets, I should add. It just means that I run away to the park during the weekly visit by the cleaner, too embarrassed to be here while she cleans around me.

So at the risk of filling Snooks’ head with any silly ideas about women’s role in life (a friend recently said how she regretted asking her three-year-old daughter what she wanted to do when she grew up, to be told “Nothing mummy, like you.”) I rummaged around in the hall cupboard and emerged with the real deal, vrooming up and down alongside him, and actually making some impact on the cake debris.

There may be a danger that Snooks could turn what many consider to be demeaning, domestic drudgery endured by women trapped in their homes with lively toddlers, into fun.

But don’t tell anyone.

everything I told you yesterday was completely wrong

These were the words once used by a hapless press officer, back when I was a jobbing journo, after I had written several pages of news based on the information she had given me about one of the biggest stories to break in my career.

It was a moment to remember, and was bad, so bad that I burst out laughing.

In the event, the news editor and I re-wrote everything on deadline, using the new, correct information. It was a close call.

Anyway, the point is, the phrase keeps coming into my mind and has actually been quite helpful – a kind of mantra - each day I spend with the 15 month old Snooks whose knack for reinventing himself challenges the chameleon crown of even the great Madonna herself.

Just as I think I have got it – he likes bread but no butter, he can walk up stairs but not down, he has one long nap instead of two short ones – it changes.

It is exhausting and bewildering and at times embarrassing.

So it was that during our holiday these last two weeks, when I was frequently asked by the Engineer, “Does he like this?" or "Does he do that?” I could only mutter the unhelpful response, “Well he might, but then again he might not.”

I was aware that it might have appeared to someone less understanding than the Engineer, that despite spending every waking hour with him, I barely know our son at all.

But it only took a couple of days swinging around the anchor of Snooks’ moving naptime, before the Engineer got it and knew there would be no helpful answers forthcoming any time soon.

It would go something like this.

“So we should set off for the beach?” the Engineer would ask each morning.

“Yes”

“Even though he looks like he might fall asleep?”

“Yes”

“Because he might not, and then we are just sitting here waiting for something which might not happen.’

“Exactly.”

“With a tired but restless toddler cooped up in an apartment so lacking in baby-proofing we might as well just call an ambulance and have them park outside for the next fortnight?”

OK so he didn’t actually say that last bit but that was what went through my head each time we had the conversation.

Pretty soon the Engineer had rigged up a beach camp, which enabled the whole range of possible outcomes:

a) Snooks falls asleep as soon as we get there so needs a shady bed on the sand

b) Snooks is impossibly wired and so needs to run up and down the beach for hours in the scorching sun

c) Snooks has pooed unexpectedly so needs a change of clothes, a wash, a feed and a nap

d) I need to sleep while being able to see Snooks with that weird I-am-asleep-but-still-know-where-you-are mother thing.

In the evening, dining at our usual restaurant with the sea roaring below, we faced the usual parental quandary – “What will be good and nourishing for him to eat/ what will he actually eat?” settling most of the time for spaghetti Bolognese and ice cream.

In fact Snooks’ passion for grapes and cheese (which he shares with his father – can you inherit food preferences?) means where ever we are, he usually has the main food groups covered.

And then nightfall, instead of rest, brought its own heated deliberations: is he too hot wearing the mosquito repelling night shirt I insist on, can he sleep in the contraption provided by the owner which has a wooden base so hard, even the most devout monk would refuse it and can someone reach in and steal him through those shutters even though we are here in the room?

I recalled, as I lay awake listening for any evidence of the above, that the family holidays of my childhood were clearly not a relaxing experience for my mother, and I silently sympathised with her for the torture which must have been four small children in the rickety and sometimes downright dangerous old places we stayed in.

Despite all the unanswerable questions, we still managed to have a marvellous time and Snooks returned to England a slightly stronger, somewhat blonder boy who runs headlong into crashing waves.

The shifting sands of Snook-time eventually forced us all to do exactly what you should do on holiday, to let go.

shoe love

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.

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.

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.