That's not my prince...

Readers who know me in person will know that I have a little obsession with the royal family. Not that I wouldn't prefer a republic of course, but until that day comes I'll enjoy analysing pics of the Duchess of Cambridge (I like her, I'll shoot her last!) and judging Charles for his silly outbursts.

Nevertheless I am not sure where my daughter's constant demands of "Where's the handsome prince?" came from during the seemingly interminable coverage of the outside of the Lindo Wing while waiting for the birth of Kate and William's baby. Jokers among you will suggest she could have asked the same question once William did appear but that is not the point - the point is that I don't believe I have ever used the phrase 'handsome prince' in front of her. I blame nursery.

But the desire to make little girls want to be princesses and to find handsome princes is absolutely ingrained in our culture. I thought we'd avoided it - my mum reported that she took my daughter into a shop recently and when the shopkeeper asked my daughter if she was a princess my daughter replied 'No, I'm xxxx' and gave her full name - but just a few weeks later and a trip to an English Heritage shop at Portland Castle while on holiday in Dorset led to an insistence on wanting a pink princess pen as her souvenir even when I tried to steer her towards a rather excellent girl pirate pen in the same range

So I wasn't necessarily convinced by the That's not my Prince offering from Usborne, though I love the series generally. I needn't have worried - I was sent a review copy and it's ever so witty, though I'd have liked one page to say 'That's not my prince, his hair is too thin' in reference to William's balding pate. Instead the princes have hair that is too fluffy, sashes that are too silky and cloaks that are too velvety. If my daughter continues to insist on talking about handsome princes, I hope she does so in as irreverent way.

The same week we were given a copy of That's not my Pirate. I was ever so pleased that one of the pirates featured was female, though a few more wouldn't have gone amiss. It was a missed opportunity though, as she's not the right pirate because her shirt, which is pink, is too silky. I'd have liked her patch to be too rubbery or her false leg to be too long or her parrot to be too fluffy. 

We love the series in my house though - so simple yet so clever. We've also got monkey, car, bear, kitten, santa, penguin and snowman, though I rather fancy the monster and dinosaur ones. They've not yet done a Grandpa one yet though, so for my dad's birthday we had to make our own.

Your absolute and utter best

I've just read Beth Gutcheon's Still Missing, having heard a few months ago Rachel Johnson discuss it on Radio 4's A Good Read presented by Harriett Gilbert which I came across by chance when I turned the radio on while driving.

It's a terrifying book focusing on a mother's torment when a child goes missing without a trace (in fact it was turned into the film Without a trace). The mother, Susan Selky, enters a kind of living death in which she must live in order to have the faith that her son is alive, but while he is missing she has effectively died inside. I read it very quickly, desperate to find out whether he is alive, to find out whether the mother might enter the world of the living again. It's ever so gripping, and of course made me think once again of the McCanns and the Needhams and the parents of other missing children.

But it's not just reading the book that made me think. Harriett taught me journalism at City University when I was a postgraduate and I've not seen her for a couple of years. I love it when I happen upon her on the radio, partly because she is a great presenter and was a great teacher, and partly because she has a lovely radio voice - learned, sexy, thoughtful, firm. It's a pleasure listening to her. And when I do hear her voice I often remember her saying to me a few years ago, kindly I think, about one or other article or book I had written, that she wondered when it was I was actually going to try my best at something. See, producing a book was not enough. I should, I think she was saying, produce the best possible book I can produce, write the best possible articles, think the hardest possible thoughts.

And you know what, though I doubt it's the answer Harriett was necessarily looking for, I've finally found something I really do try my utter best at. Yeah it's the kind of answer that might make you want to gag, but it's true anyway. I do try my best at being a parent, because I desperately want my daughter to be happy and kind and the type of person people want to know and for her to make the world a little better and to be inspiring and interesting and interested. It's not a special attribute - I believe (nearly) all parents share this. It's why Still Missing is so powerful, why we can read it and really feel for Susan Selky, and understand that she is both dead inside but must also stay alive. For there are loads of things that we should try our best at, and I intend to do so the next article, the next blogpost, the next book, really I do. But there is only one thing that really really matters, and it turns out I try my best at that without even having to think about it.

I got my copy of Still Missing by Beth Gutcheon second hand on Amazon but have since found out it is currently published by the lovely Persephone books whose website says: "Persephone prints mainly neglected fiction and non-fiction by women, for women and about women. The titles are chosen to appeal to busy women who rarely have time to spend in ever-larger bookshops and who would like to have access to a list of books designed to be neither too literary nor too commercial." www.persephonebooks.co.uk

Hippo Has A Hat

Nothing profound to say about this, but really a very lovely cheering book. We've read it hundreds of times already - still makes me smile.

Awkward questions

I love the story of Noah's Ark. Like Jonah and the Whale, it has all the elements of a great story - good and evil, a malevolent power, danger and animals. Since our baby was teeny we have sung her variants of The Animals Went in Two by Two, partly because it was one of the only songs we knew the words to before we went to playgroups and singing sessions and learnt or relearnt many more, partly because the repetition works wonders, and partly because it has all the elements of a great song - animals, numbers, divine retribution, optimism.

I bought Lucy Cousins' (of Maisie Mouse fame) beautifully illustrated retelling of the story this week. The pictures, as you would expect from Cousins, are lovely. A bonus is they show both puffins and penguins allowing me to teach the baby the difference, something we've been struggling with.

I do have friends though whose athiesm means they shy away from such songs and stories. It's a shame because surely Bible stories are amongst the best in the world. But it's also misguided. I want children who, if they are athiests, decide to be so through rationalism rather than ignorance. What's more, if they don't have a working knowledge of the Old and New Testaments then so much of Western culture will be closed to them, from the works of Milton and Philip Pullman to Ghost The Musical and the power ballads of Belinda Carlisle.

True, the book raises concepts I may struggle to explain to the baby in future - Who is this being called God? What did the rest of the people do that was really so bad? Why are sea creatures shown going into the ark? But so do most of our other books, from Meg and Mog (What is a witch?) to The Tiger Who Came To Tea (Why didn't they just tell the tiger to share?). And in some ways the questions arising from Noah are likely to be easier. After all, "some people believe in a supreme being who made the world and decides what happens" is almost easier to believe than "some people, when a talking Tiger knocks on their door, let's it come in and help itself to all the food in the house."

(Lucy Cousins incidentally has also retold and illustrated some classic fairy tales in a book called Yummy. Don't tell the baby - I've bought it for her for next Christmas.)

Teeny Tchaicovsky and Baby Bizet

Our copy of Baby Brains by Simon James arrived today. It's a great story about Mr and Mrs Brains who hothouse their baby in the womb and consequently their baby, when born, is a genius, giving Doogie Howser a run for his money. He's so clever in fact that when recruited by scientists to go to space he does so, only to realise when there that "I want my mummy".

I love the book, and also Jez Alborough's Hug which I wrote about here, because not only does it remind me how much my baby needs me, but how much I need my mum too. When we were in hospital post-birth, by day five all I could think myself was "I want my mummy". She arrived to sobs. "Your baby needs a cuddle" I told her. "Which one?" she asked. It was me of course. While a cuddle from grandma is always nice, I had the baby's cuddle needs covered. It was me who needed the cuddle.

But I also love it because I've been watching in disbelief as the north London mums around me sign up to expensive classes to help their babies develop - Mini Mozart, Teeny Tchaicovsky, Baby Bizet, that kind of thing. (Only two of those are made up). Not only are they expensive, but I don't believe that kind of class at this kind of age makes a jot of difference to how clever the child becomes.

Several months ago I won a series of sessions of Baby Sensory. I only went to one because I couldn't bear the pseudo science when the teacher told us to wave pompoms in front of our children's faces to develop their eyes. And then charged everyone for a cup of tea on top of the £7.50 for the session. All the way home I just couldn't bear thinking about those poor blind pompom-less children. "Don't worry mum," said my (genius) baby, "I'll sit in my buggy watching traffic instead, and sneak a peak at the telly when you think I'm snoozing, and stare at the shadows the trees make in the park. I promise to learn to see mum, rest assured." Phew.

Two friends have invited me to a session called Classics this week - concerts for babies. They might read this blog and I want them to know I am very grateful for the invite and to please continue to invite me to things, and it does sound like a lovely way to pass the morning. But it costs £10. For a baby session! The website however says the £10 is for the adult and babies go in free. Maybe I should do as my husband suggests and send her in alone while I wait outside.

Anyway I think instead of going to classes people should stay at home and read Baby Brains. And then they should read it to their babies. Unless of course their babies can read it alone.

In which I actually read a book

It may not seem like a great achievement, what with me being an English graduate and all, but I have just finished reading a book. A novel in fact. A whole one, from beginning to end. It took about two weeks, on my twice a week commute and in little snatches before bed. It was the first novel I have read since having my baby over a year ago and yes, I am pleased with myself.

What is it that stopped me, an avid reader, from reading? Time, yes - I have had a glut of it but it’s not the right kind of time. Concentration, also yes – I have had a deficit of it. But it’s been more than that I think. Novels deal with big questions. Of life and death and roots and families and aspirations and declines and parallel worlds and alternate universes, of friendships and relationships and enemies, and of mysteries and revelations and truths and lies. I just wasn’t ready.

Then two weeks ago I felt the urge. I took a book from our shelves determined to read it. It was Andrea Levy’s Fruit of the Lemon. I knew I had enjoyed Small Island by the same author several years ago, that she was the right kind of author for my return to reading, combining big issues with accessible writing, kind of intellectual holiday reading. I didn’t know that it referred in part to Crouch End, the small part of north London I hang out in with the baby – so much for being an escape – but that aside I enjoyed it. It wasn’t a masterpiece but that was a relief – I wasn’t ready for a masterpiece, but as novels go, it was pretty solid. But the best thing about it? It’s given me the hunger. I’m not sure what to read yet but I’m ready (or should that be read-y). I’m looking at the shelves as I type and all I can think is ‘bring it on’. It’s so exciting.



Related post: Things to do on maternity leave when you're braindead

In need of Hug

Before we had a baby we occasionally babysat for a friend's little boy. His bedtime book for a while was Jez Alborough's Hug.

I'd forgotten about Hug until I spotted it in the bookshop today and bought a copy. It's the story of Bobo, who spotting all the other animals enjoying a hug, gets more and more distressed until he finds his mummy for a hug of his own.

Until I had a baby I don't think I realised the sheer terror the thought of your baby needing a hug and not being able to get one can bring, and the absolute love Alborough gets across in his picture of Mummy and Bobo finally getting their hug. The baby got it too. We read it once and she immediately turned to me and nestled in for a glorious, breath each other in deeply, wonderful hug.

Why books should get dog-eared

My daughter got the lovely Kipper's Birthday by Mick Inkpen as a present. Not only is it a lovely book, but it comes with a lovely introduction by the author in which he says:

"What any author wants is for his books to become dog-eared and familiar. I've been lucky enough that my very young readers are particularly adept at giving their books doggy ears in no time at all."

Which is a lovely thing to write as I had been holding back the paper books in favour of board ones so that they don't get too ripped and creased. Now I realise how silly that is.

Being project manager

I saw Naomi Stadlen, author of What Mothers Do: Especially When it Looks Like Nothing speak recently at the wonderful Big Green Bookshop. She led a discussion, based on her new book How Mothers Love: and how Relationships are Born, on whether mothering is different to fathering, or whether they can both fit in to the catch-all title of parenting. And I've been thinking about this since then and why it is that mothering is different.

I don't think it is because of the tingly nipples when the baby cries or the supersonic hearing that means I am the one who wakes up at the slightest snuffle in the middle of the night or the acual carrying the baby inside you, though all of that is incredibly important of course. I think the thing about being a mother, as opposed to being a father, is, in the words of The Apprentice, you are 'project manager'.

Perhaps this is nothing to do with gender and everything to do with it being the woman who tends to be at home most, in the first year at least, but it does mean that even if tasks can be shared the task of knowing what is going on isn't. Because it's not about who changes how many nappies or who empties the bin or who gets up in the night, it's about someone needing to have a whole picture view. I know how much my daughter has eaten, because if she has several not hungry days in a row then perhaps she is ill. I know if she has taken her medicine and whether we need to get the prescription refilled. I know when she last did a poo, and whether there is anything to worry about there. It's not just bodily functions. I also know whether she is growing out of her clothes and needs new ones, whether she has enough blankets and whether her feet need measuring.

This isn't a complaint - I want to be the one who knows these things - but it goes some way to explaining why it is that the job can never be properly shared, and perhaps why it shouldn't be. After all, knowing all of this takes up a lot of brain power. For two of us to do this may be a waste of those precious cells. But there has to be someone with the whole picture, and that person is usually the mother.

Related post: These books saved my life

It's my blog so I'll self-promote if I want to

These two books would make great Christmas presents.

For people who want to change the world but don't quite know how to go about it, for those with time on their hands to write a letter, sign a petition, join a committee or go on a protest, for young people and older people and everyone in between, for friends and siblings and colleagues and anyone you need to buy a secret santa gift for...



And for women, and men, who say 'I'm not a feminist but...' and then go on to say things such as 'but I believe in equality' or 'women should have careers too' or 'of course I think we should share the housework', and for people who don't say that kind of thing but need re-educating. For your friend, your girlfriend, your sister, your mum, your aunty, your colleague, your nan. And for your brother, your boyfriend, your dad, your uncle, your grandad. Or for yourself of course - you deserve a gift too.

Five little words

There's a lovely baby book by the wonderful illustrator Emily Gravett, Orange Pear Apple Bear, that just uses five words and some beautiful witty pictures. I couldn't resist buying it when I was pregnant and it has really started to come into its own as my daughter reaches a year old. What's more, it just uses five words. What are they? Orange, pear, apple and bear of course. As for the fifth - I won't ruin the surprise, you'll have to read it yourself.



Related posts:
From dogs to cats
Dog, doggy or puppy and the link with puddles
Man's work
She's perfect, we kept her

Choosing life

The big thing when I was at sixth form was Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. Like so many books, series and films which I go on to enjoy, my mum read it, liked it and told me I should read it, much to the shock of my friends who think a parent with the same cultural taste as them must be ultra cool. 

Perhaps the most famous part of Trainspotting was Renton's 'Choose Life' speech, which was reprinted on posters adorning many students' walls once I got to university. 

"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin can openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life."

I think we had it on our walls ironically then. The irony is of course that it's exactly what I've chosen. 

FML* as my students might say. Except I like it. 

(*Fuck my life)

Things to do on maternity leave when you're braindead

- I'm writing a novel
- Yes, me neither

I had thought that while I was on maternity leave I was going to write a novel.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Or in parent parlance, Ha ha bonk. (That, as Ahlberg fans will know, was the sound of me laughing so hard my head fell off.) Write a novel? I didn't even have time to read one. 

When to tell off other people's kids

This week my baby, who is ten months, and I were having fun at a soft play centre when a little girl aged about three walked up to her and hit her face. What did I do? I thumped her of course. 

Not really! Though I wanted to. My daughter seemed unbothered but I firmly told the girl that hitting wasn't allowed and is very naughty. I asked where her mummy or daddy was and she said her mummy was outside in the cafe area, which meant she had neither witnessed the hit or my telling off and that I didn't have to face having a conversation about her child's actions, or mine. 

But when to tell off other people's kids is a minefield. I have an agreement with some friends that whichever of us witnesses something naughty or dangerous happening should feel able to tell the child off. Not a take them away and dress them down kind of telling off, but a "don't do that" or a "stop being naughty" or a "shhhh" or a swift removal from whatever they are messing about with. 

I have in the past however made the mistake of assuming all adults could (should, even) do this for any child, but I've definitely been on the receiving end of irate looks from parents when I have occasionally done this. Now I try to discuss it with the parents of any children we see regularly before the issue comes up. Still, it's a minefield. 

Which is why I can't wait to see the BBC's eight parter The Slap, based on Christos Tsiolkas' book of the same name, about the repercussions amongst family and friends when one of them hits another one's child (BBC4, 27th October) I hope I wouldn't hit another person's child. I hope I won't hit my own. But I know sometimes there is the temptation to do so, though I can't see how an adult friendship could survive such a thing. 

From dogs to cats - Nick Butterworth's Tiger

Moving on from dogs (sorry, puppies) to cats, I feel I should mention this lovely book, Tiger, by Nick Butterworth, about a kitten who pretends to be a Tiger. The illustrations are witty and the story is lovely and I recommend it to all. 



Related post: Dog, doggy or puppy and the link with puddles

Dog, doggy or puppy and the link with puddles

I've divided the world into three types of people based on how they read Dear Zoo which is, as regular readers will know, our favourite book. 

The last animal the zoo sends the protagonist is a puppy. I know it's a puppy because the tail is wagging. I am type a - a puppy person, exuberant and excitable. Some people, type b, read the book and reveal the final animal to be a doggy. This shows some level of fun and is therefore acceptable. Type c however gets to the last page and lifts the flap to reveal not a exuberant puppy or a fun doggy, but a plain old single syllable dog. Harumph. 

This reminds me of a great book I had as a child by Roger Hargreaves (of Mr Men fame), Are you a roundy or a squary? (out of print unfortunately).

Roundies jump in puddles, squaries walk around them. I'm a roundy of course, as are most puppy people. We jump in puddles regardless of the footwear we have on. Doggy people jump in puddles but only if they are wearing wellies. Those who say dog though when reading Dear Zoo, they most definitely walk round them. Working out whether someone is a roundy or a squary, a puppy, doggy or dog person, is a key skill in life, so it's great to be able to equip our daughter to do this from such a young age. 

Related post: From dogs to cats - Nick Butterworth's Tiger

The magical impenetrable world of brothers

I've just had news of friends' new baby boy, their second. I know I wrote recently about how much I wanted a girl but it is true also that my heart swells when I hear news of a new set of brothers. There is something romantic and wonderful about brothers. They can destroy each other (think Cain and Abel, think David and Ed) but they can be the making of each other too. If I were into quoting Bette Midler I'd say that they were the wind beneath each other's wings. Sod it, I'll say it. When brotherhood works it's as if they are the wind beneath each other's wings. It's why, although I am proud to be a Labour Party supporter, I cannot feel easy about having Ed Milband as leader of the party. Whatever your relationship with your brother is like, however much you think you can do better than them, you do not stand against them for a job. When Ed Miliband uses standing against his brother as an example of having shown courage I think no actually, it's a moral failing that you did so.

When I hear of a second son being born, I think of this line from an incredibly moving article by Simon Stephenson that I read in The Guardian in July, about the death of his brother Dominic in the Asian tsunami:

"To have any brother in this world is to be part of an exclusive club to which no riches, no secret handshake, no guest list can ever gain you admittance."

And it makes me hope that I have two boys in the future. 


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I've not read it yet but here is Simon Stephenson's book, Let Not the Waves of the Sea. 



And here is another very moving book about losing, and searching for, a brother. It's called The Boy Who Fell Out of the Sky and is by Ken Dornstein whose brother died in the Lockerbie air disaster. 



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Related post: Am I a SMOG?

Man's Work

I first saw this book a few weeks ago in the library and I was so taken with it I bought a copy for home on Amazon. In fact I bought several copies as I felt it was so good many of my friends deserved a copy too.



Man's Work (All in a Day) by Annie Kubler is a picture book with no words in which we see, over the course of a day, a dad and his child do what many people think of as 'women's work' - putting away toys, hoovering, ironing, cooking etc. I thought it was the ideal book for any child who mainly sees women do this work, be it their mum or a cleaner, to help them understand that actually this kind of task is not intrinsically something women do.

But as there are no words it relies on the person 'reading' the book to make up the story, so actually it becomes whatever you want it to be. Is the dad doing all this because the mum is away and it's a novelty to keep house? Or are they doing it as a surprise for mum? Perhaps it is a stay at home dad and this is the kind of thing he does every day? Or maybe he is the 'manny' rather than a dad and his job involves light cleaning duties? See, when you think about it it is as complex as Milton's Paradise Lost trying to justify the ways of God to men. Whatever your story though, I am sure that normalising men doing housework is an excellent thing.

Incidentally, another lovely picture book with no words is The Baby's Catalogue by Allan and Janet Ahlberg:

She's perfect, we kept her.

A friend used to tell me I thought too much to which I used to reply "You can't think too much" by which I meant "You CAN'T think too much" rather than "YOU can't think too much."

But it is possible that I have been thinking too much about our current favourite book. By current I mean for the past six months with no signs of falling out of favour - and that's just me, though the baby likes it too. 

It's Rod Campbell's Dear Zoo. In it the narrator, wanting a pet, is sent various animals by the zoo but there is something wrong with every one - the elephant too big, the lion too fierce, the frog too jumpy - and the narrator sends them back until they send the perfect match. 

It's a lovely lovely book. It was a 'being born' present from friends and we read it most days. But sometimes I worry that it's giving the baby the message that if something isn't quite right you just get rid of it. "We love you despite any imperfections," I tell her. "You can be as jumpy, fierce or big as you want and we'll still keep you." She looks at me, quite rightly, as if I'm mad. 

(It really is lovely. And it has flaps. I recommend it as a present for any parent child.)

Fifty Campaigns to Shout About

While I was pregnant I wrote a book, Fifty Campaigns to Shout About. It's about issues that you should care about and what to do about them, from being nice to refugees to ending loneliness to cleaning up the seas. It's about changing the world one act at a time. It highlights the issues and makes concrete suggestions for things you could do to make a difference, from becoming a school governor to signing petitions to holding companies to account. It also has interviews with campaigners and case studies about successful campaigns so you can learn exactly how to write to an MP, hold an event or get the governments of the western world to drop third world debt. 

It is my second book. The first, The Noughtie Girl's Guide to Feminism, was published before I became pregnant. I guess then, in my pre baby days, I may have flippantly called it 'my baby'. Certainly I went all out to publicise it, talk about it and write about it. 

Fifty Campaigns to Shout About had competition however. It was published when my baby was five months old. Not only was I tired and incapable of writing articles to alert people to its existence, but I had a real baby on my mind. It slipped from my agenda a little. 

But my brain has come back a little now, I am less tired and I am raring to go. So forgive the self publicising (which all blogs are after all) but here is my nothing-like-a-baby-but-a-good-worthy-book-you-should-most-definitely-buy.