[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]
Sunday 24 April 2011
Sunday 17 April 2011
Happy birthday to me!
Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday dear...Well, you get the idea. Another year older and still none the wiser. My boys did a very good job at distracting me from thinking about the extra candle on the cake (or in my case, almond croissant), helped hugely by the beautiful sunshine we had today. It started well with a splendid breakfast with a huge pot of Yorkshire tea and some lovely presents, followed rather too quickly by a delicious lunch at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm. The little boy did us the courtesy of falling asleep so we could enjoy a large glass of wine and far too much pizza in peace.
The rest of the day would have been a suitable birthday treat for a five-year-old: an impromptu trip to the zoo and ice cream. Still, I couldn't have had more fun if I'd tried. Watching the little one blow kisses to the llamas and wave furiously at the giraffes filled my heart with joy. I'm sure the days of long boozy birthdays in the pub will roll around again one day, but for now this is my idea of a happy birthday.
So here's what I've learnt this year:
The rest of the day would have been a suitable birthday treat for a five-year-old: an impromptu trip to the zoo and ice cream. Still, I couldn't have had more fun if I'd tried. Watching the little one blow kisses to the llamas and wave furiously at the giraffes filled my heart with joy. I'm sure the days of long boozy birthdays in the pub will roll around again one day, but for now this is my idea of a happy birthday.
So here's what I've learnt this year:
- If your baby is under six months and you're not breastfeeding, don't tell anyone. They will only judge.
- If your baby is over six months and you are breastfeeding, don't tell anyone. They will only judge.
- Whatever it is, it's only a phase. It will pass.
- All babies will sleep through the night. Eventually.
- "They" have a lot to say about how you should bring up your baby and live your life (I'm looking at you, Gina Ford). "They" are more often than not entirely wrong.
- The best beauty treatment in the world is sleep, and lots of it.
- Your baby will still love you whether you choose a nanny, a nursery, a childminder or you brave all the childcare yourself.
- There is nothing in the world as wonderful as your baby's dance of utter joy when you enter the room.
- How to keep the in-laws happy (also known as 'how to please the unpleaseable').
- How to strike the right balance between work and family and not feel constantly guilty. This one is going to run and run...
Friday 15 April 2011
'Contracts for crawlers!'
So H comes home the other day proudly brandishing a flyer advertising classical concerts for babies. It's held somewhere in our 'hood, on a Wednesday (when I happen to be off work), and costs ten pounds. Ten pounds!
"So are you going to take him then?", he asks.
"No way - it's far too expensive".
"Ah, but you can't put a price on culture".
"Yes you can', I replied, "and it's under a tenner".
Oh how times have changed. This time last year I would have jumped at the chance, shifting playdates and coffee mornings to shoehorn in yet another class. At one point we did swimming (a disaster every time because like any normal human being he wasn't keen on being submerged incessantly); baby massage, which he loved as he had a major crush on the teacher; Gymboree, for our sins, though I detest its enforced jollity and not-very-subliminal advertising ("Where's Gymbo everybody? That's right, he's in the shop and retails at a very reasonable £19.99!"; Mini Mozart and Monkey Music. Looking at it now, this explains a lot about the state of my bank account and the lines on my face.
A new toy shop has opened up the road, called 100 Acres, which I've so far managed to resist going into. I have perused the list of classes it holds, however, and was amused to see baby Mandarin. I mean, seriously? Mine can barely speak English yet, so I think I'll hold off for now.
One of the best classes we did was the low-key, low-tech Mini Mozart which was held in the dusty old Quaker meeting house. The babies would be mesmerised by the teacher singing beautifully, playing the violin or showing them how a clarinet works. It was fabulous and great for the boy to learn that some people have lovely singing voices (just not his mother, try as I might).
Fair play to the people who run these classes; if I could sing or had followed through with learning the flute rather than getting distracted by boys during my teenage years, I'd be tempted to set one up myself. As my talents are limited to drafting contracts, I think my options are limited. But maybe the pushy mothers would approve of a little light legal training at an early age. Watch out: 'Contracts for Crawlers' and 'Terms and Conditions for Toddlers' - coming to a community centre near you!
"So are you going to take him then?", he asks.
"No way - it's far too expensive".
"Ah, but you can't put a price on culture".
"Yes you can', I replied, "and it's under a tenner".
Oh how times have changed. This time last year I would have jumped at the chance, shifting playdates and coffee mornings to shoehorn in yet another class. At one point we did swimming (a disaster every time because like any normal human being he wasn't keen on being submerged incessantly); baby massage, which he loved as he had a major crush on the teacher; Gymboree, for our sins, though I detest its enforced jollity and not-very-subliminal advertising ("Where's Gymbo everybody? That's right, he's in the shop and retails at a very reasonable £19.99!"; Mini Mozart and Monkey Music. Looking at it now, this explains a lot about the state of my bank account and the lines on my face.
A new toy shop has opened up the road, called 100 Acres, which I've so far managed to resist going into. I have perused the list of classes it holds, however, and was amused to see baby Mandarin. I mean, seriously? Mine can barely speak English yet, so I think I'll hold off for now.
One of the best classes we did was the low-key, low-tech Mini Mozart which was held in the dusty old Quaker meeting house. The babies would be mesmerised by the teacher singing beautifully, playing the violin or showing them how a clarinet works. It was fabulous and great for the boy to learn that some people have lovely singing voices (just not his mother, try as I might).
Fair play to the people who run these classes; if I could sing or had followed through with learning the flute rather than getting distracted by boys during my teenage years, I'd be tempted to set one up myself. As my talents are limited to drafting contracts, I think my options are limited. But maybe the pushy mothers would approve of a little light legal training at an early age. Watch out: 'Contracts for Crawlers' and 'Terms and Conditions for Toddlers' - coming to a community centre near you!
Sunday 10 April 2011
The sun is shining and the stars are out
So it seems that we are finally shaking off the shackles of a long, hard winter. The central heating is officially off, the boy's Michelin-inspired, all weather duvet jacket has been consigned to the back of the bulging coat cupboard and the hunt for a sun hat to fit his sizeable head has begun in earnest.
I've noticed that these lovely warm days are coaxing the great and the good from the Hampstead houses where they've been hibernating over the cold months (when they weren't soaking up the sun in LA, of course). The celeb count around here is pretty high at the best of times: while on maternity leave, I loved nothing more than to sit outside Maison Blanc with an obscenely large coffee and tot up the number of TV presenters, journalists, comedians and pop stars cluttering up the pavements. And now it's sunny they seem to have multiplied. Last week Ricky Gervais ran past me as I climbed the hill to nursery, and I've recently seen Helena Bonham-Carter and Tim Burton walking the school run (if that's not a contradiction in terms). I'm sure even the Starbucks baristas have had bitparts in Casualty and The Bill.
While I like to think I'm immune to the presence of so-called celebrities, thanks to a former career in the music industry where I had regular contact with famous musicians, this is clearly not the case. However many times I see Liam Gallagher, Michael Macintyre, Chris Moyles, James Corden and others, I do a very undignified double-take. I am not and will never be cool with it. I've read too many issues of Heat over the years, and am too interesting in what they are wearing/saying/eating/drinking. And the boy is no better: he gave Emma Thompson an especially large and winning grin when she peered into his buggy, and he saves his most determined stares for Denise Van Outen. Melanie Sykes has also been subjected to his attentions while trying to enjoy a discreet breakfast in Carluccio's. At some point, the prospect of being able to own an actual house with actual stairs will lure me and the boys back up north where the most exciting celebrity is the weatherman from the local news. For now, then, I'll hope for more sun and more stars.
I've noticed that these lovely warm days are coaxing the great and the good from the Hampstead houses where they've been hibernating over the cold months (when they weren't soaking up the sun in LA, of course). The celeb count around here is pretty high at the best of times: while on maternity leave, I loved nothing more than to sit outside Maison Blanc with an obscenely large coffee and tot up the number of TV presenters, journalists, comedians and pop stars cluttering up the pavements. And now it's sunny they seem to have multiplied. Last week Ricky Gervais ran past me as I climbed the hill to nursery, and I've recently seen Helena Bonham-Carter and Tim Burton walking the school run (if that's not a contradiction in terms). I'm sure even the Starbucks baristas have had bitparts in Casualty and The Bill.
While I like to think I'm immune to the presence of so-called celebrities, thanks to a former career in the music industry where I had regular contact with famous musicians, this is clearly not the case. However many times I see Liam Gallagher, Michael Macintyre, Chris Moyles, James Corden and others, I do a very undignified double-take. I am not and will never be cool with it. I've read too many issues of Heat over the years, and am too interesting in what they are wearing/saying/eating/drinking. And the boy is no better: he gave Emma Thompson an especially large and winning grin when she peered into his buggy, and he saves his most determined stares for Denise Van Outen. Melanie Sykes has also been subjected to his attentions while trying to enjoy a discreet breakfast in Carluccio's. At some point, the prospect of being able to own an actual house with actual stairs will lure me and the boys back up north where the most exciting celebrity is the weatherman from the local news. For now, then, I'll hope for more sun and more stars.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)