We're going on a bear hunt... in the garden

"We're going on a bear hunt

We're going to catch a big one

What a beautiful day!

We're not scared..."

We're going on a bear hunt is one of my baby's favourite books. So, inspired by Jennie's Messy Play for Matilda Mae project, but not realising there was a Pink and Purple theme this week (doh!), we went on our own bear hunt in the garden.

First, we watched Michael Rosen performing his brilliant story on YouTube. My girl found his 'Oh no!' head-slapping action hilarious. I've had to up my story-telling game since.

 I then spent a lot of time plotting and shopping. Finally, I'd collected all the stuff and I laid it out for her during her afternoon nap. She's a bit young for all this, I know. But I had fun preparing it.

First up: long wavy grass. We don't have anything approaching a lawn, so I used a pot of chives. We ran our hands through the stems, pulled the ends off with our fingernails and sniffed their oniony scent. Swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy...

Next: the river. The deep, cold river. Our river in the old baby bath wasn't cold (that felt mean) and it wasn't very deep either. But to make it more fun, we dropped a splash of blue food colouring into the pool. We watched the inky clouds curl through the water and my daughter got stuck in, stirring it with her hands, her colouring pencil and then her feet. She was wearing a swimming nappy, just in case...

Then it was time for the mud. Thick oozy mud - the messiest part of our messy play afternoon. I made it with chocolate custard (a couple of teaspoons of cocoa powder added to our usual Bird's Eye) and I thought she'd sense straight away that she should eat it. But no. We made patterns, handprints then footprints, though she wan't mad keen on the squidge between her toes.  

So we moved onto the forest, the big dark forest. This was more for decoration really, although we did end up pulling the twigs out of their playdough bases and dropping them in the 'river'.

There are probably hundreds of messy play ways to create a swirling, whirling snowstorm. But we blew bubbles. This turned out to be my girl's favourite thing by far. She didn't want to stop. 

But it started to rain as our bubbles drifted to the sky, so we retreated to the narrow gloomy cave for a bear's eye view of the adventure.

And then we found him! One shiny wet nose, two big furry ears... But he was more cuddly than scary, in the end. And a lot smaller than the goggly-eyed bear in the story. But he still tried to follow us home, into bed and under the covers. 

When she's a bit older and has more of an idea what's going on, I think we might try going on a bear hunt again...

A sweet surprise

I love mysterious post. I love it even more when it's not just an envelope, it's a little parcel.

And I love it especially when the parcel turns out to be cake.

Not just any cake, either. A personalised cake, using a photo I'd supplied a few days' before and then forgotten about. I can tell you, I was properly thrilled.

This sweet idea from www.bakerdays.com is really for surprising friends who have a reason to celebrate. You can choose from an 'almost unlimited' selection of designs, adding your own photos and messages to make each cake unique.

I liked the trouble they'd taken to cut out the photo I'd emailed to make it work as part of a design. To be honest I'm amazed at how well my baby's skin tone came out on the icing - printing has come so far so fast.

I was a little sceptical about the condition the cake would arrive in, having drifted briefly into the tricky world of cake transportation for my daughter's christening. But the whole point of the Baker Days service is that you don't have be in when it's delivered, it's just posted through your letterbox along with all the bills and junk mail. Your cake comes in a mini-tin, perfectly protected and neatly packed, with balloons, candles and a card, too.

But did it pass the baby-approval test? She was certainly intrigued to see her younger self emerging from the tin, represented in fondant. She wasn't keen on the party hooter that came in the parcel - she looked mortified when I tooted it, like her mother had become alien-possessed, then bawled. But all that was forgotten when I brought myself to cut the cake. She nibbled the tiny bit I offered her, then grabbed my bigger piece with both fists.

I'm old enough to remember the Baker Days of the 1980s, and they always meant the lovely surprise of a day off school. But it turns out personalised cakes through the post make for brilliant surprises too.

Disclosure: I was sent a free cake from www.bakerdays.com for the purpose of this review.

How much pampering do new mums deserve?

‘How do you feel? Like you’ve been run over by a bus?’

‘Yes,’ I told the midwife in the post-natal unit, the evening after my baby was born. ‘That’s exactly how I feel.’

She gave me a handful of codeine, told me my sleeping newborn had my eyes and that was that. I never saw her again. A few hours later I was home, flashing at my relatives and defrosting a lasagne.

I know the child-bearing trend is to do everything naturally and get home as soon as possible. I was certainly keen to get away from the diet of flavourless cold carrots the hospital dished up. But sometimes I think I’d have liked a little more recovery time before taking full-on responsibility for another human life.

The other day I read about a new retreat opening in Chelsea – where else? – offering brand new mums a haven to recover from labour and bond with their baby. For around £2,000 for three nights, you get a room, all your meals and 24-7 baby-help laid on.

Price-tag aside, I think it sounds wonderful. But it also sounds strangely familiar. Isn’t this what all new mums could expect from the NHS in the 1970s?

It’s more or less what my mum had. The day after I was born, she was chauffeured from hospital to a Georgian manor house where she was completely looked after for a week. All her meals were prepared for her. Someone showed her how to bathe me, how to change a nappy – and actually helped her to get more than 20 minutes of sleep at a time. She had all the help she needed to breastfeed, every feed, until she felt entirely confident she could do it at home. And all these services were free.

It’s unusual to hail the 1970s as any kind of zenith of luxury, but perhaps, for new mums, it was. Much as I love the internet, it’s no replacement for a real person showing you what to do and telling you everything’s going to be alright. 

What do you think? Did you get enough support after birth? Does the idea of a hotel for new mums appeal to you, or would you be desperate to get home? Please leave a comment - I'd love to know what other people think.

Going a bit Von Trapp

I can’t sing. But that doesn’t stop me trying. Give me a locked car on an empty motorway and I’ll belt out like the best of them.

First my bump, then my newborn baby got to know this very well.

Before she was born, I sang along in the car on my way to hospital appointments. Perhaps that’s why she went so far past her due date she had to be evicted.

On the fourth night of her life she endured me singing back-to-back Christmas carols for about four hours. Perhaps that’s why neither of us slept a wink.

A couple of weeks later, stuck in a traffic jam, I thought my version of ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ would be just the thing to calm her as she screamed from the back seat.  Or perhaps that’s why she was screaming in the first place.

I can’t sing, but my husband, former schoolboy chorister, can.

So the other day, he joined in my wobbly ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ during a particularly stinky nappy change. I struggled to hold the tune while he harmonised, singing over and under the melody, turning the simple song into something a little bit lovely.

When we finished, a lifetime first happened.

Our little baby clapped. 

Silent Sunday 14 April

Through an auntie's eyes

Over Easter, you spent time with your auntie. You bounced on the grass and splashed in the bath and chased horses on the heath. Afterwards, she wrote this about you:

"I realise she has this tremendous capacity for being really happy. Even when she smiles it's with her whole body: scrunched up face and shoulders, curved spine and even her little toes curl up! It's just lovely to watch."

If I could wish anything for you, it would be this, little girl. Be really, really happy.

X

Can we go out without the buggy?

We’re rushing to leave the house. This, of course, is completely normal. But unlike normal, we’re going in the car.

‘We don’t need the buggy,’ says my husband.

‘No! Of course we don’t,’ I agree, thinking how long it will take to pull it apart and lug all the pieces down the alley to the driveway. It’s biting cold outside, too. My inner cat doesn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary not clinging to a radiator. 

Why would we need the buggy, anyway? Our little girl can walk now. By herself, and everything. For once I’ve got a fully loaded changing bag prepared so all we have to do is shut the front door and go.

For a moment, it’s like The Time Before. When leaving the house wasn’t so stressful it required an official debrief afterwards.

But when we get there, it’s funny how a lack of buggy can make even the shortest of distances expand. Between the car park and the toasty indoors we find a hundred manholes, leaves and lampposts that require urgent and thorough inspection.

Due to the now violet shade of my daughter’s knuckles, I resort to carrying her.  

My biceps will thank me for this in the long term. But right now, they think I’m trying to destroy them.

So my husband pops into the lab (it’s a Saturday) and our girl and I potter about in the shops. This no-wheels thing feels all a bit liberating.

We can wander anywhere we like. We can go through narrow spaces and up stairs.

I can chase around after a little toddler without having to worry about criminal types rifling through the buggy for my wallet (though I’d defy them to find it – I never can).

When we have lunch, I don’t have to block a couple of tea-sipping elderly ladies into their seats with my shoddy parking.

It’s great.

But lunch finishes, and we’re a long way from anywhere. I call the husband. He needs another hour. I don’t think we have another hour before the I’m-so-tired-all-I-can-do-is-scream-about-it meltdown begins. And the toddler is looking sleepy too.

‘Hey, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’ll go home on the bus. That’s the beauty of not having the buggy with us. Flexibility.’

Within seconds of sitting down on the number 72, the little girl is asleep. But not in that comfy, crook-of-the-arm baby hold that we used to adopt. No, she’s splayed out across my knees, the seat and the passenger on the left. How am I ever going to move her?

We need to swap buses and it turns out I don’t have the right change for the next leg of the journey. We embark on a farce involving cashback at the Sainsbury’s checkout, the unreachable depths of the nappy bag and my bank card. She is red-cheeked, floppy and unbelievably heavy – but asleep still. Just.

When we finally catch the last bus, the expressions of strangers have mutated from a kindly ‘Oh, bless,’ to a disbelieving ‘Didn’t you think to bring the buggy?’   

As my biceps are about to surrender and become the jelly they really are, I think the strangers are probably right. She wakes up. Disoriented, a bit furious and properly screaming.

Perhaps next time we will take the buggy after all.