Tuesday, 16 September 2014


Angel puff…it just slipped out on the bus the other day. A nickname of such cloying sweetness it would make Barbara Cartland turn in her grave. It sits pinkly radiant amongst such other gems as my love, angel boy, sweet love and Mr Milk. What is it about babies that inspires such nonsense? That turns the normal adult brain into a giant cream puff, sickly sweet and oozing. Could it be their satin-velvet skin, so poreless and perfect it demands to be stroked and adored? Or it is their tufty gossamer hair, as fine and soft as the fluff on a dandelion. Their plump, rounded faces, eyes as wide as a bush baby and sweet rosebud lips. The earnest attempts to communicate, mamamamama and dadadadadada and nanananananana. Or just the smile they give you when you do a peek-a-boo, face lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Wait I know, it must be the sleeping baby; that irresistible bundle of plump sprawled limbs curled in the cot, making soft sighs and murmurs as they dream sweet baby dreams. 

I was never one to coo over babies, immune to their clumsy, milky charms. In many ways I didn't see the point of children till they were a little older; once they were up and talking, walking, climbing trees, drawing and interacting I was much more at ease. Babies terrified me with their helplessness , their dependancy. The floppy necks and uncoordinated limbs of newborns freaked me out, like marionates with broken strings. During pregnancy I worried I would not cope with a newborn, that grub-like creature that eats, sleeps, cries and soils the nappy. It all seemed so one sided, so draining. Due to the factors of Felix's birth I was not overwhelmed by love, or any emotion apart from relief, when I held him for the first time. Over the first days and weeks we bonded but still I did not feel the overpowering rush of emotion I had hoped for. It was at around six weeks, when he first smiled, that I began to understand what it was all about. I woke on Sunday morning to Felix grinning at me from the cot. It was a lightbulb moment; not just the smile but the feeling that his personaility was starting to shine through the fog of being a new mother.

Now it's like a button has been pressed and I can't turn it off. I am captivated by Felix; his development is as swift and exhilarating as a hare in the grass. Seeing the evolution of a newborn into an almost toddler puts me in mind of a garden coming to life after a long winter. At first nothing much seems to happen, a few green shoots, buds tightly wrapped on branches, the smell of sap rising. Then as the warming sun shines down, incrementally stronger and longer each day, the garden starts to dance. Leaves appear; the lime-bright first leaves of spring, grass shoots up and blossom begins its wedding procession along the branches. That first burst of growth is magical, but what follows is a riot. Flowers of every hue and type burst open, creating a carnival of colour, while blossom petals fall like confetti on bright new grass studded with daisies. Leaves darken with chlorophyll until everything around is shaded, and wildflowers colour the verges with cornflower blue, poppy red, buttercup yellow. Nature's firework display is in full effect. This is how it feels to raise a nearly one-year-old, to be in thrall to the full force and ingenuity of Nature.

But it's not just Felix, I am now officially into all babies; newborns, toddlers and others. I'm helpless in the presence of infants. Like a desperate politician I want to kiss and cuddle them all. I rubberneck at newborn babies in prams, exchanging smiles with tired looking mothers, wave at toddlers, pull faces. I kiss and cuddle the children of my friends with ardent adoration, loving their button noses, their chubby arms, their developing personalities. I look at myself and see a baby-lover, and I'm surprised by the change in me. Oh who am I kidding? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and plunged deep into the syrupy sweetness of a treacle tart, and the worst thing, is I love it...

Sunday, 7 September 2014


“Play is the work of children”….. J. Piaget

Felix adores the playground. After breakfast we chuck on some clothes and trundle down the road, and as I crank open the gate he starts to vibrate with excitement. We play on the swings, we do a few supervised slides, explore the pit of wood chips, touch the tree. Our local playground is a dilapidated affair and I used to think it bleak, but the more time I spend there the more I appreciate its gentle charms. For some reason it has escaped the wave of refurbishments that has transformed most play areas, and stands as a reminder of times past. The main playframe is hopelessly outdated; the peeling paint and halfhearted attempt to resemble a space station striking a pathetic note. And yet everyday I see children playing happily on the drab metal platforms, the power of imagination transporting them to galaxies beyond our knowledge. In the corner sits a huge sycamore, its branches arching gracefully overhead, a protector of all who play there. The grass underneath is luxuriant and impossibly green, shaded by the tree-umbrella is has escaped the baking heat of summer. Felix plays happily amongst the vivid stalks, using the trunk as a pull-me-up, occasionally craning his neck to gaze at the massive canopy. In the past week his desire to walk has become overwhelming, and as we have precious little space in the flat the playground has become his training ground. His plastic walker is slung over the buggy bars and released into the arena where he seizes upon it and races about with glee, the light of triumph shining in his eyes. 

Spending so much time in playgrounds has triggered a flood of memories from my own childhood. The new play areas are a world apart from the death arenas of years past, full of spongy sprung floors to cushion any falls and ergonomically designed rides that minimise injuries. The ugly metal climbing
frames of old have been banished to the scrapheap, and nostalgia fills me as I think of those rusty scarecrows ripped from their moorings after decades of loyal service. A few still remain; stark reminders of a time when town planners envisioned a Brutalist urban landscape clad in metal and concrete, all hard edges and man made materials. Not really the stuff that kids should play on but we made the best of it, weaving fantasy worlds amongst the austere metal frames, our knees and elbows scraped raw by gravelly falls. In contrast now there is a welcome return to wooden playframes set in woodchip pits, offering a soft fall and an evocative smell reminiscent of childhood trips to the Polish woodland, where the profusion of pine and cedars released their evergreen perfume throughout the forest. Amongst the sprung floors and newly planted trees a new generation of swings has sprung up like inverted mushrooms. These giant saucers hang hammock-like from thick log supports, often with three or four kids piled high as apples in a basket, pushing frenziedly and shrieking with delight as the saucer threatens to go the full 360. 

“Play is the only way the highest intelligence of humankind can unfold” said Joseph Chilton Pearce, and I have started to understand the playground as a microcosm of life. Everyone is at different stages of development, playing out their dramas, choosing their rides, scared and excited about taking the leap into the unknown. Pain and joy, rejection and acceptance, fear and courage, many complex emotions are explored for the first time amongst the swings and the slides and the seesaws, and it is our job as parents to put ourselves in the tiny shoes of our offspring and remember the power, the vital importance of play.

Friday, 22 August 2014


The august sun climbs higher in the porcelain sky as we set off for our morning activities. It's another beautiful morning with only the occasional high white cloud marring the cerulean dome, though a chill hovers in the air like a warning. I note how low it hangs; although it is nearly nine the sun still has a long way to go till it reaches its peak, and its ascent seems more arduous. Perhaps it is tired from a long season of heat, for truly it has been a glorious summer. The sun has given generously of its life-giving rays, and we have basked in the long halcyon days of midsummer. Pale golden stalks of cut hay and wheat glisten across the land, testifying to a good harvest, while apples and pears ripen roundly, rosily, in the orchards. Everything around is green and glowing with mature growth, though scorched stretches of grass recall the long weeks of heat. Autumn looms long like a late afternoon shadow, but summer is still king; still has some tricks up its sleeve. 

Felix and I are in our heyday. Our love affair with Mother Nature and with each other is in full bloom, and every day is a path of discovery. His legs have lost a little of their chubbiness now that he is learning to walk, and with each passing day his steps become surer. Every morning as the late summer sun sails steadily upward we take off our shoes and walk on the dew-laden grass of the park. I notice how Felix lifts his heels away from the moist stems,
walking on tippy-toes, until his feet adjust to the cool carpet. It has become a daily ritual, this barefoot walking. As the sun beats down it illuminates the droplets suspended on the tiny green stems and the whole field glitters like Aladdin’s Cave. It is like walking on molten gold. In a matter of weeks walking barefoot will be impossible, like the haze of a dream barely remembered, but until then we will continue our pagan worship of the grassy god beneath our toes.  

With excitement I consider the coming months. I have always found the turn of the seasons exhilarating, that unmistakable shift in the energy of the earth that heralds a new season. It is for this reason that May is my favourite month. It stands a proud harbinger to summer, an angel at the gates of glory sounding its golden trumpet. May holds all the promise of summer while offering all the delights of spring. Blossom laden branches scent the days as they perceptibly lengthen and the sun begins its high summer arc. And yet it is a toss-up between May and September, the month that opens the door to autumn and ultimately winter and yet which still cocoons us in golden warmth and long days. We hope for an Indian summer, a welcome extension to our halcyon days, and yet we also wait with baited breath for hoar frost to replace the summer dew. For a carpet of diamonds to crunch upon in our welly clad feet. For mist and fog to weave their magic amongst the falling leaves. For autumn to rise from her summer slumber and gather her paintbrushes, dust off her palette and begin her magnificent transformation. At first just a delicate twinge of rose that colours the edge of a leaf, then catches like a wildfire and spreads scarlet across the trees in bold strokes. Gold and amber and copper and bronze streak through the green summer canopy. As the trees concentrate their strength deep inside their trunk-hearts and the leaves start to curl autumn seizes every brush and paints vivid orange on the burnished brown, splashes crimson and pillar-box and flame amongst the russet. 

A year ago I lay in the late-summer meadow, my belly stretched to capacity, offering myself and my unborn fruit to the heavens. I was full of apprehension and excitement. I feared the pain of childbirth, the swift plunge into the unknown. As I lay on the grass I wished to stretch this pleasant limbo as long as possible. I was in no hurry, unlike many I loved my late pregnancy, loved being heavily laden with fruit. I reveled in my womanliness, my fuller breasts, my high proud beach ball. Today, Felix is exactly eleven months old. I look at myself from the other side, across an ocean of change. I see a girl made a woman, made a mother, made whole. I am enraptured by Felix. He is so alive, more than anything I have ever known. He laughs, he points, he touches, he learns, he delights in his newfound knowledge, he strives forward. Spontaneously, without being taught, he has started offering sloppy kisses. Lips unpuckered he leans in, leaving a trail of saliva and a melted heart in his wake. He lavishes affection on everything; us, the cat, his toys. He is full of love, excitement, passion. He is what you can achieve in a year.

Friday, 8 August 2014


I don’t make a habit of reading back these entries. They are much like messages in bottles; once composed they are cast out into the fathomless ocean of the internet, free to be read wherever they wash up. My earnest words; my heartfelt attempts to communicate the enormity, the joy, and the struggles of motherhood, sally forth into the big blue yonder like a flock of eager seagulls. Now and then I scan the horizon for a reply, and when I spot one arriving from far overseas I am overcome with exhilaration. It seems that many aspects of the journey into parenthood are universal, and it is hugely gratifying to think that you are understood by people you will most likely never meet, that your words are treasured and your emotions echoed. That the fear and anxiety you feel is collective. I am buoyed by this commonality, it makes me braver, better, happier. 

Nonetheless while composing this entry I found myself re-reading some early entries, seeking to recall my emotions shortly post-birth when I was unable to ride my bike. The first few weeks of pushing the pram. Now that cycles with Felix are part and parcel of our daily routine it seems impossible that we were ever grounded but grounded we were. How I longed for the freedom and swiftness of cycling, how bogged down I felt by the buggy! A hare trapped in the trundling body of a tortoise. And yet in hindsight those early days - our October strolls in flaming autumn colour - were fundamental. Like a dry stone wall being built progress was slow, for this was a process that could not be rushed. Healing had to take place, and I had to adjust to my new sedate pace. No more rushing around hare-eyed on my bike, forever late, forever in a hurry to get somewhere, do something, pack more in. I learnt to love the pram and its measured, contemplative tempo, and with every passing day, week, month, the tiny being nestled inside it grew and with it my love. 

And now - at last - the time has come. Four wheels have become two as Felix and I ride again. The foetal Felix bobbed merrily in his womb as mummy rode for miles and miles, unhampered by her bulging belly. If anything as he grew inside me and my stomach became a fit-to-burst watermelon I felt the relief of riding as compared to walking. Heavy feet that felt flattened by the extra weight could still push pedals effortlessly; overladen joints relaxed and became supple again. My heart pounded and with it his, our blood flowed together as we cycled in perfect harmony, the ultimate tandem.

The moment I put Felix in his new bike seat and cycled away together is one I will always remember. Every wobble made my heart race with fear, every slight shift threatened to throw me off course, made me take a deep steadying breath and remember what precious cargo I carried. As we made our careful progress I glanced behind to see what he was doing; his mouth was hanging open, gaping in sheer amazement as the world flashed by us. In his eyes was all the wonder of the universe, the incomparable freshness of experiencing something for the very first time. My heart swelled with a love so profound it was painful, and my whole body felt lighter than air. As we cycled alongside the river on our way home the water shone blue as the midsummer sky. Small white sails flashed brightly in the distance. The verdant green of the willows and poplars reflected in the water as we rode past, the briny river water whispering of its journey to and from the sea. The adventure was only just beginning….

Thursday, 24 July 2014


Felix turned ten months this week, yet in official terms his age is still zero. It’s a funny thing that for the first year of life, when we go through the most rapid and remarkable development we will ever experience, our age is classed as nothing. Especially if you consider that by the time a baby is born it is already over nine months old. 

I mention this as I have recently been confounded by people making variations on the same remark, with the inherent expectation that I will agree. ‘Doesn’t it fly by?’ they remark while shaking their heads with a mournful air, ‘Seems like only yesterday that Felix was born’. ‘Yesterday?’ I think in bewilderment. ‘Are you mad?’ His short life has been so packed with change, with growth, with discovery, that I feel a hundred years have passed since he entered the world. From being born helpless, nearly blind, unable to control his limbs, to being a curious, laughing, standing, sentient tiny person in ten months seems miraculous to me, and a thousand markers stand testament to every change. The day he ate his first solid food. The day he first stood up. The first time he smiled, laughed, got a joke. His first swim. His first wave. Each new skill is like the tiny dot of colour in a pointillist painting, and one of the ultimate pleasures of parenting is to stand back every now and then and see the points connecting into a painting of infinite beauty and complexity.

For me this richly layered tapestry of development gives the impression that time has slowed down; every week offers at least one remarkable change, whilst a month is time enough for complete transformation. Felix sheds skins like a hyperactive snake, and I gaze in wonderment as this tiny being takes shape before my very eyes. What I find fascinating is that although as parents we teach our children and take great satisfaction from watching them learn, a more mysterious part of development is those changes that happen independently of any guidance, that appear spontaneously as their personality begins to crystalise. In the last couple of days Felix has formed a very strong attachment to an ancient dog-shaped pillow that I have had since childhood. Its fur is matted and its eyes are droopy with age, but he loves it nonetheless, and has taken to laying his head on it with an expression of adoration. Where this passion has come from I have no idea, but this battered old blue dog has well and truly stolen his heart.

Whilst on the subject of transformation, a profound change has materialised in Felix’s sleeping habits. At long last, and after months of disruption, Felix has started sleeping through the night. Halleluiah and Praise the Lord. I have been scared to write about it, or even mention it in case there was some kind of regression, but it seems to be holding. We are now in the third week of sleeping through and it is marvelous - although with certain drawbacks - for we have entered the dreaded 5am zone. Oh rude wake up call, I hear you roar. There have been a couple of 445 wake-ups when I have peered at the time with a sense of compete denial, but thankfully these have ceased and he seems to have stablised somewhere between five and six am. 

Old habits die hard however, and the night owls have had to undergo their own sleep training. Previously bedtime in our house has been around midnight, often later. This is no longer acceptable, and thus a process of adjustment is underway with bedtime slowly shifting back around the clock. The Mediterranean style nine pm dinners have gone, as have the eleven o’clock baths. Writing till one am, my most prized quiet time when the night is still and the mind can freely process and express the thoughts of the day has been banished, replaced with morning nap writing. While Felix sleeps peacefully, exhausted from a heavy morning of play and swings and sometimes an early bike ride – more on that next time – mummy writes. Or reads. Or just sits and gazes out of the window at the verdantly green lime tree. The scales have tipped one way and then another, finding their balance once again, and I am quietly discovering the delights of morning.

I rise with the sun just peeping over the roofs of the houses opposite, and the air is fresh and clean and lovely like a crisply laundered sheet. It has been hot recently, proper midsummer hot, and by nine the freshness of dawn has long evaporated. But in the early morning, just an hour or so past dawn, the air is redolent with the scent of promise. While the sun rises warms the earth, browning the grass and heating the sea and ripening the harvest, our son rises in his cot, his smile beaming out like the rays of that huge star overhead. Felix greets each new day like a lottery winner receiving a cheque for £1,000,000. His joy at simply being awake is startling. He scrambles to his feet, chubby hands gripping the bars of the cot, and begins his morning exercises of ‘up and down’. Gritty eyed we smile through the cobwebs of sleep at his face, aglow with happiness and radiant with wakefulness. ‘Hello world’ he bugles wordlessly from the cot’ ‘It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful world and I can’t wait to get out there and start enjoying myself’. And despite my die-hard late-night habits, I find myself in thrall to his morning zest and energy. The night owl has taken a bite of the early birds worm, and might even get a taste for it...

Tuesday, 1 July 2014


I stand poised on the bridge, stick in hand. Felix stands next to me, a burble of excitement on his lips, his twig held out like a samurai sword. 'One, two, three...GO!'. We throw our sticks into the rushing river and jostle to the other side of the bridge, eyes seeking them in the fast flowing water. 

This may as yet be a dream, but the time for pooh sticks is coming soon and I can't wait. With every passing day Felix is developing, growing, becoming stronger, more agile and more able. Last week he pulled himself up to standing for the first time, now every piece of furniture is a prop in his mission. He cruises round the edge of the cot with devilish insouciance, sturdy legs ever more certain beneath him. His perambulations have rendered much of our flat a death-trap, and I spend a lot of time foiling his attempts to smash his head on the sharp corner of a coffee table or drink from the cats bowl. Things are not helped by the fact that we are still living in our one bed flat, our myriad possessions swelled by the preposterous amount of gear and toys that babies seem to require. Every surface, shelf and corner is crammed with stuff, piles of which I move around in an ultimately futile attempt to make more space. Every day is an exercise in making each room multifunctional.

Nevertheless, I am revelling in Felix's increasing mobility, and await the time for climbing trees and kicking balls with eagerness. Having Felix has made me realise just how much the child within me still thrives, and as he grows up and into childhood it is as if I can grow down and become a child again with him. I have found the bottle marked 'Drink Me' and shrunk so I can enter through the tiny door and back into the magical secret garden of childhood. The joy of motherhood is that simultaneously you have to become a real adult; forsaking selfish and stupid behaviour and keeping constantly vigilant and caring for your infant, and yet it also gives you a ticket to innocence. Already it has begun; playing hide-and-seek with Mr Squirrel, Felix's favourite soft toy, creating 'lamp mummy' to amuse him during mealtimes, creeping under lowhanging trees to undertake our 'jungle mission'. Every flower and leaf is a sensory delight; his tiny fingers reach out to feel their textures, button nose wrinking in surprise when I hold him closer to inhale the scent of a rose. Bark is particularly fascinating, its roughness both shocking and exciting, while rain seen through the eyes of a child is an exercise in wonder; the leaden downpour transformed into a thing of beauty and magic.  

Felix has now been out in the world for nine months, the same length of time he resided in the dark waters of my womb. From being a tiny collection of cells, multiplying and mutating and clinging to life, comes a fully formed and unique person. A baby who will become a boy who will become a man. A man who may pilot a spaceship to galaxies unknown, whose chance of living to 100 is more than one in three, who may unravel the mystery of consciousness. Having a child is like throwing a stick in the river of time, and watching them dance along the silver stream of life is the sweetest pleasure of all. 

“By the time it came to the edge of the Forest, the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and, being grown-up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going, and it said to itself, “There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.”  A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner.

Wednesday, 11 June 2014


“In fact, the fairies had turned him into a water-baby'. Charles Kingsley, The Water Babies.

I have long been infatuated with mermaids; those mysterious sea-sirens with tumbling tresses and bared breasts, fascinated by the juncture where smooth skin morphs into iridescent scales. As a little girl I proudly announced my intention to become a mermaid when I grew up, spending hours constructing fish tails to cover my boring old legs. Anything shimmery or with green or blue sequins was prized as ‘part of a mermaid tail’ and kept in a special box. I was at once enthralled and baffled by the bittersweet tale of the Little Mermaid, unable to understand why Ariel would ever leave the ocean for a man. I wanted to reverse the story and plunge once and for all into the embrace of the sea, where I could live in a coral garden with friendly fish as my companions. And now to my delight Poseidon has sent an enchantment from the depths of the ocean and turned Felix into a water baby. This should not come as much of a surprise; he had already swum in many
seas, rivers and pools while encased in the interior waters of my womb. The unborn Felix had floated happily in the warm turquoise bays of Rhodes. Been pummeled by the bracing Cornish surf. Jumped into the greeny-ochre rivers of Suffolk and swum the gunmetal grey sea at Brighton. Not to mention endured a thousand laps of my local pools and lidos. And now my baby has discovered swimming and taken to it like the proverbial duck. 

The transformation to water baby has been slow burning. Recently we fulfilled a longstanding dream and hired a former fisherman’s cottage in St Ives. Along with some old friends we spent several days on the beaches of this beautiful
peninsula; taking briny strolls, basking in the warm May sunshine, watching dogs bathing and barking on 'Dog Beach' and of course swimming and surfing in the cold blue waves. One day I spent hours on the beach with Felix, dipping his tiny toes in the shallows and running laughing from the breaking waves. His blue eyes widened as he took in the barreling surf that pounded the creamy sand, snuggling deeper into my lap as the sea-spray misted his face. Later the wind rocked him to a blissful sleep in his pram while we flew our kite high in the cornflower sky. The spell had been cast. 

On our return I started taking Felix to our local paddliong pool. Our first encounter was not a success; shocked by the chill of the sparkling water Felix screamed his disapproval, howling when I tried to dip him in. I tried another tack, hoisting him into the centre of the pool where a mosaic fountain splashes.
Immediately he started to tremble with excitement as he watched the other children splash amongst the spray. He gasped as the water covered his legs, then giggled and strained to get back in, chubby arms reaching for the jets that eluded his eager hands. Water is a mysterious element with qualities that even scientists fail to understand or explain, let alone a little boy who cannot fathom why the tickling jets he reaches for cannot be grasped. What makes my heart swell with pleasure is that his reaction to this is to laugh. I have never seen him laugh like he did at the pool; that is until we took him swimming in the sea last Sunday. 

On a glorious cloudless day we set off to Brighton to meet friends, converging on the stony beach like pilgrims at a holy site. It was a perfect beach day, warm and windless, and the sea lay calm and azure and inviting. I wasted no time in slathering Felix and myself in sunscreen and donning our swimsuits, and then the three of us, daddy mummy and baby headed down to the shore.
Tentative at first we took turns dipping his legs into the surf. He gazed out transfixed as tiny white capped waves wobbled towards him, gasping as the chilly water met his sun-warmed skin. Slowly but surely we dunked him deeper and deeper until a larger wave caught daddy by surprise and soaked them both. ‘Hahaha’ he giggled, blinking his eyes in surprise as the seawater stung them for the first time, but there were no tears. I cradled him in my arms, letting the sea-swell gently rock us. He looked out to the horizon, blue eyes reflecting blue sea, a smile playing on his lips. 

"I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living." Anaïs Nin.