Saturday, February 22, 2014

Hero

Today

My Niece posted a delightful video on Facebook today showing her children David and Dorothy running hand in hand up the street together. Apparently Dorothy calls David "Super Dave" and has decided that he is her hero.

In My Day
David and I as Yum-Yum and
Nanki-poo in the Mikado

I hadn't thought that Dorothy takes much after her great-aunt Julia but here is suddenly something we have in common. I don't quite know how old I was when I decided that my brother David was my "hero" (superheroes are a more modern invention), probably when I was about ten, certainly older than Dorothy. David was absent at boarding school most of the time so we didn't have the usual sibling sparring relationship which probably gave the glamour needed to create an idol.

We had much in common (except, maybe, an interest in buses) and I looked forward eagerly to the holidays and occasional Sunday get-togethers. He generally had an even temper and could do cool things, such as play the piano and compose music.

I wasn't at all inhibited about calling him my hero and wonder now what the rest of the family thought. Maybe it was an innocent way of having a crush on someone and David didn't disappoint. In our childhood and teenage time together we sang, rode bikes everywhere (I think it was David who taught me to love reading maps), and he was my protector at the Proms. We went Youth Hostelling together in Exmoor and enjoyed concerts and theatre visits in London. We collaborated on various crazy '60's projects, such as selling ties to Carnaby Street and attending weird John Cage and Cornelius Cardew musical "happenings". 

 As we have grown older our relationship has evolved into a normal, loving sibling closeness. I still have a residual feeling of admiration, but feel that it's more grounded in a real understanding of his talents.

What I must not forget is that my other siblings have also been  my heroes in many ways over the years and maybe I have been theirs too, on occasions. 

Your brother is pretty super, Dorothy, but so are you and I hope your brother never forgets it.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Pet

Today

There's been a distressing spate of stories recently concerning pet dogs involved in killing babies or children. It makes one pause and think about the way we handle dogs as "pets" and how, when we seem to be more protective of our children than ever, that this happens so tragically often. Some say that the dogs are stimulated to aggression by baby's cries or hands flapping about; who knows? - and it's not really the point.

Walking up the lane this morning I greeted a man who was attempting to walk his tiny dog. "I'd like to say 'hello'", I said to the animal "But I don't like being jumped up at." "He's only six months old", explained the owner, pulling the puppy away from me. "It took ages to teach my dog not to jump up", I remarked consolingly.

In My Day

Caspian the dog came into our lives in 1984. He was about two years old and was exuberantly delighted to have found a new home and family. The first time we came home having left him behind, he greeted us with joy, bouncing up to each of us in turn. Six year-old Becky was rather frightened by this and screamed and jumped back.

It did, indeed take us a long and tedious time to train Cas out of jumping up at us, but Becky had a different perspective on this habit. After we'd had Caspian for a couple of weeks, she rather dolefully said to me one day "Cas doesn't like me as much as the he does the rest of you". "Sure he does", I replied "What makes you think that he doesn't?" "Well, he never jumps up at me when we come home", was the reply.

"That's because you screamed the first time and he knew you didn't like it." In fact Caspian never, after that first scream, jumped up at any small child; he was perfectly aware that it signalled distress and that he shouldn't do it. 

In the fifteen years we owned Cas I never once saw him snap or display irritation at small children, no matter how much they cried or accidentally slapped him in the face.

We do need to think about exactly why people feel the need to acquire enormous animals which are often confined in small houses and under-trained and exercised. That doesn't stop me from feeling saddened for the children who lost their lives and for families who had to learn the lesson in such a hard way.

Monday, February 17, 2014

Solid Advice

Today

We have now reached the exciting stage of offering Carmen solid food. It seems that there are fads and fancies in when and how to wean as there are in most things. The current fashion is for infant-led weaning in which, it seems to me, you plonk food in front of baby and see what happens next. Those in the know say that you have to be prepared to food-proof your entire kitchen during this phase. Thankfully, Carmen is being offered the more normal range of puréed fruit and veg and shows a preference for sweet potato and pears.

In My day

When Becky was a baby, breast-feeding and I parted company at about five weeks old and she transferred happily to SMA. She might have been an ill baby for much of the time, but this didn't dull her appetite! By the time she was three months she'd down a full twelve floz of milk and reach out for more. When I told the midwife how much milk she was taking she was horrified. "You can't give her more than twelve oz at a feed," she insisted. "But Becky's hungry; should I put her on solids?" I asked. That, it appeared, was an even worse crime against my baby's health and medical orthodoxy. It seemed that I was damned either way.

I took stock. Becky was hungry and needed more nourishment than SMA could give her. So I took the matter into my own hands and started preparing puréed carrots, parsnips, swede and fruit. She gobbled up just about all I could give her (except banana which she was unable to swallow and which she dislikes to this day). I filled ice-cube trays with the purée and froze them, fishing out the appropriate number daily.

Despite all the dire warnings, Becky thrived on this diet, moved quite effortlessly to more adult food as she grew older and learnt to feed herself without the need for protective clothing other than a bib.

There is a lot more science behind the advice that we are given today, but we mustn't forget that our children are differing individuals and that for millions of years babies have been successfully weaned in a variety of ways and at a  variety of times.

What is new is the much larger range of foods in the shops that can be offered to Carmen which makes it very exciting.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Sleepy Head

Today

Carmen is six months old and her parents are finding it hard to persuade her to settle into good night-time habits. It's all very exhausting and having her in their bed is not the easy solution it might once have seemed.

But it's very difficult to make wise decisions when all you can really think about is getting enough sleep.

In My Day

Lizzie was an all-night sleeper from early on, but with Becky it was a different story. She was not a well baby and suffered from frequent respiratory infections which kept her awake at night. We moved her bed into the adjacent room because her snuffling prevented me from sleeping at all, but the walls of the house were thin and I would awake at her first cry.

Infection followed infection; by the age of nine months she had whooping cough (she was never well enough to tolerate her vaccinations) and chicken pox and German measles added to the trials of the "hundred-day cough". I would be up time and time again, clearing her little lungs of sticky phlegm, settling her down again. Paul was ever ready to take his share, but there hardly seemed any point in waking him up as I was already awake.

By the time Becky was two, night-time waking was a matter of habit. When Mark, Beatrice and Nick were living with us, the girls moved into our room, top-and-tailed into a zed-bed. Sometimes Becky would start crying in her sleep and it became apparent that she was suffering from night terrors. This time it wasn't enough just to soothe her; I had to wake her up fully, after which she would be quite calm and go back to sleep.

I'll never understand why no-one else in our tiny house ever heard these episodes. I'd sit, first on the bed, and then on the landing, trying to persuade Becky to stop crying. On really desperate occasions I would be practically crying myself: "Oh Becky, please stop crying", I'd plead. Which was very helpful. And through all of this I was doing a full-time job.

By the time she was four Becky grew out of it, becoming a rather deep sleeper who was hard to awake. Here is a picture of her, aged about one; I think you can see how tired she is.

We are constantly told that we need seven to eight hours' sleep to function properly. While I'm sure that would be very nice, I think it simply can't be true when I think of the number of new parents who hold down jobs, care for their children and conduct social lives all on about three hours' broken sleep.