This link is an interesting take on the psychological issues affecting children, specifically ADHD. I don’t specifically adhere to the way the French or the Americans raise their children- there are fantastic points in both countries styles.
French vs American diagnoses

Points I was surprised at…

US children have a 1 in 10 chance of being diagnosed with ADHD; as compared with 1 in 200 French children.

Food Reaction and Social background is as important to French diagnoses as psychobiology.

The emphasis the US puts on psychotherapy in their adult life is apparently not carried through to childhood diagnoses. (I’m happy to be disproved with this).

The French use the Cry it Out method which has in other studies (such as one done by Harvard University) been found to be detrimental to children in the longer term and significantly distressing to them in the short term. Is this a societal difference?

Your thoughts?

The Story

It’s 2am. The wind outside has been whipping up a storm and the rain is clattering the window. It’s a dark dark night, the kind that feels cold when you stick your foot out from under the duvet.

Baby can’t sleep. He’s been crying and agitated all night, sleeping fitfully but then waking with a pained and broken scream. Each time I go in to comfort him, it seems to take an age and all the child care gurus in the world probably can’t help me on this one. Patting and soothing; shushing; pick up put down. They work for a little while but forty minutes later he wakes with that painful scream again. This is not a well baby. He’s pulling (yanking) at his ear but turns his head away quickly if you go anywhere near it. Ear infection. My poor little man. And every time I lay him on his back it’s agony for him.

I pick him up, wrap him under my dressing gown with me and sit down in the big comfy chair in his nursery. I keep him upright but leant against me and he seems to slowly slowly settle. He’s exhausted. And as I stroke his head and rock him slowly to sleep, I start whispering to him. Telling him a story. The story of him- of his great grandads and grandmas- what they did in the war and how I remember them. Of his grandparents and their marvelous adventures around the globes. Of myself and his Dad, what we have done and our story up til now. Of his uncles and aunts and cousins. And of him and what we hope of for the future. That we hope we give him a childhood of magic and dreams and puddle jumping and fishing with sticks and pretending to be superheroes. That we want him to be happy and live a life of positive purpose but to do it in the way he wants. That we will be here for him when things go horribly wrong and wonderfully right. And we will love him, no matter what.

And as I sit with my son, who smells of formula and baby bath, and we both gradually fall asleep, I have never been happier.

The Mummy Bus

My beloved car. My nice, little, sporty, cabriolet, “young, free & single” girl toy (silver with a black roof) will simply have to go. It’s a logistics issue. It may look lovely, drive nicely and make me feel as close to the “wind in your hair, sunglasses on, California beach girl” as I am ever likely to get in Lincolnshire but…

The baby seat and the baby aren’t going to get on with it. Imagine fitting said baby seat and darling baby and then going for a waltz round the countryside with the roof down. The child would either come back frozen cold or sunburnt and with one of those looks on his face that skydivers have when they are in freefall – all teeth, gums and a smile that looks like a cross between the Joker and wobbly jelly.

So it has to go. And in its place? A mummy bus. A derivative of the Chelsea Tractor for those of you who are familiar. Designed solely for the protection of the paranoid parent and their darling offspring. To all intents and purposes a civilian tank. 4 wheel drive – natch. More security devices than the front entrance to Mi6. And so many airbags, if they all went off at once you’d be in danger of floating off. Oh, and zero cool

So bye bye California girl. I look forward to your reincarnation in 25 years time once the beloved children have flown the coop. Til then I will simply dream of my Aston Martin Vantage while I do the school/guitar lesson/swimming run and curse the audacity and stupidity of every other driver (especially the ones with the nice convertibles).

Baby Brain

Lose phone.

Growing concern as realise wealth of lost info and access random stranger (who clearly has my phone) may now have to all aspects of my life.

Empty (ridiculously over sized, over stuffed) bag. Wallet, keys, tissues, lippy, mascara, gloss, hairbrush, stamps, cafe nero card, book (with manly folded over corners), notebook, pens (thousands of them), three tampons (why?), 7 business cards for people I don’t know, 2 hairbands and one hair clip, nail file. No phone.

Search last known whereabouts (lecture theatre). Check coat pockets and jeans pockets. No phone.

Start panicking. Go to lost property. No one has handed a phone in. WHy would they? Nice gentleman behind lost property desk phones three other lost property sites on campus to ask if they have had phone handed in despite the fact that I have been nowhere near that part of campus. No phone.

Beg (in manner of Oliver asking for more… MORE!!!) nice but now unamused man behind counter to please phone my phone. Lost property man even less amused when he (and I) discover my own bag is now ringing… with very familiar ring tone.

Oh, the humiliation of baby brain.

The Birth Plan

The Birth Plan. The what? I looked cluelessly at my midwife. Honestly, I had no idea. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. A Birth Plan? Hmmm, like “waters break, contractions start, take drugs, have baby. Preferably in fifteen minutes”?

Apparently not.

Once she realised I genuinely didn’t know what she was talking about, she started to explain. A Birth Plan covers all your options. Where would you like to have the baby? erm, in hospital with as many qualified people surrounding me as possible. Had I considered a home birth? erm, no. I live in a tiny rented flat with very thin walls. My loud, shouty, next door neighbours may look even more disapprovingly at me after they’ve listened to 12 hours of contractions. You could consider a maternity unit rather than a full up labour ward? er…. I looked blankly at her again; at which point, I think she became pretty convinced that I was either stoned or stupid or just badly prepared (the last of which was spot on). Maternity unit – straight forward births, no complications, often attached to main hospitals where you’ll go if complications develop, no epidurals available. Labour ward – for complicated births and drugs. There’s far more to it obviously but you get the gist.

Perhaps you ought to go away and have a think about the options. There’s a sheet in your maternity notes to write your birth plan on. There is? Oh, yes, I see, there it is. On page 9 of the notes I haven’t read. Look at all those options.

A water birth. In a mini warm swimming pool. That sounds nice. With music. Of my choice. What would I want bump to emerge to? Perhaps an opera, La Boheme? A bit tragic. Maybe… Don Giovanni? maybe not.

What else? Hypno birthing. Hypno what? seriously? Yes, apparently. And for those who got the practice in and understood it far better than I did, apparently it was quite helpful.

Use of drugs? Would I want to go a bit earth mother and try and do this without drugs? Or would I want to have an epidural from the moment I arrived* until the bump was, oh, eighteen and financially independent? Well, hey, I’ve been through some pretty tough stuff so you know I’ll give it a shot without but if the consultant thinks I need drugs (or I begin weeping) then perhaps I’ll take some gas and air (ha!)

Who is your birth partner? Do you plan to use a doula? Again, I had to turn to Dr Google. Who knew a doula could be available on the NHS! A great idea and a thousand pent up, nervous husbands breathe a collective sigh of relief.

So at my next appointment, I presented my Birth Plan to my midwife, not without a little pride in this complete work of fiction I had created. She read down, nodding. This looks great, she said. But I need to warn you. Birth is a complex and long process and lots of variables can change throughout. While I see you’ve gone for the hypo birthing, whale song, water birth, I should warn you not to hang your hopes on it entirely. Yes, it may well happen like this. But if things change, then you will need to be flexible. A lot of women often feel they have failed if the birth doesn’t go how they wanted it to go. You haven’t, its just the team around you need to change the plan to ensure you and bumps health. Wise words as it turned out.

*note to self, “from the moment I arrived” was what I expected. It got explained to me once in hospital that that wasn’t quite how it worked.

How to plan a travel journey

Ok, so parking is an issue. But so is driving in general. At seven months, planning a car journey is akin to planning a military campaign. At least in terms of level of detail. I very much doubt military campaigners need to worry about their troops needing a wee stop every forty five minutes or only decaf drinks or strange food cravings. So we’re off to see my mother. A journey that should take about two hours. Ha. Again, I say ha.

Firstly I’m still a little queasy so I need water to sip, a bag in case I do need to be ill and some form of food stuff in the car to take the edge of hunger pains. So pre-planning and packing is essential. Its also a good idea to figure out where the service stations are. You’re going to need them.

Secondly, the bump has been kicking for some time now, but now appears to be taken with doing complete swimming-style tumble turns. Which is a very odd feeling – wonderful but a little weird to watch your belly move around like that. Anyway what it does mean is that I have to recline the seat in the car a little and if he gets himself to excited or stuck with a foot against my rib cage, bladder or kidneys, I need to stand up and jiggle about to get him to move again.

Finally, you’re going to need to wee. Oh are you going to need to wee. Every forty five minutes. Which with current traffic means you’re stopping about every 25 miles. And you might as well grab a sandwich or tin of peaches or whatever your poison is while you’re stopped.

All in all, the two hour journey becomes a four hour epic. And you (and your Better Half) are very grateful to arrive finally. He needs a drink. And you, obviously, need a wee.

The miracle

I’m not religious in the slightest. I don’t say this to get the backs up of people who are. And I don’t think those who adhere to a religion are qwonks or nutters. I think religious belief serves many good and noble purposes (and a good few that aren’t so great but I’m not getting in to a deep philosophical debate and I don’t write this to offend anyone, believer or not). My personal belief is not in a deity and I don’t believe in miracles.

I always thought I kind of had life explained to a greater or lesser degree- I’m in more of the Richard Dawkins, Charles Darwin, Tim Minchin (a different video than previous) club than the more standard religious clubs. I also figured I knew me and what I was doing and my path was pretty much sorted out (by me!). So it comes as a whopping surprise to realise that not only do you not know you, you don’t even know how awesome your own body is. Your body is so damn awesome that it can conceive, protect, nurture and grow another human. Have you any idea how utterly utterly awesome that is. Say it again… your body is SO damn awesome you can grow another human. GROW another human. This body which you have run around in, flown across seas, danced the night away, poisoned with some form of substances (alcohol, chocolate, the wrong type of carbs etc), bruised, battered, depended on, broken and generally taken for granted- this body is capable of performing the only true miracle on the planet. You can carry life within you. And it is awe inspiring and terrifying and magnificent, all at once.

So when you see pregnant women stroking their bump.. yes, they are doing it because it is comforting. But they’re also doing it because they are in awe of themselves and the body they thought they knew. And they are terrified that it is they and only they who are nurturing a tiny life entirely dependant on them. And they are magnificent because despite their fear, despite the infinite possibilities, despite all of this, they and their body is doing exactly what it is meant to do. Perform the only miracle on the planet. The privilege of pregnancy and the miracle of new life.


This time last year, I was heavily pregnant. With the holiday season rapidly approaching. One of the benefits of being pregnant is looking forward to a whole two weeks of partys, work ‘do’s’, christmas drinks and watching the New Year’s Eve bells toll without one iota of alcohol. Awesome.

Don’t judge me as an alcoholic, but Christmas isn’t quite Christmas without a sniff of booze. Not only do you get to spend all of it sober. You also get the ‘oh, it’s alright, H will drive’ comments – will she? I don’t remember volunteering to squeeze 7 inebriated mates into my car and drive through the icy backroads of whichever english county we happen to be in to get to ‘a great pub’ (definition of great pub, by the way, is significantly different when you can’t indulge in the local fine ale, a decent glass of vino or a good healthy cider; a great pub is now one defined as good food, comfy seating and clean, wide loos). And its funny because when I’m ready to go home – which is generally about ten o’clock when pregnant and having just eaten- no one else is quite there yet – ‘just one more, H, won’t be long.’ – I hate you.

Its also impossible to enjoy music anymore. Get the image of a pregnant whale shark dancing out of your head because that is off putting enough. Now imagine the pregnant whale shark is fully conscious of how pregnant and how whale shark-like she looks, which immediately inhibits any type of natural rhythm and you end up moving about with the grace of a space hopper. It’s also interesting to note from your sober look-out post that there are generally two reasons why blokes dance – a) they fancy the girl they are dancing near (so its never you) or b) they are beyond legless (at which point they put their arm around you and say something like ‘dontchuworryHyorlbeealuverlymummy’). At which point you tactfully extract yourself and find a bar stool to lever yourself on to and from where you can view the rest of the evening from afar while you drink your lime and lemonade. Before retiring to bed at the extortionately late time of half eleven, exhausted. And to be honest a little bored.

At least you do get the somewhat comic morning after experience of watching everyone else turn up for work either hungover to hell or still drunk as a skunk. And the gossip is never about you. But the smell of stale alcohol makes you want to heave.

So, lovely preg a mamas, do yourself a noble favour and take the money you save from not boozing and treat yourself. You’ve earned it this holiday season. Every drop of it. Enjoy it, and make the most of a different way to spend the holiday season: being the sober hero to your friends who need a lift or a shoulder to cry on. And then go and spoil yourself too. Because you really will be a lovely mummy.

Friday night

OOOOOOh, Friday night. Yippee. The end of the week. Put your feet up, slug several pints of wine or whatever tipple is your poison, put your best heels and dress on and head out in to the night to dine and dance your way to the early hours. Tomorrow will be a blurry, slightly headachy morning followed by a bacon sarnie, several rounds of lifestyle coffee, a newspaper and a good shop in some expensive shoe stores.


Crawl to the end of the week. Grateful that Better Half will now be there for 48 hours and you can tag team on the screaming shit machine. Baby routine continues – book (his not yours), bath (ditto), bottle (milk, not vino), bed (him and you, probably at the same time). THe rest of Friday night involves a quick dinner, a possible glass of wine (but not too much so you can still drive if there is an emergency, and so still hear the baby wail that will inevitably occur at oh, 10pm, 1 am, 4am and 6am; there will likely still be wine left in the wine glass tomorrow morning) and then semi consciousness for, if you’re lucky, 6 hours. Tomorrow will be a blurry, hideously early morning followed by a redecoration of the kitchen in banana puree, some form of caffeine (drunk by the gallon), the radio on quietly in the car and mothercare at 9am.

WTF happened?