First Ice cream by Kate

So here we are in beautiful Cornwall and beaching is an absolute must when it comes to appreciating the Cornish experience in full.

Rosie's enjoyment of Perranuthnoe Beach was a bit mixed today - the tide was right out displaying a magnificent expanse of damp sand washed with gentle breakers and somewhat windswept - which was the bit Rosie didn't like at all. Nor did she like Mummy and Daddy trying to steer her away from the deeper sandpools, not quite understanding that we had her own best interests (and height of diminutive wellies) in mind. And she was very displeased about the saturated sand's annoying habit of sucking at her boots when she was trying to walk.

Luckily, a comparatively sheltered corner with shallow pools and decent digging sand restored her good temper, as did the promise of an ice-cream.

Rosie's maternal grandmother generously supplied this last to the assembled company and Rosie had the initially baffling, but increasingly enjoyable task of working out how to best consume her lolly.
It took Rosie a good ten minutes to confidently apply her tongue to the lolly, but once she got the hang of that, there was no stopping her. Theo meanwhile, who was holding her at the time, was becoming increasingly twitchy about the length of time and the mess the process involved and resolved never to allow Rosie another ice-lolly until she was old enough to make a more efficient job of it.
GM pointed out that mastery of this skill would necessitate plenty of practice. They didn't reach a point of agreement. I suspect Rosie will be amply supplied with holiday ice creams in the future despite Daddy's prohibition.

5,4,3,2,1 by Theo

Throughout my PGCE year I've seen all kinds of ways in which teachers control their students. By far and away the most common technique, which I've seen from Primary School to 6th Form, is the countdown. "Right I'd like everyone quiet and facing this way in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1." It usually works.

Nevertheless, I was somewhat sceptical when Kate started trying this with Rosie. After all she's only two and, if I get mixed results with my Year 9 class, I was doubtful it would work. But work it does - in Spanish as well as English - most of the time. "Yo voy a contar desde 5 a 0, y cuando estoy a 0 voy a cambiar tu panal" usually results in a truculent Rosie lying on the changing mat of her own volition by the time I get to 1.

I suspect, however, that the shoe is about to be on the other foot. Just this week Rosie has started saying, parrot fashion, "I'm going to count from 5 to 0, and when I get to five I'm coming to get you. 5,4,3,2,1,0. I'm coming to get you." It's very cute, but I reckon it won't be long before she starts saying to us: "Daddy, I'm going to count from 5 to 0, and I when I get to 0 you're going to give me more cake..."

Our Little Princess? by Theo

The other day somebody commented on our blog that we shouldn't think too hard about parenting and just let things happen naturally. We kind of agreed and disagreed at the same time: parenting is hugely important and we think it is worth thinking about how you go about being a parent. But, in case we come across as manic 'must-stick-to-a-prescriptive-parenting-style' dictators, here's a little example of how our darling daughter constantly derails us....

Neither Kate nor I are big fans of Princesses. There are lots of reasons for this. While neither of us have exactly the same views, collectively we're not fond of:

• the association of girls (and boys) with certain colours and clothing styles which the whole Princess syndrome helps disseminate and reinforce;
• the Princesses in traditional fairytales are all ridiculously meek and mild characters, constantly waiting to be rescued, whose stories always end when they get married (as if a woman ceased to be of interest on becoming a wife). We'd rather a daughter who was more self-reliant and independent thanks very much*;
• the idea of owing your status in society to your parents and/or husband, rather than your own merits, isn't really the message we'd like our little girl to grow up with.
  

So we'd resolved not to get Rosie books and clothes that gave out the idea that little girls should be pretty, quiet, well dressed and delicate in order to be valued. Frankly I'd be happy if Rosie never saw a Disney film in her life, but that's practically impossible. But at least we thought we'd be able to put it off until Rosie had the language skills for us to discuss the ideas with her.

Then a very kind friend of ours donated some of her daughter's old books to us. The collection include three books from Tony Ross's 'The Little Princess' series. Despite our initial intention to take them along to the charity shop they swiftly became firm favourites with Rosie.

We relented. And despite us still not being fans of Princess books, there's a fourth 'The Little Princess' book wrapped up and waiting for Rosie under our Christmas Tree.

*Sure the Paper-bag Princess is a good example of a self-reliant Princess. But I think the story would be even better if she wasn't a Princess at all.

What am I learning, what am I teaching...? By Kate

When you make a cock up, ask yourself, "What did I learn from that?"

Somebody far wiser than I suggests this as a more constructive way to deal with own-goals than guilt-ridden self-flagellation. It makes a lot of sense. It's a way of accepting that we all make mistakes and those mistakes can actually be useful opportunities to grow as a human being.

As first time parents, we make a lot of mistakes. After all, it's a huge, new, intricate area of human relationships we're navigating. No one gets it right first time. Which is bad luck for Rosie. A friend of mine put it this way: "Your first child is the practice one."

It's just as well Rosie doesn't require us to be perfect. Good enough will do fine for her, luckily. Although I expect we'll come in for a bit of a hammering for certain things she reckons we did or didn't do when she hits her teenage years and early adulthood. That seems to be par for the course.

So we're learning all the time. And so is Rosie. How to use and understand her body, how to talk, how to socialise with other people, how she fits in with the world....and that's before she starts on things like reading, writing, arithmetic, sport, music etc. etc. The sobering thought is that as her parents, we are Rosie's Number One teachers. She learns the nuances of handling human relationships by observing and mimicking Theo and I primarily. There's nothing like that knowledge for putting your own behaviour in the spotlight.

Every day I find I'm asking myself, "What are we teaching Rosie in this situation?" For example, if Rosie refuses to touch the food we have given her and instead insists on something different, our acquiescence to that request would teach her that she doesn't need to make an effort with unfamiliar or less-favoured foods as she can rely on getting an alternative.

If Rosie throws a wobbler about something we regard as important (having her teeth brushed, for example) if we were to give up on what we were doing, we would be teaching Rosie that tantrums are a good tool for getting what she wants (or stopping something she doesn't). A recipe for more tantrums, in other words.

That doesn't mean we should ride roughshod over all Rosie's personal preferences. She might be tiny, but she's still a human being and deserves to have her opinion heard. So we try and offer her choices - okay, the choices are limited to outcomes we find acceptable, but at least she's being offered some toddler-sized autonomy. "Rosie climb in the buggy, or Mummy put you in the buggy?" is one we often have just before she settles into her pushchair for her lunchtime nap. (The answer is almost always, "Rosie do it!")

And one more piece of sage parenting advice I'm coming to fully appreciate: "Pick your battles." Some things just aren't worth a fight. Whether or not Rosie wears her slippers indoors really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. If she doesn't, her feet may be a bit colder than otherwise, but it's no big deal. On the other hand, if she doesn't allow us to help her clean her teeth, there's a very real risk of tooth decay, so that one is non-negotiable.

Navigating life with a feisty toddler is a huge learning experience, that's for sure. For all of us.

Teaching as Parenting - by Theo

On the Bristol PGCE course many demands are made of us as trainee English teachers. We have to have a wide-ranging knowledge and understanding of the literary canon (and alternative canons). Our knowledge of English grammar and morphology must be sufficiently strong to teach English Language A level. We may be called upon to teach Media Studies and Drama classes, and so must be well grounded in both the theory and practice of those subjects. We need to keep up to date with the latest strategies, guidelines and statutory requirements issued by the Government, LEAs and exam boards. On top of all this, we have to understand how children learn to speak, read and write from a baby's earliest days through to adulthood. It's this last aspect that, as a parent to 21 month-old Rosie, I find most fascinating.

Most parents teach their children to speak more or less unconsciously: they talk to their child, and the child learns. Kate and I have of course made the conscious decision to teach Rosie to speak Spanish - neither of us are native speakers yet I speak to her in Spanish and we try to expose her to the language through books and a playgroup. So, having researched bilingualism, we were already slightly more aware of the processes by which children acquire language, but we are even more so now. I feel that as a parent I've got a huge advantage over my peers as I can see, day by day, the theory being put into practice as Rosie's vocabulary and syntax expands. As a parent it's amazing understanding (more or less) what is going on, and it'll be even more amazing once she starts to read (the alphabet: she already 'reads' images), to be able to understand how she is doing it and why she makes the mistakes she will inevitably make.

However, in other ways being a student teacher and also a parent are not so great. This week my lesson planning and marking workload suddenly exploded, so this weekend has been mostly spent in front of the computer writing lesson plans. Indeed I haven't left the house since I got back at 5pm on Friday. Poor Rosie has been at a loss as to why Daddy hasn't been able to take her to the park, as he usually does at weekends, or why he hasn't been keen to let her bang the keys on the laptop. For the first time on the PGCE (and sadly I suspect not the last) I've felt that being a teacher and a parent don't mix, as trying to do both simultaneously simply meant I did neither as well as I would like.

On the last point though I may well be wrong. One of the many essays (Teaching as assisted performance) I've read for my PGCE assignments concludes that in order to be better teachers, we must be more like parents. The authors (Tharp & Gallimore) make the point that the vast majority of parents are extremely successful teachers, instructing their children, usually unconsciously, in language, social skills, spatial awareness, movement and many other things. While acknowledging that behaving like a parent is rarely, if ever, possible within an educational system that crams 30 students into a single classroom, there is definitely something to be said for this approach.

So perhaps I should walk into my new Year 10 class on Wednesday wielding a couple of snooker balls stuffed inside a sock yelling "Who's your daddy now!?"

Maybe not.

the lies we tell our children - by Theo

As the Spanish author Elvira Lindo says in the book I've just finished reading: "Todos los hijos mentimos, pero todos los padres queremos que los hijos nos cuenten la verdad." We all lie to our children, but all parents want their children to tell us the truth.
We're just the same, telling deliberate lies to our daughter; we're hardly setting a good example.

For instance, Rosie really enjoys her bath but hates having her hair washed, which happens every three days. So if I want Rosie to get out of the bath on the other nights because ice is forming on the surface and her fingers resemble raisins, all I have to say is "Vale, voy a limpiar tu pelo ahora" ("Right, I'm going to wash your hair now") and she immediately stands up with arms outstretched crying "Out! Fuera!"

That's quite a simple one, but our deceptions get even more complex. We're weaning her off her last breastfeed, the one before bed, so it's easier if I'm the one to put her down to sleep. Now, at first this resulted in Rosie screaming for Mama at length, so we hatched a plan. About 10 minutes before Rosie's cot-time, we make a big show of saying "adios" to Kate, waving to her from the top of the stairs as Kate goes out the front door. After a small protest Rosie realises that there's no point in screaming for Mama, as Mama has left the building and the rest is relatively straightforward. Except Mama hasn't really left, she's just come in through the back garden gate and slipped into the kitchen.

Still, it's all good practice for when we have to swiftly replace a deceased hamster with a near-duplicate.

Up, Up And Away By Kate

First Rosie did the important things, like learn to land safely on her nappy-padded bottom when falling backwards; judge the grabbing distance of passing furniture or parents for emergency handholds; and sprint up and down our corridor on tip-toes while pushing her trolley.

Then came gap-crossing - a step unaided from one improvised safety-rail to the next. Followed by free-standing - preferably while sorting through Mummy or Daddy's underwear drawers.

Next Rosie started launching herself forward for a couple of steps before dropping to the more familiar position of all-fours. Then, a couple of days ago, she put one foot in front of the other, let go of the dining chair and just kept going.

It's no wonder it's taken Rosie three months to get herself from cruising (walking while supporting herself with the walls and furniture) to walking unaided. She's nothing if not cautious and methodical when approaching a new physical challenge. Something she definitely doesn't get from her father who is, by his own admission, as sure-footed as a two-legged mountain goat and apt to forget to look before he leaps.

But I digress.

As a parent, it is an extraordinary thing to see the once-helpless creature, who couldn't even hold up her own head fifteen months ago, now tottering cheerfully along on two legs.

Rosie herself seems fairly unfazed by her new ability. As far as she's concerned, it's simply a more practical way of getting from A to B while holding a toy in each hand.

Wave Mum's knickers in the air like you just don't care By Kate

At the tender age of fourteen months, Rosie has already started taking an interest in clothes. Not in the aesthetic sense, but more as an interesting practical conundrum.

She's definitely forming the right ideas about her own clothes and which part of the body they generally belong to. Shoes are pulled meaningfully against her feet (although more commonly they are pulled off her feet at about the time Mum is ready to take her on a shopping trip or some other excursion); tights and leggings are wrapped haphazardly around her legs and Rosie's arms and head are enthusiastically, if somewhat vaguely inserted into vests and bodies.

Mummy's clothes, however, present an altogether different challenge. Anything with tie chords, for example, are fair game for some serious suction with attendant salivary application. As much as I adore my daughter, I must confess that doing up tie-front cardigans after Rosie's slobbery attentions isn't my idea of a fun parenting moment.

But when she's not practising her architecture or taking in Madrid's high culture, Rosie's other favourite pastime at the moment is to wear my knickers - freshly laundered, I hasten to add - after raiding my conveniently low-down lingerie drawer.

Typically, Rosie doesn't take the orthodox approach when it comes to donning Mummy's bloomers. Nope. Rather than using them as a modesty garment for her nether regions, Rosie much prefers to wear them over her head, as demonstrated below.I don't think fashion is going to be Rosie's strong point, somehow. Or at least, I hope not. Using cast-off knickers as accessories could be a great, if rather quirky money-saving approach to dressing up. Madonna in her Desperately Seeking Susan phase would probably have approved.

The Late Pass By Kate

The time: 20.15. The place: Madrid. The situation: I was on my way to a gig. I was going on A Night Out. This deserves capital letters because it was the first time I had ventured into the realm of night time entertainment beyond my own front door since Rosie was born more than fourteen months ago.

It wasn't the first opportunity I'd had, but it was the first I had taken up. Because of Rosie's unpredictable sleep patterns and her previous resistance to resettling without a breastfeed, I had always been too reluctant to be out of reach. Also, if I'm honest, there was probably an element of PFB (Precious First Born) there. I think most parents become more blase about leaving their offspring in the care of someone else as they produce more children. But I'm still inexperienced in these matters. Oh, and did I mention generally feeling too knackered to go on nights out?

But Rosie sleeps through more than she doesn't nowadays and Theo has become more adept at resettling her if she wakes up and I've become less neurotic about letting him, so time to step over the threshold and launch myself into the grown-up world of night-time leisure activities.
Except in Spain, it isn't a grown-up world - not until after midnight, anyway. As I walked to catch the Metro I observed numerous wide-awake babies and toddlers out socialising with their parents. By this time, Rosie had been asleep for nearly an hour. Brits like to get their children to bed early, Latinos don't worry about that so much. Their children either sleep later in the morning, sleep more during the day or learn to live with less sleep.

So I watched Anika perform their set at La Casa Encendida, beer in one hand, camera in the other. My friend Rasha was doing some session work with Anika and had kindly added me to the guest list. She had also added Theo, but he had elected to remain at home in charge of Rosie so I could have the late pass.I enjoyed the gig, but being reunited with Rasha was even better. She was an appreciative consumer of some of Madrid's main sights as we walked through Sol and Plaza Mayor on our way to the legendary Chocolateria San Gines, where we continued the business of catching up with each other's news over cups of thick chocolate accompanied by a pile of churros.

By Madrid standards, the evening was over very early. Rasha had had a late night followed by an early start so was more than happy to get some sleep and my body clock is used to being out for the count by eleven, so we were home and tucked up into our respective beds before 01.00.

Many Madrilenos would have only just been heading out the door to meet their friends at that point, but I'm a Brit and a mother of an intermittently-sleeping one year-old so feel I can claim light weightedness with no attendant sense of shame.

It was fun, though.

Back to the barricades... By Kate

I married a feminist. Or a pro-feminist, if you will. Theo nailed his colours to the mast good and proper when he said he would be happier if I kept my surname, rather than adopt his and then exploded at the registrar when she asked, for the purposes of the marriage licence, what our fathers' professions were.

My own feminism had been rather in abeyance in the years since I flirted with radicalism while at university. Sure, I knew the pay gap between equivalent male and female jobs still existed, that motherhood had a tendency to impoverish those who gave up a paying job to care for their children and I would react with fury to any report I came across relating to rape.

But feminism wasn't something I thought about all that much, if I'm honest, until I married Theo. And even then it was usually him who raised the topic.

All that has now changed as I watch my baby changing into a little girl. The realisation that my daughter will have to live in a society where true equality between the sexes is still submerged in depressingly antediluvian attitudes, awash with warped female body shapes and swilling with pornography has made me sit up straight again. I don't want this for her.

I don't want my daughter to be subjected to moronic shouts of "get yer tits out" as she strolls down the street. I don't want my daughter to become one of the 3.4 million and rising (according to a recent government report) women and girls in the UK to be a victim of rape. I don't want my daughter to grow up with the idea that skinny waists and unnaturally inflated bosoms add up to an aspirational silhouette. I don't want my daughter to be paid less than a man doing the same job as her.

I want my daughter to confidently hold her head up high, unafraid to take on the world. I want her body to be the way she wants it to be and no one else. I want her to be proud of who she is and never let anyone else do her down.

Women may have more options than they had forty years ago, but there's still a way to go. And if I can, I'll do my little bit to try and get us there. Because Rosie - and all the other girls - deserve better.

Sleeping In Motion By Kate

Followers of this blog may recall our daughter's reluctance to sleep during the daytime unless she is in motion in some way. Successful strategies have included being walked in the sling, chauffeured in the car and being pushed in the buggy. Apart from the middle option (which we rarely use), it's all good exercise for Mummy and Daddy, but it can be a bit tiring. Not to mention inconvenient if we want to get something done or really bloody inconvenient if the weather is being unhelpful.

I had started to fantasise about an invention which could be attached to the buggy and simulate the motion of us pushing it around the streets of Madrid. OK, perhaps without the dogs barking, the over-loud motorbikes and the passing tantrumming toddlers.

I had even gone as far as discussing the idea with Theo's dad, a highly practical man and an engineer by trade, he immediately took a keen interest in the idea of developing a prototype.

Then some kindly person pointed out that such an invention already existed, nay, had even featured on the popular TV show Dragons' Den and furthermore, was available via an Ebay seller for the discounted price of £35.

I didn't hesitate. My Paypal account was duly raided and a Baby Dream Machine (for such is its name) was put in the post.

We call it the Trusty Buggy Trundler and it works a treat, as you can see from the clip below (although beware motion sickness). Rosie nods off within about ten minutes of the thing being started up and generally stays asleep until we turn it off again. Genius!

Safety Skills By Kate

You can't start 'em too young when it comes to encouraging your offspring to pick up skills that will help keep them safe. Although safety is an alien concept to most small children - until they're at least school age, the kamikaze tendency is quite pronounced - a few habits promoting self-preservation are always helpful, if only to lessen the rate of grey hairs sprouting on parents' heads.

Granted, Stop, Look, Listen; Don't Eat Random Wild Mushrooms and Stranger Danger are a little way off yet, but I felt it was at least worth teaching Rosie The Perfect Dismount, even at her tender age of thirteen months old.

I was inspired by a friend who said she's never bothered with stairgates because she taught her babies how to go down stairs backwards from the moment they could crawl.

Although our flat doesn't have any stairs, it does have a selection of beds and settees that Rosie has been known to frolic on at various times. So after a few unfortunate nose-diving incidents, Theo and I made a concerted effort to teach Rosie the useful backwards dismount technique.

As you can see from the clip below, I think she's got it.

Next, how to safely re-wire a plug.

Hothousing By Kate

You can't start too early when it comes to grooming your child to be a future genius. Playing Mozart to the developing foetus in utero is a good first step, apparently. Then you can dive into the Baby Einstein series and supposedly fire up their right-brain neurons with a carefully selected series of sounds and images. You can encourage your child to play with educational toys and do things like start reading to them from an early age, even if they can't quite understand why you keep preventing them from eating the book.

And if you're really serious, you can start their musical education virtually from the moment they can sit up unaided. Percussion comes naturally to most infants, but your obvious aim is to progress them onto the violin or some other classical instrument just as soon as humanly possible.

In her book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother Amy Chua details her approach to hothousing her daughters as musicians with harrowing tales of all-night enforced practice sessions while the reluctant child was virtually tied to the piano stool, crying in protest and and ready to tear up the musical score she was supposed to be learning. It's quite an eye-opener, with namby-pamby notions of the child's natural interests and personal choices having nothing to do with the often painful process towards virtuosity.

With this in mind, Theo and I have bought a glockenspiel for Rosie's first birthday and we continually set it in front of her and encourage her to do some practice. Simple scales and arpeggios to start with, but obviously two handed syncopated rhythms are firmly in our sights. Sometimes we even shut the door of the room while Rosie does her music practice to stop her getting distracted by unnecessary things like her Bunny Boing Boing or favourite floating duck.

As you can see below, our firm approach to Rosie's budding musical talent is already paying off. Next stop, the Paris Conservatoire.

Running Before She Can Walk By Kate

Garish plastic toys that bleep, parp, bark, twitter, sing songs, challenge you to card games and demand a cup of tea while lighting up like a demented fruit machine, are every parent's nightmare. There's nothing so guaranteed to set your teeth on edge and start a migraine than the mechanical voice in one of these toys piping up for the hundredth time that day and shrilly inviting anyone within earshot to play, before launching into some trite nursery rhyme with relentless mechanical cheer.

As it happens, Rosie is even more dubious about such toys than we are. She tends to regard their unnerving noises and flashing lights with deep suspicion and will give them a wide berth if set down anywhere near her with the power on.

So rather pleasingly for us terribly-middle-class-don't-you-know parents, she's far more inclined to enjoy simpler more "traditional" toys like stacking cups and cube nests or soft versions of skittles and hoopla.

In fact, our Christmas present to her wasn't a shop-bought toy at all. It was a collection of odds and ends we found around the house, including jar lids, plastic tubs, tins, pegs and spoons. She plays with them all the time and endlessly discovers new ways of clashing them together, putting them inside each other or rolling and spinning them on the floor. This type of idea has a fancy name: it is called heuristic play and is a cracking scheme if you're a bit of a cheapskate.

The latest classic toy to get the Rosie seal of approval is the push-along truck she got for her birthday. Now she's getting more confident at standing up, the ability to not only walk but jog up and down our corridor is irresistible and she's very proud of herself indeed. So much so, she keeps stopping and giving herself a round of applause, then looking expectantly at us in the hope we'll follow suit. Which we dutifully do, of course.

Here she is in action.

The curse of maternal insomnia By Kate

You're used to your baby waking you up at various times in the night. It's not exactly fun, but it's one of those aspects of parenthood that most people have to live with at some point or another. The real bummer is when your baby is sleeping like a small log and you're wide awake, wishing someone could rock you back to sleep, offer you a pacifier or stroke your head until you manage to get settled again.

Yep, maternal insomnia sucks. It's definitely worse than being kept awake by a fractious child. It's also surprisingly common, especially when you consider how exhausted and sleep-deprived many mothers of small children are.

Ironically, the insomnia usually hits hardest when the baby is sleeping better. You wake up for no particular reason, then something inside you tells you there's no point in sliding back into unconsciousness because you're bound to be woken by your offspring in a minute. Then another minute passes. Then an hour. Then another hour. And so it goes on.

Inevitably, just as you are on the point of dropping off again, that's the cue for the baby to start wailing. It's as if they know.

Well, I've had enough of it. The maternal insomnia, that is. So I'm doing something about it.

I tried a short course of hypnotherapy and although that helped a bit, it didn't solve the problem.

So now I'm following a self-help book which uses Cognitive Behavioural Therapy to get the insomnia put to bed. I'm in Week Four and after keeping a sleep diary; working on correcting my thinking about sleeplessness; and practicing relaxation techniques, I'm now at the tough part.

For this bit, you have to decide on a daily getting up time, work out what your average amount of sleep was over the last ten days, then go to bed no earlier than that number of hours prior to the morning alarm call. Does that make sense? In my case, I've been getting just over five and three-quarters of an hour of sleep per night, so subtracting that from 07.15, you get 01.30.

Oh, and if you wake in the night, or can't get to sleep when you first lie down, you have to get up again after fifteen minutes of lying awake in bed. You can only go back to bed when you are feeling genuinely sleepy again.

For someone who's fallen asleep no later than 22.00 for the best part of a year, that's a bit scary. But it kind of makes sense. Instead of lying unprofitably doing nothing except feeling narked about being awake, I might as well do something vaguely productive. Like write a blog, for example.

One point to make is I have to make allowances for Rosie. On average, she's awake for just over an hour a night. She also tends to wake earlier than my preferred getting up time - often between 06.00 and 06.30. So I've factored both those things into my calculations, leaving me with a going-to-bed time of 23.15.

Apparently, if after a week you score a 90 per cent snooze rate for your designated kip window (not the official term), you can then lengthen the in bed time by 15 mins and see how you do for another week. Etc.

The aim is to get you to "sleep through". Well, I'm all for that. I'm just aware that the chances of nighttime derailment by Rosie are very high, given that she's never "slept through" in her life thus far.

But if I can at least maximise my sleep around Rosie's nocturnal habits, that at least would be progress for me. As for Rosie's sleep, I'm hardening my resolve to do something radical to get her "sleeping through" the night as well. Just not yet.

The Politics of Parenting By Kate

When it comes to parenting, I regard myself as a pick'n'mix progressive. I like the label mainly because it alliterates, but also because it does sum up my approach in a pithy sort of way.

Books, as I mentioned in my previous post, are well worth consulting when planning one's parenting campaign. But as soon as you start choosing your titles and taking their advice to heart, you are in effect making a political decision.

Parenting methodologies are as polarised as any political situation you care to mention. And you nail your colours to the mast even in pregnancy.

Sheila Kitzinger and Janet Balaskas advocate a move away from over-medicalised labouring and towards drug and intervention-free births carried out in any position other than the classic lying prone. Possibly a headstand isn't deemed suitable either.

Once the baby is born, you have the routiners in one corner: Gina Ford and Tracey Hogg et al. Then you have the pro-co-sleeping/baby-wearing/breastfeeding/let the baby decide etc. gang in the other (Dr William Sears, Deborah Wisdom, Kate Evans etc.).

For sleep problems, there are the control crying advocates (Marc Weissbluth, Richard Ferber) and opposite them, Elizabeth Pantley, who would probably rather eat her own arm than leave a baby to cry.

Once the child reaches toddlerdom and above, you have the naughty step/reward chart type method espoused by Supernanny (Jo Frost); or you have the "Don't order your kids about, consider their feelings" approaches favoured by Lawrence J Cohen, Adele Faber & Elaine Mazlich; there's the no punishments or praise philosophy as outlined by Alfie Kohn; or Dr Christopher Green's attention/distraction/time-out techniques.

It's all rather confusing and has the potential to make the already bewildered and out-of-their-depth new parent flounder even further. Not to mention the extra guilt of failing to do what the books suggest to add to the existing load of guilt carried by virtually any mother you care to talk to.

My advice on making a sensible selection? Read the reviews online (or wherever), find out what other people thought of the books and then decide which is likely to suit your own personal style best. Read with an open mind, use the bits you think will do the job and disregard the rest.

For what it's worth, here are the books I've liked best so far:

Janet Balaskas: New Active Birth
-OK, I had a C-section, but the yoga exercises were really worth doing and I felt very positive as my due date approached thanks to her book.
Naomi Stadlen: What Mothers Do (Especially When It Looks Like Nothing)
-THE essential book for preparing yourself emotionally for motherhood (and indeed fatherhood. Theo thinks it should be given out to all expectant couples by the NHS.)
Robin Barker: Baby Love
-Non-prescriptive, down-to-earth and often wryly humorous guide to a baby's first year.
Elizabeth Pantley: The No Cry Sleep Solution
-Lots of good ideas on helping improve baby sleep difficulties.
Dr Christopher Green: Toddler Taming
-Funny and reassuring advice on dealing with the pecadilloes of the 1-4 age-group.
Lawrence J Cohen: Playful Parenting
-Fun ways to connect emotionally with your offspring and light-heartedly smooth the rough-edges of your relationship.
Adele Faber & Elaine Mazlich: How To Talk So Your Kids Will Listen
-Fostering heartfelt and effective communication with your sometimes reluctant progeny.

It's still early days - after all, Rosie's only just turned one - but pick'n'mix progressive is the way I want to go.

RTFM By Kate

"They don't come with instructions," is a favourite comment, usually given by a well-meaning friend or relative at some point soon after the birth of a first baby.

In fact, that's not quite true. Babies may not have a label with their washing instructions dangling from their navel when they exit the womb, but there are loads of step-by-step manuals available on how to bring up babies and children. Thankfully.

There's a school of thought that goes, "Put away the books and listen to your instincts," but when it comes to parenting, I don't subscribe to that one. I'm naturally a reader anyway and I've always liked having some kind of "How To..." book related to my most passionate interests.

For example, when I started writing songs, I began by listening to my instincts and taking what I had absorbed from the music surrounding me in order to construct my lyrics and melodies. My early efforts weren't too bad, but they weren't that good either. Once I read a few books about songwriting however, the improvement was immediate. A song may be born in a soup of mood, inspiration and half-remembered bits and bobs of other songs, but it takes a piece of proper know-how to craft it. To take an embryonic idea and shape it into something ready for the world outside.

And it's the same with children. We think we instinctively know how to parent, but where do we get those instincts? Parental love may be instinctive, but the nuts and bolts of bringing up a child aren't. Not even the keeping warm/safe/well-fed etc. etc. part. Plenty of social workers and health professionals will tell you that.

As for things like dealing with tantrums; encouraging socially acceptable behaviour; fostering empathy and a myriad of other abstract concepts, instinct has little to do with it in my view. Our "instincts" in that regard are actually a hotch-potch of learned behaviours from our own parents; our observations of other parents; and what comes flying past us in the cultural ether.

So when it comes to sussing out some effective parenting techniques, rather than muddling through in a hit or miss fashion, I'm happy to take some tips from people who profess to know their stuff.

It's easy enough - for most people - to grow a child. But if you ask me, true parentcraft has a lot more thought behind it. And if a book on the subject can stop me spending stressful hours trying to reinvent the wheel, that's fine by me.

Those Hollywood moments.... By Kate

Rosie gazed up at me and my heart flip-flopped inside my chest as she opened her mouth and uttered her first word: "Mama."

And then I woke up.

Theo commented a couple of weeks ago that he'd imagined more "Eureka!" moments as a parent - first smile, first time rolling, first time crawling, first words etc. etc. - but they haven't happened. And he's right.

Rosie's firsts simply haven't been definitive. Neither of us can remember when she first smiled properly because it was a gradual process until one day we realised the rictus she had been sporting really was a smile. I had to take an executive decision on whether the hands and knees thing she was doing really counted as crawling and it took a further three days before it was undeniable that she really had got the idea.

As for first words, well, they've happened. We think.

Rosie says "Mama" a great deal, or "Mum" or "Umma" - and often in such a way that it seems to be addressed to me. I always answer "Yes, Darling?" anyway. Just in case.

We've also had "Dada", which seems to be uttered more when Theo's around. And I'm pretty sure she's saying "Yes" quite a lot. "Dat" is another one she comes out with a fair amount and my theory is that she means "that". Or something.

The one moment Theo and I CAN recall was the first time Rosie laughed. She was about five months old. We were all in our bedroom and Theo was playing with her, making silly noises and faces. Suddenly Rosie made a sound we had never heard from her before and our mouths fell open. It was most definitely and indubitably a chuckle.

I'm sure we'll get more and more meaningful chatter out of Rosie as she continues to develop her vocal abilities. But in the meantime, her laughter will more than tide us over.

The lengths we are prepared to go.... By Kate

As a parent, sooner or later you realise that you would take a bullet for your child, should it ever (god forbid) become necessary. In the thankful absence of such dramatic events, there are other smaller yet no less significant acts of self-sacrifice that happen on a daily basis.

Today, Theo and I carried Rosie in her buggy down four storeys' worth of stairs and up again (cursed lift on the blink...) so she could have her essential nap. Theo elected to do the buggy walk, so he got himself appropriately dressed for the persistent rain.
I think it's fair to say that whatever remained of his dignity after months spent wearing a flowery backpack has now entirely disappeared.

The things we do for our beloved daughter.

Ouch! By Kate

Theo and I are basically peaceable types. Well, we both rabbit on a fair bit and have a tendency to speak in loud voices, but it would take a lot for either of us to lash out in anger. We're Pen Mightier Than The Sword people on the whole.

So where has our daughter's violent streak come from?

I've sported myriad red marks from Rosie's pinching fingers, had blood drawn by her scratching nails and a ribbon of bruises decorating my shoulders from her over-zealous rooting.

As evidenced in the clip below, all hair is fair game.


But what's most disturbing is the casual nature of Rosie's savagery. I say "ow" and she thinks it's a huge joke. She just laughs and pokes a finger in my eye.

Wearing Rosie in the sling has become an especially hazardous business. Although, the comedy value of observing her expertise at tweaking Theo's chest hairs can't be understated. Who said schadenfreude was dead?