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!
Showing posts with label sling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sling. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Thursday, 18 November 2010
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?
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?
Friday, 30 July 2010
WOMAD UK - with baby By Kate
OK, we cheated a bit. For the first time in the history of our attendance at WOMAD we didn't camp. But when you've got a six month-old baby and a handy guest room at parents/in-laws fifteen minutes drive away, it was a no-brainer. Plus I'm not a huge fan of camping in any case. It's kind of fun up to a point, but when you're a light sleeper who invariably needs to get up for a pee (or three) in the night, you can basically rule out much in the way of useful snoozery. Not that I get huge amounts of that at the moment anyway, but why make it worse?Accordingly we rolled up in Delilah the Delica early on Friday afternoon armed with sling, baby ear defenders, a picnic rug and a hopeful weather outlook. It was clear from the outset that Rosie was intrigued - no, make that fascinated - by the sights and sounds of the festival. As we walked onto the site her head bobbed from side to side, eyes bright with interest as she took it all in from her comfy position tied to Daddy's chest.
Theo, meanwhile was doing his best impression of a pack horse, also wearing a backpack with various items (rug, changing mat, umbrella) hanging off it. I carried my flower pattern backpack and felt a teeny bit guilty about it. But only a teeny bit.
Duly wristbanded and clutching a festival programme, we headed for the Big Red Tent, Ipercussonici and the first potential obstacle to everyone's enjoyment. Would Rosie consent to wear her ear defenders so we could enjoy the raised decibel levels without having to clamp hands over our offspring's shell-likes to prevent possible hearing damage? The answer, thankfully and slightly surprisingly, was a resounding Yes. In fact, so successful were the defenders, that Rosie proceeded to feed then sleep quite happily while wearing them during the loud desert grooves provided by Toumast at the Open Air Stage.
She napped in the first of several improvised nests we made for her on our rug (with the help of a colourful, highly sequinned parasol we'd purchased from one of the festival stalls) while we indulged in a half of lager and a bit of hip gyrating to Toumast. When Rosie woke up, she charmed everyone around us with huge grins as we danced with her (still in the ear-defenders) and generally Got Down. One woman even came and took our photograph, so enchanted was she by our beaming baby daughter. It was the best possible start to the weekend.The rest of the day was punctuated by more shows (most notable of which was that provided by the French lounge-core outfit Nouvelle Vague and their inspired renditions of various punk and New Wave classics) and a meet-up with Theo's sis, Hermione and spouse Richard and our mates Stu and Sam. In the end we stayed until almost nine o'clock (*thrills*), so comfortable did Rosie appear to be with her role as Official Festival Babe. We caught a bit of Chumbawamba, but were too far from the stage to really hear much, so took our leave.
On Saturday we arrived at the festival slightly better prepared than the previous day - we bought a few cans of lager and cider. We also found a superb spot at the edge of the Open Air Stage which gave us line-of-sight and sound with both that stage and the neighbouring Siam Tent. As the two alternated their shows, it meant we could remain comfortably in position and simply re-angle ourselves to take in one or the other. Probably the highlight of the day performance-wise was a German outfit called LaBrassBanda - yes, a brass band. They were fantastic. 
Rosie's favourite (if her smiles were anything to go by) was Angelique Kidjo and Orchestre National de Barbes, seen by us in Madrid last year, were as endearingly entertaining as we remembered them. It was also good to see locals Phantom Limb in action with Yolanda in fine voice as they ran through their country-tinged set. We caught Imogen Heap's first couple of numbers, but Rosie wasn't especially grabbed and was clearly getting tired by that point, so we made a graceful exit.
On Sunday we had it down to a fine art and managed to catch Sounds of West Africa (did what it said on the tin - very well, too); the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars (infectious uptempo music, totally belying the misery behind their formation); Mayra Andrade (sultry Samba-style songs - perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon), Orchestre Poly Rhythmo de Cotonou (good, lively stuff) and the legend that is Rolf Harris.
He was a lot of fun, a consummate performer. Rosie, however, was unimpressed, preferring to sit in the sling firmly clamped to my right breast and doze throughout his set. The rest of us enjoyed it though. The Sarod player Soumik Datta was the last show we watched, hanging out agreeably with Patrick in the Arboretum as the expertly plucked strings sent out their rhythms and melodies from the Radio 3 stage. We ate a healthy festival meal of pie and mash followed by chocolate brownie, then reluctantly took our leave.
We came away two shirts (Theo) and one parasol (me) richer, several pounds poorer, amazingly clean (ah, the bliss of not camping...) and with a baby who, if this was anything to go by, is shaping up as a committed festival enthusiast, just like her parents. As long as it isn't Rolf Harris.
Theo, meanwhile was doing his best impression of a pack horse, also wearing a backpack with various items (rug, changing mat, umbrella) hanging off it. I carried my flower pattern backpack and felt a teeny bit guilty about it. But only a teeny bit.Duly wristbanded and clutching a festival programme, we headed for the Big Red Tent, Ipercussonici and the first potential obstacle to everyone's enjoyment. Would Rosie consent to wear her ear defenders so we could enjoy the raised decibel levels without having to clamp hands over our offspring's shell-likes to prevent possible hearing damage? The answer, thankfully and slightly surprisingly, was a resounding Yes. In fact, so successful were the defenders, that Rosie proceeded to feed then sleep quite happily while wearing them during the loud desert grooves provided by Toumast at the Open Air Stage.
She napped in the first of several improvised nests we made for her on our rug (with the help of a colourful, highly sequinned parasol we'd purchased from one of the festival stalls) while we indulged in a half of lager and a bit of hip gyrating to Toumast. When Rosie woke up, she charmed everyone around us with huge grins as we danced with her (still in the ear-defenders) and generally Got Down. One woman even came and took our photograph, so enchanted was she by our beaming baby daughter. It was the best possible start to the weekend.The rest of the day was punctuated by more shows (most notable of which was that provided by the French lounge-core outfit Nouvelle Vague and their inspired renditions of various punk and New Wave classics) and a meet-up with Theo's sis, Hermione and spouse Richard and our mates Stu and Sam. In the end we stayed until almost nine o'clock (*thrills*), so comfortable did Rosie appear to be with her role as Official Festival Babe. We caught a bit of Chumbawamba, but were too far from the stage to really hear much, so took our leave.
On Saturday we arrived at the festival slightly better prepared than the previous day - we bought a few cans of lager and cider. We also found a superb spot at the edge of the Open Air Stage which gave us line-of-sight and sound with both that stage and the neighbouring Siam Tent. As the two alternated their shows, it meant we could remain comfortably in position and simply re-angle ourselves to take in one or the other. Probably the highlight of the day performance-wise was a German outfit called LaBrassBanda - yes, a brass band. They were fantastic. 
Rosie's favourite (if her smiles were anything to go by) was Angelique Kidjo and Orchestre National de Barbes, seen by us in Madrid last year, were as endearingly entertaining as we remembered them. It was also good to see locals Phantom Limb in action with Yolanda in fine voice as they ran through their country-tinged set. We caught Imogen Heap's first couple of numbers, but Rosie wasn't especially grabbed and was clearly getting tired by that point, so we made a graceful exit.On Sunday we had it down to a fine art and managed to catch Sounds of West Africa (did what it said on the tin - very well, too); the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars (infectious uptempo music, totally belying the misery behind their formation); Mayra Andrade (sultry Samba-style songs - perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon), Orchestre Poly Rhythmo de Cotonou (good, lively stuff) and the legend that is Rolf Harris.
He was a lot of fun, a consummate performer. Rosie, however, was unimpressed, preferring to sit in the sling firmly clamped to my right breast and doze throughout his set. The rest of us enjoyed it though. The Sarod player Soumik Datta was the last show we watched, hanging out agreeably with Patrick in the Arboretum as the expertly plucked strings sent out their rhythms and melodies from the Radio 3 stage. We ate a healthy festival meal of pie and mash followed by chocolate brownie, then reluctantly took our leave.
We came away two shirts (Theo) and one parasol (me) richer, several pounds poorer, amazingly clean (ah, the bliss of not camping...) and with a baby who, if this was anything to go by, is shaping up as a committed festival enthusiast, just like her parents. As long as it isn't Rolf Harris.
Monday, 10 May 2010
New parents and the First Weekend Away By Kate
It was with a mixture of pleasant anticipation and dread (OK, probably slightly more of the latter) that Theo and I embarked on our expedition to Caceres in Extramadura to take in the sights and sounds of the WOMAD festival. It's been held in the city for the last nineteen years and as well as boasting quaintly picturesque streets and plazas as a perfect way to set off the festival stages, the added attraction is that it is completely free. Theo and I went last year and had a wonderful time watching some fantastic world music being performed in the May sunshine. So we decided to make the journey again this year, but with an obvious alteration to our entourage: we had a baby in tow.
Because of a long-winded problem involving our car insurance which I won't go into now, we elected to take the train from Atocha Station in Madrid to Caceres. Accordingly, we boarded two buses on Friday morning (one at a time) carrying a gigantically stuffed-full rucksack (Theo) a flowery backpack with essentials for the journey (me) and pushing a pram containing our Precious First Born (Theo, mostly).
Stage one went well. We got to Atocha horrendously early and although Rosie remained awake for the journey from our flat, she sustained a cheerful countenance. We killed some time by having a cuppa in a cafe - with a waitress who was so slow fulfilling our modest order (orange juice and a Colacao) we started to fear we might never get our drinks before we had to go.
Getting on the train with our baggage was challenging, but we managed it and after Rosie decided she didn't want to stay in the sling (she tends to protest if whoever wearing the sling isn't in constant motion), we put her in her car seat/pram seat where, following a feed, she obligingly fell asleep (with a little help from a muslin providing some strategic tenting). Rosie slept for well over an hour, awoke and enjoyed looking around the train carriage and watching the passing scenery, then after another snack from Mummy, dozed off again in her seat. We felt cheered - this was proving to be an unmitigated doddle!
Rosie only woke up again when we alighted at Caceres station, but was quite content to ride in her pram to the hotel where, once ensconced in room 608, with a clean nappy and another feed inside her, she took another nap. Our spirits continued to rise. A well-rested, contented baby was nine-tenths of the battle for winning an enjoyable weekend. Anticipation started to win over dread.
Our first hiccup came when we sallied forth to check out the festival under suspiciously brooding skies. Theo decided we should keep Rosie in the pram, despite my disappointment at not being able to be a proper hippy mum and have her in the sling (plus I was dubious about negotiating narrow, deeply cobbled streets and crowds). But after only ten minutes, it started to chuck it down and our unwaterproof pram and lack of rain cover suddenly seemed like a bad idea for baby transport. In the shelter of a doorway, I hastily donned the sling, popped Rosie inside and stuck up a brolly. After ascertaining that the rain and wind (which was gusting pretty strongly and called for some serious jockeying of our bucking umbrellas) had momentarily postponed the WOMAD entertainment programme, we turned tail and retreated back to the hotel to dump the pram in the dry and make a second attempt at our trek into the historical centre of Caceres.
This time we were more successful and actually managed to catch bits and pieces of some of the acts, do a little shopping (purchasing some Indian-style head-wear made by our friend Rosie) and eat some home-baked pizza while Rosie (our offspring, this time) was snugly tied to me in the wrap. Impressively, she proceeded to sleep through an incredibly loud Spanish ska band in Plaza Mayor, only waking to the more modestly-volumed folk ensemble, Spiro in Plaza St Jorge (which also featured a Bristol acquaintance of ours, Jon from The Wraiths).
But all good things come to an end. Rosie started to lose patience with her situation after a few hours so we rushed back to the hotel while she wailed loudly at us to hurry up because clearly she was about to starve to death.We constructed a tent over Rosie's babynest in our room and after a feed and change, she was content to go off to sleep with minimum fuss. By now it had stopped raining, but there was a distinct chill in the air and although Theo and I both offered a babysitting service to the other, none of the acts was sufficiently captivating to tempt either of us away from the warmth of the family bosom (which must be mine, I suppose). We did the rock'n'roll thing and had an early night.
Saturday dawned dank, overcast and, well, crappy. Rosie gave us an unwelcome alarm call in the form of a spectacular poosplosion, which leaked out of her nappy and went....everywhere. After dealing with the excremental crisis, we took it easy in our room, munching on fruit and croissants while reading and babyminding until afternoon came and we decided to venture out again. This we did, to find almost nothing going on, so after scrutinising the market, downing some food and having our photograph taken while chatting to trilingual Eduardo (Spanish, English and Hindi...oh, and he was also busy learning German) with his strapping 9 month-old daughter, Anouk, we went back to the hotel.
Back out again and this time we took part in a dance workshop led by an exuberant Kenyan band - something that Rosie seemed to enjoy (or at least, tolerate) in the sling with Theo. He was also voxpopped by Spanish TV and made a pretty decent fist of it, in my opinion.
After some veggie curry, the rain returned in earnest so we took shelter under a stone archway, gave Rosie a feed and rather glumly surveyed the situation. The downpour, depressingly British in aspect, showed no signs of abating. Although it was only about 7.30pm, we decided we'd had enough. Perhaps without the responsibility of a three month-old baby, we would have shrugged off the inclement weather, downed a few sidras and kept ourselves warm by dancing to some of the more lively bands. But Rosie was showing signs of getting fed up and the charms of the meteorological conditions had long worn thin. Back to the hotel, then.
This time Rosie was more cantankerous about bedtime, despite our attempts to mollify her with a relaxing bath (which she enjoyed) and it took much swaddling and un-swaddling plus several attempts at feeding and pacifying before she finally gave in to sleep. Unfortunately, she then woke up wanting a comfort feed every two hours after that, so by morning I was feeling somewhat jaded, to say the least.
We packed up and took a cab to the station, deciding against walking once we had observed the horizonal rain outside. And guess what? We were three quarters of an hour early, so once again we holed up in the station caff with orange juice and Colacao while Rosie gazed in fascination at the screen pumping out Spanish MTV above her head.
The train journey back to Madrid was nowhere near as easy a ride as the one to Caceres. Rosie fussed and cried and having had her routine disrupted for three days now, had obviously decided enough was enough. In desperation, I fed her while standing up in the train corridor, hoping the white noise and motion would help calm her. It did. She finally consented to get some sleep in her chair and we breathed a sigh of relief. It was not to last. Another poosplosion abruptly woke her out of slumber and Theo and I had the joy of changing a baby, whose lower half was liberally coated with her own excrement, on a train seat. Thankfully, teamwork won the day (and Rosie, thankfully, treated the whole thing as a grand escapade put on for her own entertainment) and with the judicious use of babywipes and travel changing mat, we had the situation back under control.
Unfortunately, that was when Rosie's patience, such as it was, ran out and I spent another half hour trying to calm her down (including a second breast-feeding sojourn in the corridor) and persuade her back to sleep. Ironically, it was as we waited in the press of passengers to get off at Atocha that she finally consented to doze off. Impeccable timing.
So, what with one thing and another, it was a relief to make it back home. All things considered, we figured we'd mainly got away with it from Rosie's point of view. She could have been much less tolerant of the venture but as it was, only the minimum of time was spent baby-calming and we were impressed that we'd managed to keep her generally good-natured throughout. No, the main drawback of the whole affair was the miserable, un-Spanishlike weather. But you couldn't blame that on the baby.
Because of a long-winded problem involving our car insurance which I won't go into now, we elected to take the train from Atocha Station in Madrid to Caceres. Accordingly, we boarded two buses on Friday morning (one at a time) carrying a gigantically stuffed-full rucksack (Theo) a flowery backpack with essentials for the journey (me) and pushing a pram containing our Precious First Born (Theo, mostly).
Stage one went well. We got to Atocha horrendously early and although Rosie remained awake for the journey from our flat, she sustained a cheerful countenance. We killed some time by having a cuppa in a cafe - with a waitress who was so slow fulfilling our modest order (orange juice and a Colacao) we started to fear we might never get our drinks before we had to go.
Getting on the train with our baggage was challenging, but we managed it and after Rosie decided she didn't want to stay in the sling (she tends to protest if whoever wearing the sling isn't in constant motion), we put her in her car seat/pram seat where, following a feed, she obligingly fell asleep (with a little help from a muslin providing some strategic tenting). Rosie slept for well over an hour, awoke and enjoyed looking around the train carriage and watching the passing scenery, then after another snack from Mummy, dozed off again in her seat. We felt cheered - this was proving to be an unmitigated doddle!
Rosie only woke up again when we alighted at Caceres station, but was quite content to ride in her pram to the hotel where, once ensconced in room 608, with a clean nappy and another feed inside her, she took another nap. Our spirits continued to rise. A well-rested, contented baby was nine-tenths of the battle for winning an enjoyable weekend. Anticipation started to win over dread.Our first hiccup came when we sallied forth to check out the festival under suspiciously brooding skies. Theo decided we should keep Rosie in the pram, despite my disappointment at not being able to be a proper hippy mum and have her in the sling (plus I was dubious about negotiating narrow, deeply cobbled streets and crowds). But after only ten minutes, it started to chuck it down and our unwaterproof pram and lack of rain cover suddenly seemed like a bad idea for baby transport. In the shelter of a doorway, I hastily donned the sling, popped Rosie inside and stuck up a brolly. After ascertaining that the rain and wind (which was gusting pretty strongly and called for some serious jockeying of our bucking umbrellas) had momentarily postponed the WOMAD entertainment programme, we turned tail and retreated back to the hotel to dump the pram in the dry and make a second attempt at our trek into the historical centre of Caceres.
This time we were more successful and actually managed to catch bits and pieces of some of the acts, do a little shopping (purchasing some Indian-style head-wear made by our friend Rosie) and eat some home-baked pizza while Rosie (our offspring, this time) was snugly tied to me in the wrap. Impressively, she proceeded to sleep through an incredibly loud Spanish ska band in Plaza Mayor, only waking to the more modestly-volumed folk ensemble, Spiro in Plaza St Jorge (which also featured a Bristol acquaintance of ours, Jon from The Wraiths).
But all good things come to an end. Rosie started to lose patience with her situation after a few hours so we rushed back to the hotel while she wailed loudly at us to hurry up because clearly she was about to starve to death.We constructed a tent over Rosie's babynest in our room and after a feed and change, she was content to go off to sleep with minimum fuss. By now it had stopped raining, but there was a distinct chill in the air and although Theo and I both offered a babysitting service to the other, none of the acts was sufficiently captivating to tempt either of us away from the warmth of the family bosom (which must be mine, I suppose). We did the rock'n'roll thing and had an early night.
Saturday dawned dank, overcast and, well, crappy. Rosie gave us an unwelcome alarm call in the form of a spectacular poosplosion, which leaked out of her nappy and went....everywhere. After dealing with the excremental crisis, we took it easy in our room, munching on fruit and croissants while reading and babyminding until afternoon came and we decided to venture out again. This we did, to find almost nothing going on, so after scrutinising the market, downing some food and having our photograph taken while chatting to trilingual Eduardo (Spanish, English and Hindi...oh, and he was also busy learning German) with his strapping 9 month-old daughter, Anouk, we went back to the hotel.Back out again and this time we took part in a dance workshop led by an exuberant Kenyan band - something that Rosie seemed to enjoy (or at least, tolerate) in the sling with Theo. He was also voxpopped by Spanish TV and made a pretty decent fist of it, in my opinion.
After some veggie curry, the rain returned in earnest so we took shelter under a stone archway, gave Rosie a feed and rather glumly surveyed the situation. The downpour, depressingly British in aspect, showed no signs of abating. Although it was only about 7.30pm, we decided we'd had enough. Perhaps without the responsibility of a three month-old baby, we would have shrugged off the inclement weather, downed a few sidras and kept ourselves warm by dancing to some of the more lively bands. But Rosie was showing signs of getting fed up and the charms of the meteorological conditions had long worn thin. Back to the hotel, then.
This time Rosie was more cantankerous about bedtime, despite our attempts to mollify her with a relaxing bath (which she enjoyed) and it took much swaddling and un-swaddling plus several attempts at feeding and pacifying before she finally gave in to sleep. Unfortunately, she then woke up wanting a comfort feed every two hours after that, so by morning I was feeling somewhat jaded, to say the least.
We packed up and took a cab to the station, deciding against walking once we had observed the horizonal rain outside. And guess what? We were three quarters of an hour early, so once again we holed up in the station caff with orange juice and Colacao while Rosie gazed in fascination at the screen pumping out Spanish MTV above her head.The train journey back to Madrid was nowhere near as easy a ride as the one to Caceres. Rosie fussed and cried and having had her routine disrupted for three days now, had obviously decided enough was enough. In desperation, I fed her while standing up in the train corridor, hoping the white noise and motion would help calm her. It did. She finally consented to get some sleep in her chair and we breathed a sigh of relief. It was not to last. Another poosplosion abruptly woke her out of slumber and Theo and I had the joy of changing a baby, whose lower half was liberally coated with her own excrement, on a train seat. Thankfully, teamwork won the day (and Rosie, thankfully, treated the whole thing as a grand escapade put on for her own entertainment) and with the judicious use of babywipes and travel changing mat, we had the situation back under control.
Unfortunately, that was when Rosie's patience, such as it was, ran out and I spent another half hour trying to calm her down (including a second breast-feeding sojourn in the corridor) and persuade her back to sleep. Ironically, it was as we waited in the press of passengers to get off at Atocha that she finally consented to doze off. Impeccable timing.
So, what with one thing and another, it was a relief to make it back home. All things considered, we figured we'd mainly got away with it from Rosie's point of view. She could have been much less tolerant of the venture but as it was, only the minimum of time was spent baby-calming and we were impressed that we'd managed to keep her generally good-natured throughout. No, the main drawback of the whole affair was the miserable, un-Spanishlike weather. But you couldn't blame that on the baby.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
May Day In Madrid By Kate
As a new parent, going out for a jaunt with the baby can be a tentative affair. On the one hand, you desperately want to show off your pride and joy to the (hopefully) admiring public and it's great to escape the confines of home, pleasant though they are. On the other, it can be a tad scary because of the impossibility of predicting how the offspring will respond to the outing. Last week I had to abort one journey to an English playgroup with Rosie when she decided she really wasn't happy and made no bones about expressing her displeasure in the loudest possible terms.
At the time I blamed it on the baby being overheated in the sling, or maybe she didn't like this particular one (different from the usual sling we use) or perhaps it was the type of carry she objected to. It wasn't hunger - a feed (rather uncomfortably executed on the Metro) only temporarily stemmed the flow of her objections and being taken out of the sling was also a fleeting panacea. On reflection I now believe it was simple tiredness. Observations have taught me that Rosie needs a lot of naps and if she hasn't had sufficient, she tends to throw a wobbly. Often she naps in the sling, but recently she's also needed the application of a pacifier to get her properly in the mood for sleep and that was the one piece of baby soothing armory I didn't have with me on that occasion.
This time Theo and I took no chances. Rosie was snoozing in the pram when we decided it was time to go so we left her in it, but packed a sling as well. In fact, Rosie snoozed off and on for the entire journey on a packed bus to the Retiro Park where we had arranged to meet a friend and do some book-crossing. We opted to get off a few stops short of the park when we realised one of the city's main streets was in the throes of a May Day demonstration. We contemplated joining it as a show of solidarity for the Spanish unemployed, then thought better of it. Maybe another day.
When we found our rendezvous in the park, Rosie remained happy in her pram while we laid out the books we were "releasing" into the unknown and perused the other offerings to see if there were any we fancied "capturing". Theo picked up a book of Spanish poetry and a Spanish translation of an HP Lovecraft story. Being less highbrow, I lassoed a crime thriller and an Inspector Morse. Typically, both had been released by my pal Florrie, so I could have just taken them directly from her, but where's the fun in that?!
After the book-crossing excitement, Rosie woke up so I put her in the sling where she seemed content to doze while we wandered around the gorgeous Retiro rose garden, a riot of hot pinks, reds and yellows as the dozens of flower varieties made the most of the Spring sunshine.
After we all (including Rosie) enjoyed an al fresco drink at one of the park's terrace cafes, Theo and I opted to draw the family outing to a close, said our goodbyes to Florrie and wended our way back home again. A simple trip, perhaps, but at this stage of early parenthood, it still feels like a bit of an achievement. Next weekend we're off to WOMAD in Caceres - wish us luck...
At the time I blamed it on the baby being overheated in the sling, or maybe she didn't like this particular one (different from the usual sling we use) or perhaps it was the type of carry she objected to. It wasn't hunger - a feed (rather uncomfortably executed on the Metro) only temporarily stemmed the flow of her objections and being taken out of the sling was also a fleeting panacea. On reflection I now believe it was simple tiredness. Observations have taught me that Rosie needs a lot of naps and if she hasn't had sufficient, she tends to throw a wobbly. Often she naps in the sling, but recently she's also needed the application of a pacifier to get her properly in the mood for sleep and that was the one piece of baby soothing armory I didn't have with me on that occasion.
This time Theo and I took no chances. Rosie was snoozing in the pram when we decided it was time to go so we left her in it, but packed a sling as well. In fact, Rosie snoozed off and on for the entire journey on a packed bus to the Retiro Park where we had arranged to meet a friend and do some book-crossing. We opted to get off a few stops short of the park when we realised one of the city's main streets was in the throes of a May Day demonstration. We contemplated joining it as a show of solidarity for the Spanish unemployed, then thought better of it. Maybe another day.
When we found our rendezvous in the park, Rosie remained happy in her pram while we laid out the books we were "releasing" into the unknown and perused the other offerings to see if there were any we fancied "capturing". Theo picked up a book of Spanish poetry and a Spanish translation of an HP Lovecraft story. Being less highbrow, I lassoed a crime thriller and an Inspector Morse. Typically, both had been released by my pal Florrie, so I could have just taken them directly from her, but where's the fun in that?!
After the book-crossing excitement, Rosie woke up so I put her in the sling where she seemed content to doze while we wandered around the gorgeous Retiro rose garden, a riot of hot pinks, reds and yellows as the dozens of flower varieties made the most of the Spring sunshine.
After we all (including Rosie) enjoyed an al fresco drink at one of the park's terrace cafes, Theo and I opted to draw the family outing to a close, said our goodbyes to Florrie and wended our way back home again. A simple trip, perhaps, but at this stage of early parenthood, it still feels like a bit of an achievement. Next weekend we're off to WOMAD in Caceres - wish us luck...
Thursday, 25 February 2010
How To Make Friends In Madrid By Kate
It's easy - just wear a baby.
Spaniards are generally baby fans anyway, but combine that with a novel mode of infant transport (a wrap sling, in this case) and you've got a winning way with every passing stranger. It doesn't just work on Spaniards too - the Chinese shopkeepers were similarly captivated by the sight of Rosie nestling in the lilac sling as I enjoyed a stroll along Calle Jose del Hierro and a little light shopping.
Today the weather relented long enough for my vague plan to actually put some proper clothes on and get out of the flat for half an hour, to harden into resolve. So Rosie was duly wrapped up in her too-big clothes, topped off with a perfectly-fitting hat (thanks Anne - she bought us an outfit suitable for a premature baby - the only items of clothing that don't comically hang off little Rosie's minute frame at the moment), swaddled her in a fleece blanket and popped her in the sling.
We drew curious stares from passers by as soon as we hit the street. A young girl we encountered in the pharmacy was fascinated and almost dragged her mother up the street to get a better look at this curious little bundle tied to my chest.
The Chinese woman in the gift shop cried out in delight as soon as we walked in and admired the sleeping Rosie with gratifying enthusiasm. Next, she had pointed us out to another customer, a dad with his little boy - the latter utterly fascinated, as the little girl had been. They came over to chat and gaze at Rosie, who continued to snooze peacefully, unperturbed by all the commotion.
Next, Rosie and I were stopped at the pelican crossing by an elderly man's curiosity about the lilac-clad bundle sticking out of my duffle coat. Before I had even said a word he asked me where I came from - baby-wearing marking me out immediately as a foreigner. I told him England and he nodded approvingly.
"Good country", he said. I wondered what countries wouldn't have got his seal of approval.
The next place where Rosie became the centre of attention was the supermarket checkout. The two female customers ahead of me visibly melted when they caught sight of her snuggled against me, as did the checkout lady. While they cooed over her ("Que bonita!"), Rosie slept on, completely oblivious.
As a first solo outing with my daughter, it was pretty successful. So much so, I'm now planning a more ambitious project. To take her across town on the metro to visit a friend. In the purple sling, of course.
Spaniards are generally baby fans anyway, but combine that with a novel mode of infant transport (a wrap sling, in this case) and you've got a winning way with every passing stranger. It doesn't just work on Spaniards too - the Chinese shopkeepers were similarly captivated by the sight of Rosie nestling in the lilac sling as I enjoyed a stroll along Calle Jose del Hierro and a little light shopping.
Today the weather relented long enough for my vague plan to actually put some proper clothes on and get out of the flat for half an hour, to harden into resolve. So Rosie was duly wrapped up in her too-big clothes, topped off with a perfectly-fitting hat (thanks Anne - she bought us an outfit suitable for a premature baby - the only items of clothing that don't comically hang off little Rosie's minute frame at the moment), swaddled her in a fleece blanket and popped her in the sling.
We drew curious stares from passers by as soon as we hit the street. A young girl we encountered in the pharmacy was fascinated and almost dragged her mother up the street to get a better look at this curious little bundle tied to my chest.
The Chinese woman in the gift shop cried out in delight as soon as we walked in and admired the sleeping Rosie with gratifying enthusiasm. Next, she had pointed us out to another customer, a dad with his little boy - the latter utterly fascinated, as the little girl had been. They came over to chat and gaze at Rosie, who continued to snooze peacefully, unperturbed by all the commotion.
Next, Rosie and I were stopped at the pelican crossing by an elderly man's curiosity about the lilac-clad bundle sticking out of my duffle coat. Before I had even said a word he asked me where I came from - baby-wearing marking me out immediately as a foreigner. I told him England and he nodded approvingly.
"Good country", he said. I wondered what countries wouldn't have got his seal of approval.
The next place where Rosie became the centre of attention was the supermarket checkout. The two female customers ahead of me visibly melted when they caught sight of her snuggled against me, as did the checkout lady. While they cooed over her ("Que bonita!"), Rosie slept on, completely oblivious.
As a first solo outing with my daughter, it was pretty successful. So much so, I'm now planning a more ambitious project. To take her across town on the metro to visit a friend. In the purple sling, of course.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Modern Parents by Kate
Anyone remember the Modern Parents cartoon strip in Viz? Unwilling children who only wanted to be left in peace in front of their TVs and Playstations being dragged to all sorts of dreary eco-friendly right-on hippy activities by earnestly enthusiastic middle-class mums and dads? That's the kind of parent I aim to be. Theo's with me on that one, too. He even goes one step further, refusing to countenance any sort of TV in the house, but I'm not quite that far down the road.
So, intending to start as I mean to go on, I have been researching the availability of washable nappies and baby-carrying slings in Spain. The results of my research was a string of internet complaints about the impossibility of finding such things here and a solitary web-site which imports a few of these products, set up by two ex-pat English mums, who had come across the same problem. Not very encouraging.
I was seriously considering opening a shop in Madrid myself to fill the gap and paying the postage & packaging to get a stock of re-usable nappies, when we spotted a flyer on the wall of our midwife's office. It said Dos Manitas (Two Little Hands) and listed panales lavables among its products. That sounded promising. Then we looked more closely and realised the address was a street we walked along every time we went to or from the Metro station at Pueblo Nuevo. We must have passed it fifty times and never once sussed out what it was. Probably because it's opposite a confectioner's shop with mouthwatering window displays that invariably and understandably distract my attention whenever we're in that area.
Anyway, we went inside to discover the shop stocks seven or eight different makes of washable nappy and a bewildering array of slings in all shapes, sizes and colours. They even had fold-away carrycots made from recycled cardboard and half a dozen second-hand cradles and car-seats. Just the job! Unless I can find big savings on the web, I think I'm going to become a regular customer.
I have so far resisted the temptation of buying anything for the baby, largely for superstitious reasons (Christmas is my preferred date to start laying in supplies) but my expanding belly means I need to acquire a few things for myself. Luckily, the current fashion is for loose-fitting tops, gathered under the bust and designed to flow over the belly, which is perfect for pregnancy and saves me paying the inflated prices for anything officially labeled as Maternity Wear.
The other thing that was becoming urgently required was a maternity bra. I can barely cover my nipples with most of my bras now and the slightly larger underwired ones are just plain uncomfortable. So I went to a lingerie shop and tried on an unassuming white polycotton number, silently bidding farewell to sexiness and hello to stern practicality. But maternity bras cunningly turn into peep-hole numbers, thanks to their built-in suitability for easy nursing and there's an undeniably erotic aspect to that, which Theo was quick to appreciate. Time will tell if my breasts' conversion into udders will change all that. Dairy products aren't usually classed as aphrodisiacs, in my experience.
So, intending to start as I mean to go on, I have been researching the availability of washable nappies and baby-carrying slings in Spain. The results of my research was a string of internet complaints about the impossibility of finding such things here and a solitary web-site which imports a few of these products, set up by two ex-pat English mums, who had come across the same problem. Not very encouraging.
I was seriously considering opening a shop in Madrid myself to fill the gap and paying the postage & packaging to get a stock of re-usable nappies, when we spotted a flyer on the wall of our midwife's office. It said Dos Manitas (Two Little Hands) and listed panales lavables among its products. That sounded promising. Then we looked more closely and realised the address was a street we walked along every time we went to or from the Metro station at Pueblo Nuevo. We must have passed it fifty times and never once sussed out what it was. Probably because it's opposite a confectioner's shop with mouthwatering window displays that invariably and understandably distract my attention whenever we're in that area.
Anyway, we went inside to discover the shop stocks seven or eight different makes of washable nappy and a bewildering array of slings in all shapes, sizes and colours. They even had fold-away carrycots made from recycled cardboard and half a dozen second-hand cradles and car-seats. Just the job! Unless I can find big savings on the web, I think I'm going to become a regular customer.
I have so far resisted the temptation of buying anything for the baby, largely for superstitious reasons (Christmas is my preferred date to start laying in supplies) but my expanding belly means I need to acquire a few things for myself. Luckily, the current fashion is for loose-fitting tops, gathered under the bust and designed to flow over the belly, which is perfect for pregnancy and saves me paying the inflated prices for anything officially labeled as Maternity Wear.
The other thing that was becoming urgently required was a maternity bra. I can barely cover my nipples with most of my bras now and the slightly larger underwired ones are just plain uncomfortable. So I went to a lingerie shop and tried on an unassuming white polycotton number, silently bidding farewell to sexiness and hello to stern practicality. But maternity bras cunningly turn into peep-hole numbers, thanks to their built-in suitability for easy nursing and there's an undeniably erotic aspect to that, which Theo was quick to appreciate. Time will tell if my breasts' conversion into udders will change all that. Dairy products aren't usually classed as aphrodisiacs, in my experience.
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