I'm feeling slightly bruised and sensitive after my Mum's departure (soooo good to have her support for a week), so am potentially taking this to heart more than I should, but: what is the point of Elizabeth Badinter?

For those lucky enough to have escaped her, Elizabeth Badinter is a French feminist currently commanding lots of attention for two very media-friendly points of view.  Firstly, her stance on the burqa/niqab and whether it should be banned in public (EB is for a ban).  Secondly, for her assertion in her most recent book that women have turned a certain type of motherhood ( breastfeeding, puree making) into a form of oppression, and her advocacy that, in order to stay a woman first and a mother second, women should strongly consider avoiding breastfeeding and make sure they get back into the workplace as soon as possible.

I am so disappointed by this.  Yet again, we women are merrily presuming to judge what's best for all other mothers and suggesting that only one type of motherhood is valid.  For me, feminism should be about ensuring that we have choices, with emphasis on the plural.  Achieving (what to me is a very limited form of) independence should not come at the cost of ignoring what is good for the junior members of society.

Sssshhhh

I am very quiet because I have my Mum staying.  Aaaaah, bliss.  Back again when she goes.

Bodily functions

One of the hard things about dragging a small person(s) around with you is working out how to manage a toilet stop.  When I've got the pushchair with me, I don't really fancy leaving my most precious jewels in the middle of the Ladies whilst I disappear into a stall.  And if the baby is being carried at the time, it's a balancing feat that is beyond me.  

So imagine my glee to discover that Printemps (a big Parisian department store) offers a mother and baby room within their homeware store.  It's not marked on the shop signs that I could find, so I asked a salesperson who then phoned around to find out where it was - not looking very promising, eh.  Once I'd shouldered my way into a lift, elbowing aside indolent teenagers who could have used the escalator, and running over several feet, I marched around the entire floor several times looking for either the room itself or a sign.  Again, no luck, so I tackled a sales assistant who explained that the room is locked (!) and let me in.  Two table-top changing mats, a bottle warmer and a couple of chairs constituted the offering, which is great if all you need to do is feed/change the baby.  To give them their dues, the room was clean and with a great view of Paris, but it was so much less than it could have been - a sort of oversized stock cupboard with a curtain hiding some empty boxes and old stock. 

Another lift ride later I found what appears to be the only customer toilets in the store, a 'concept' bathroom charing you a euro to spend a penny.  Granted, it was clean and had funky toilet paper, and the cubicle was big enough to bring Little Son in with me.  But I was so exhausted by the whole experience that I then left without shopping.

Between the sheets

I have a guilty secret.  For the last nearly four months, I've been sharing my bed.  Yeah, mostly my husband is there too.  But the one I'm referring to is my son, who from day one has slept in my arms at night.

This feels to me like one of the last great taboos of modern motherhood (a potential subject there for another post).  I can live with the fact that I'm building up a dependance that will almost certainly be hard to break, but the guilt of feeling that I was putting his well-being at risk was immense.  My husband, understandably, is vehemently against sharing our bed with our tiny baby.  It's something that I haven't admitted to many people, and those who do know have been unanimously disapproving, albeit in a kind way.

And yet, falling asleep with him in my arms feels like the most natural thing in the world.  He seems to sleep better: when he's in his Moses Basket I hear him moving about throughout the night.  When he's with me, he sleeps peacefully and when he needs a feed all I need to do is move position slightly (in all honesty, the additional sleep is a major benefit).

So, I decided that I owed it to my little one to try and decode the conflicting messages and rumours floating about middle-class motherhood, and find out whether it was indeed dangerous to share my bed with him.  I contacted an anthropologist who specialises in research into mother-baby bed-sharing (not to be confused with co-sleeping, which apparently can just refer to having the baby in the same room).  His own research, and the work that he's done to collect existing research on the subject from around the world, suggests that in fact sharing a bed can have a benefit to both mother and child.  Most importantly, when the bed is a 'safe' environment (e.g. parents are not drinking, taking medicines, there aren't gaps between the bed and the wall etc.) bed sharing can REDUCE the risk of SIDS.

So one tired Mummy will be resting a little easier tonight....

BABIES - Official Trailer [HD]

This looks fantastic - a film about the early experiences of children in 4 different countries: Japan, Mongolia, Namibia and the U.S.

Play’s the Thing - Magazine - The Atlantic

An article about a new book that stresses the importance of play for young children: so put away those Baby Einstein videos now: Play’s the Thing - Magazine - The Atlantic

Book Club

I'm on a roll - the 3rd post of the day (and last, I promise).    I wanted to share tonight's bedtime reading with the Big Sister.

'Gros Pipi' by Emile Jadoul is a fantastic piece of propaganda, designed to make your child comfortable going to the toilet on their own in the night (and thus saving you some precious moments of sleep).  The illustrations are beautiful and simple and the story is designed to appeal to parents too.  I originally bought this to read on a Eurostar journey, not taking into account that I would end up reading it aloud in my halting French to a fascinated carriage of Franglish travellers, with my daughter squealing 'Piiiipiiiiiiiii'...

'I want my Mum' is another in the Little Princess series.  Apparently there's also a TV programme, but we haven't succumbed to that as yet.  Again, the story holds interest for the adult reading it, with a little twist at the end of the tale and some validation for Mum.  I think it sunk into my dear daughter's subconscious, as when I shut the door, she was muttering 'my mama' to herself.

Pushchair-tastic

A cautionary tale. In the last two years, I have become the proud owner of 4 pushchairs and experienced the use of several others. But thankfully my latest (and hopefully last) is really impressing me.

We started off with a Bugaboo Frog: ideal for the wide streets of New York, and providing Hummer-like security for our newborn. Then we moved - and discovered that it was a pain to get into a car boot. Then we moved again to Paris and found it awkward for manoeuvering around narrow streets.

Next up was a Maclaren Volo. Cheap (-er than the Bugaboo), easy to fold, great for negotiating narrow streets - and it broke after about 4 months of use. It was the most basic model so didn't recline and I felt slightly anxious watching my precious baby's head loll sideways every time she fell asleep. But oh, the joy of being able to travel around relatively easily.

So I kept the faith and bought another Maclaren, the Quest this time so that we could recline it for naps. Again, very happy with this and when I got pregnant for the second time, I decided that I would just buy a buggy board for my daughter to go on the back, and would put the new baby in the Bugaboo pram to start with, then swop over to the Maclaren.

What I hadn't taken into account was the wilfullness of a small under 2. After a couple of months struggling to persuade my daughter to either walk or ride behind her brother (and at one point having to throw her bodily across the pram) I realised that if I didn't get a 2-seater I would be spending all my weekends stuck in our flat, at least until my daughter was old enough to be relied on to walk. The double-wide Maclarens seemed like too much for Paris streets and a complete no-no for public transport. A lot of the assistantes maternelles (childminders) have double-long pushchairs, but these looked even bulkier.

After lots of trawling around the internet I settled on the Phil & Teds Sport. One month in, I can confidently say that I have found my pushchair nirvana. Nobody tells you when you have your first child that if you plan on having a 2nd pretty quickly, you will need a double. So I sound the warning cry now: get a Phil & Teds to start with, and then just buy the double kit when your 2nd bout'chou arrives. NB: I'm not the only Mum who signally failed to forward plan: my friend Emma had her kids at the same times as me, and has also succumbed to the lure of the Phil & Teds.

It's not all plain sailing. The instruction leaflet is RUBBISH - in a world of complicated instruction manuals, this one is miles ahead (behind?). I am still wondering what the 2 little black nubs were for. My other complaint: the front wheel has a tendency to stick, making steering difficult (whereas normally it's a dream). The only solution I've found to this is disconnecting the wheel and reinserting it; fine when I'm at home but not so easy on the go.

The pluses: it doesn't take up much more space than a single pushchair, because of the seat arrangement. So public transport is still a possibility. The handlebar moves, meaning The Husband can also push without subjecting me to moans about backache. And you can squeeze into smaller spaces. Big Sister is thrilled with her seat up on high, watching her brother's wriggling feet beneath. There are loads of different combinations thanks to the zips/buckles etc. I've worked out a way of stowing the double kit underneath in the capacious shopping basket so when Big Sister isn't onboard, Little Brother can see daylight.

All in all, very happy. Kiwi Jane tells me that all the Mums in Wellington have Phil & Teds (it's a New Zealand brand). Sensible girls.

My daughter's first words were all in English. For 18 mths, she was with me day (and night) and hearing English, so it never occurred to me that there would come a time when she might prefer speaking French....

And that day has come around rather quickly. I had pushed to the back of my mind the fact that she calls me 'mama', and answers 'oui' when I pose a question. But this weekend I finally had to admit that my little girl is a Parisienne, and she wants to speak French. She's been testing me by saying 'mummy' and then 'maman' and watching to see my reaction. For some reason, this was the final thing that needed to fall into place for me to realise that there is every chance that she will grow up more comfortable speaking French than English.

Admittedly, it's not very reasonable of me. Her Papa is French, she lives in France - what could be more logical than that she prefers French? But I have taken it very personally, as though for the last year she and I have been allies in Englishness and now she's abandoned me by making this simple step over into another language. A language that I am still struggling to learn and find unremittingly difficult.

So, my question is: should I keep fighting? If I make English an obligation, won't she resist even harder? I spent last night scouring the internet for English language schools in Paris, and discovered (as if I didn't know already) that we live in the wrong area and can't afford to live in one of the arrondissements that is overflowing with English-language schools.

I do have one weapon in my armoury though: her deep, deep love for Makka Pakka. Until my daughter was a year old, I was careful to avoid exposing her to the evils of television...mindful of the dangers of ruining her powers of concentration at an early age and causing an addiction to TV shows designed to market own-brand products to small, vulnerable minds. Then I got pregnant again and oh, soooo sick. At this point, DVDs saved my life. And now my Mum has sent over a DVD of In The Night Garden, and this appears to be the key to keeping my little one interested in speaking English. Even if her vocabulary is all about the Ninky Nonk. Ah well.