Wednesday, 10 December 2014

Returning to Blogging and Being a Housewife

Shockingly, it has been over a year since I last wrote anything for this blog. Since then a few things have happened.
Firstly, I am pregnant again. Secondly the middle class job I was humble-bragging about in my last post (never underestimate the element of humble-bragging in any left wing acknowledgement of privilege) has gone completely tits up.
With the result, that I am now, once more, a housewife. And, true to stereotype, I am returning to Mummy-Blogging.


So far today, I have got up with my 2 and a half year old, gone to toddler group, come home again and put him down for a nap. Now I am pissing about on some feminist facebook pages and writing a blog post. This is my life now. It is the kind of gentle existence that is just perfect for someone still licking her wounds after failing disastrously to hold down a job. I fully expect it to be stultifying boring in about 6 months’ time.


So, just to break the blogging inertia, here are some observations on my current situation.


Firstly I get to call myself a housewife, or a Stay at Home Mum or a Full Time Parent instead of just a plain old unemployed person; which is a handy way to distance myself from the failure of unemployment. 


Being able to do this is a function of both privilege and oppression. Middle class women are pretty much the only group in society who have both the means and the social sanction to have any kind of work-life balance. This is not insignificant. Everyone should have the opportunity to have both satisfying work and a loving family life. The opportunity to take a couple of months or years out of the workplace, with the expectation of being able to return to employment later- is defiantly something I value. 

On the other hand- it’s also something of a trap. It is offered up on the assumption that we are not properly serious about having a place in the world (outside of the home) and it comes with the risk of long term loss of financial opportunity.
A couple of people have attempted to cheer me up about the horrible tits up work situation by suggesting that it shouldn’t matter to me as I’m “having a baby soon.” This is not comforting.  It feels like being sentenced to something.

Secondly- our of all the nicer sounding job titles that aren't "unemployed" and describe someone doing what Marxists call the "social reproduction of capital", I prefer "housewife." In fact I am going to reclaim "housewife." I realise "Stay at Home Parent" is the more fashionable term and might seem to give the role more dignity and importance- but I see this as a mental trap and here's why.

In 1950's America there was a consumer boom and a lot of new products became available. Things like washing machines, fridges, vacuum cleaners and so on. For families able to afford these things- housework became less time consuming and labour intensive. There ought to have been less reason for middle class women to be housewives.

Instead of sheer pressure of workload however, middle class women were kept in the home by the social ideal of being a "homemaker." Someone who would not only do housework but would do it to a high standard, whose home would be immaculate, who would sew, bake, jam-make, mix cocktails, throw fantastic dinner parties and look great. 

The idea of being a "homemaker" was superficially attractive, because it appeared to place a value on women's work. There was even an idea of "domestic science" or "home economics" which made housework seem like an important technical specialism. With the benefit of hindsight- we can see that it was a way of moving the goal posts. The effort needed to achieve a basic level of comfort and hygiene might have been drastically reduced- but a social expectation of ever higher standards emerged to keep women busy in the home.

Its fashionable now, to look back at those social values and have a laugh. Although "traditional" homemaking skills are making a comeback- we are not short of voices ready to critique the likes of Kath Kidson and Kirstie Allsop as kitchy purveyors of throw back anti feminism.

"Stay at Home Parenting" is just the same thing in different packaging. Superficially, it looks like an attractive label- one you could embrace: "Here I am- caring for my children- the most important job in the world." One thing I find endlessly fascinating on Mumsnet, is the wide variety of opinions on who should do what around the house. It was on Mumsnet that  first came across the idea that the "stay at home parent" is responsible for parenting only. Housework should be shared equally. I was surprised by this and remember thinking what a progressive idea it was.

Except that, like "homemaking," caring for children has expanded to fill all the time and space available.  Those same progressive "Stay at Home Parents" who only do half the housework (1) now think it is necessary to troll around a dozen toddler "activities," supervise improving craft projects on the kitchen table and puree their own bloody parsnips.

This is a genuine quote from Mumsnet, regarding a three year old child: "But everyone teaches their children the letters and numbers.That's just normal good parenting surely."
I love that comment because theres so much in it. It speaks to the narrowness of the posters hoizons ("everyone" certainly does not teach their three year old's letters and numbers) but also to the high expectations that middle class women place on themselves (what constitutes "normal good parenting") and even hints at the labour involved in living up to that ideal. I can just imagine her saying: "oh look darling, some leaves- shall we count them?"

All this is a completely new invention. One little factoid that's always stuck with me: The amount of time spent by a modern working mother and a 1950's housewife, on focused one to one attention to their children has been shown to be exactly the same.

Zoe Williams is one commentator who has always seen through the prescriptiveness of the modern middle class parenting ideal. Her new book, The Madness of Modern Parenting, is firmly on my Christmas list and I look forward to devouring it on boxing day with a hot chocolate and a dozen mince pies.


I particularly love her recent article in the Guardian, which touches on the implications for working class mothers, who find this questionable ideal imposed upon them by well meaning professionals.

Zoe is absolutely right to question the complete failure in public health to separate out causation from correlation. So much of a child's life chances are explained by structural class inequalities. Trying to make working class mums parent more like middle class mums does nothing but transfer responsibility for inequality onto working class women.

It also risks undervaluing the working class approach, where there are differences in parenting style between classes. 
At the very working class playgroup I attend- I get compliments from the other mums about how well my son "plays away." At the more middle class soft play centre I get evils for "not supervising" him. Common sense tells me that the working class mums are right on this one. Self sufficiency is a life skill, of course my son should learn it. At present, acquisition of this skill is undervalued. There are courses at the YWCA to teach mothers how to do interactive play with their children. There are no courses that teach helicopter parents how to back the fuck off.

This is why I will never describe myself as a "Stay at Home Parent." It is a label that implies the absolute centrality of the child, reduces what should be a relationship with another human being into a prescriptive and labour intensive profession and is reflective of an ideal which is detrimental to women. And possibly to children as well.


Being a housewife is a problematic social role. It is sub ideal in many ways. But its not going to get any less problematic by dressing it up in language that appears to validate but in fact obscures.
At least "housewife" encompasses the entirety of the job. It is what it is- cooking, cleaning, emptying the washing machine and all.

And, for all that I denigrate the "homemaker" ideal- some level of housework is important. For the task of parenting even (if this is going to be our central mission). It is part of what needs to be done, to provide an environment which is safe, relatively hygienic and in which things (meals, clean clothes, bath times) happen in a reliable and predictable manner.
Social Services can actually take your children away from people who are not able to meet these basic standards, regardless of whether they also make their own play dough or their kids know all their colours and shapes. So, you know, hardly unimportant stuff. 


So Housewife it is then. Housewife and Mummy Blogger. God help me.

Sunday, 29 December 2013

How to get away with being a crap parent

This is how my profile on the Mumsnet bloggers network reads:

“A working class, socialist mum living in Glasgow writes about her life and draws wider political conclusions where she can.”

It is not true and I should change it. I am from a working class background, true. But I have not actually been working class for, oh, two whole jobs now.

My moving into the (lower) middle class is pretty much a consequence of moving to Glasgow. Nick persuaded me to do this back when we were in our one room flat in London. We could no more afford a two room flat than we could figure out where to keep a baby in one room.

So we came up here, as I like to euphemistically to put it- “for the house prices”

Once here, however, some other things happened:

Whereas jobs for welfare rights workers were being cut left right and centre in England, the Scottish government is actually funding more of them.

This allows the SNP to demonstrate their commitment to alleviating the Westminster Coalition policies and also to utilise the statistics we produce to demonstrate just how bad those policies really are.
Add in some post- colonial sociology and the unearned advantage this still gives someone with an English accent and my career has pretty much sky rocketed.

You should be noticing at this point, how a policy ostensibly designed to help the very poor, is primarily benefiting me, the relatively privileged. This is actually how it usually happens. Welcome to the poverty sector.*

So now that I have some unearned privilege worth wringing my hands over I am going to indulge in that staple of social justice blogging and write a post about how that affects my life. Specifically I am going to write about how my unearned privilege allows me to get away with being a slightly crap parent.

I am able to get away with being a slightly crap parent in two ways:

First off, on a practical level it is harder to fuck up.

I routinely overspend on stuff like work lunches, take away cups of tea and newspapers. My child does not go hungry as a result.

This is a huge contrast to how I was brought up, where every single expense was carefully calibrated and the need to buy a new pair of shoes was a crisis comparable to what a massive boiler explosion would be to me now. I can remember how my mother used to talk about other people making just the kind of lazy purchases I so routinely make.  “Food from their children’s mouths”

Even when I’m not making mistakes, I can afford to make things easier for myself. I buy these little individually wrapped pieces of cheese, which pound for pound must be the most expensive possible way of buying cheese. I buy little mini yogurts, breadsticks and microwave toddler lunches. I do this so that I can just pull stuff out of the fridge and give it to Jimmy without having to plan ahead. I am buying the ability to be crap.

Jimmy does not eat well. Not compared to myself at his age and not compared to many lower income children I know. Their parents cannot afford to be crap. And so they are not.

 I like to reflect that while he may not be eating healthy food- at least I am imparting a healthy attitude towards food. This is because I can afford not to care if he chucks his diner onto the floor. I just pull some other overpriced convenience food out of the fridge and offer an alternative.

Same with days out: I just take him places, Soft play, petting zoo, drive to the country side. We do it on a whim and it saves me thinking too hard about how to amuse him. Buying my way out of being crap.

So, given how bloody easy it is to provide a decent standard of living when you have a bit of money. And how even when you make mistakes, your child doesn't necessarily suffer for them, because you can buy your way out of that. Given all that, you would expect middle class parents to face really harsh criticism when they do fuck up, wouldn’t you?

You’d be wrong.

I know this because, when Jimmy was little, I was the subject of a social services investigation, which I blogged about extensively here.

For the time the investigation was on going, and for a little while afterwards, I was in the position of presenting at services as a low income parent, from a deprived area, who was a client of social services. So I got to see a little bit about what that means in terms of how people treat you. And therefore I can compare with how people treat me now.

I remember, very clearly, going for Jimmy’s 6 week check-up and having the doctor talk to me at length about developmentally delays before she had run the checks.

She also asked me if I “could manage to clothe him” Jimmy was wearing a baby grow with no vest, because he had just been weighed naked and I had dressed him hastily for the journey from one well heated room to another.

I pretended not to understand the implications of the question and prattled on about his low birth weight and how, yes, it could be a problem to find things small enough in the shops. All with a big friendly smile.
The I went home and cried and cried over the thought that anyone could take him from me. And agonised about why I hadn't thought to explain myself better. 

Several months later, we went to a baby weaning event and I dressed him to the absolute nines; Then looked around the church hall to see that everyone else had done the same. One little girl had Barbie pink skinny jeans and a matching dummy.

Well we have slipped considerably since then and it is now perfectly normal for Jimmy to cut about covered in yoghurt and snot, wearing odd socks. Has anyone commented? No, they have not. 


Things are easier for me and yet I still get a free pass. That’s privilege in a nutshell. 

*An even starker example: In my last job we ran into some difficulty in obtaining medical evidence form our clients GP’s. The GP’s representative body had advised them to stop providing evidence for appeals, because of a massively increase in the number of requests, caused, in turn, by the massively increased number of horrifically unfair benefit decisions. There was a special government fund available to mitigate the effects of welfare cuts and my employers were considering making a claim to this fund in order to obtain money to pay the GP’s to produce the evidence we needed to fight the appeals. This would have meant that money supposedly set aside to help the very poorest, being diverted to GPs who have a basic starting salary of £54,319 pa.

Saturday, 17 August 2013

Weekend Mum

Maternity leave is over. Five mornings out of seven, I get up at six, feed Jimmy his milk and banana, wash and dress while he’s still eating and leave, shutting the door behind me; by 7.30 at the latest.

I don’t think about him at work. I even try not to think about work when I’m with him. I just concentrate on doing one thing at a time, to the best of my ability.  It’s easy because I enjoy almost everything I do. I live a good life. A man’s life really. I shut the door behind me and go off to argue with tribunal judges, write training materials on the bedroom tax, talk to other adults and eat lunch while reading the paper.  

I enjoy the security and pleasure of a family life without any cost to my career or my sense of self.

I reckon if I was a stay at home mum, I’d want a husband like me. One, who helps in the mornings, gets home for the bedtime routine and still does a hand’s turn around the kitchen. Nick doesn't always agree. There are certain things around the house that neither of us has taken responsibility for. It’s not clear whose job they are and they cause little arguments and resentment every time they need doing.

I contemplate career progression and speculate aloud about going for promotion. Not yet of course, some time far in the future, when Jimmy’s at secondary school and doesn't need me about so much.

Nick is amazed at this. “No Man would think like that” he says and I consider things from another angle. I’m the bread winner now. Perhaps that’s a responsibility worth taking seriously as well.

2 days out of 5, I play fun weekend mum. I take Jimmy to soft play, to the library, to the swimming pool. We sit in little Italian cafes so he can eat pieces of penne off my saucer and charm the waiters into tolerating our mess.

“Is he old enough for the zoo yet?” I wonder aloud and Nick says “No, not quite. Perhaps in another 6 months” I don’t know these things anymore. I have to ask.

Jimmy’s eyes light up when he sees Nick enter the room and he does that delighted little baby squeak. Nick holds him close and I see how easy they are with each other now.
“I love to see you two together like that” I tell Nick; “It’s a real reassurance to me to know, he’s being cared for so well, while I’m away at work”

Apparently this is also something a man would never say, which surprises me. As a good Marxist, I always assume material conditions determine consciousness. Living this husband’s life- I imagined my concerns would be similar to any of the fathers at my work.

“Oh no, Men don’t have that sense of responsibility. We see children as competition if anything.”

My husband is not one of those men who would describe themselves as a feminist.
He’s something better than that. A man who is willing to let me in on what men are really like- instead of always trying to convince me of how different he is from the others.

I know what he says is true. How else to account for the increased risk of domestic violence when women are pregnant or have recently given birth? It would be a mistake to assume violent men are the aberrations. Every heterosexual relationship plays out in the shadow of those same power relations.

On some deep level I have known this already. That deep pleasure I feel when I see them getting on together. I can name it. It is relief. 

Saturday, 6 July 2013

Happy Breastfeeding Awareness Week!

23rd to 27th of June was apparently breastfeeding awareness week. This is the kind of information you become party to in the Mumsnet Bloggers Network. Some bloggers have used this as an opportunity to post about their own breastfeeding experiences- so I thought I’d have a go. A little late, but still….

Jimmy was born by cesarean section: a little scrap of life, just 4lb 2oz, whisked away from me before I could hold him. I was bouncing off the walls from morphine, and shaky from some really dramatic blood loss when I was asked for permission for the nurses to “just give him his first feed” of formula.

This I happily did, taking the “just” at face value. It wasn't like that of course and Jimmy ended up spending a full 10 days on SCBU (Special Care Baby Unit).

He wasn’t even drinking formula in the end.  He was so little that any kind of sustenance made his blood sugar jump about like a metronome in an earthquake. They fed him glucose through a drip in his arm. He was like a little humming bird.

Visiting your own baby in SCBU is awkward. It’s your child and you have the right to be there, of course. But you’re also hanging around someone else’s workplace. You are allowed to help care for him, but it feels a little like playing with dollies. Your presence is not exactly necessary.

On the other hand- being apart from your baby feels mildly but unmistakably wrong. The mildness decreasing with the amount of time spent away. For 10 days, I had the choice between sitting in a rather boring, overheated room feeling socially awkward; or sitting in the comfort of my own home feeling wrong.

On top of that the social services investigation was still on-going so I felt like my visits were being scrutinised. In retrospect they almost certainly were.  I found myself doing things like unnecessarily bringing in little blankets from home, despite the perfectly adequate bedding he was already wrapped in- purely because bringing in blankets felt like something a loving mother might be expected to do.

So, Jimmy took glucose through his drip. Then he took milk through a tube in nose. Then finally milk by mouth. The milk by mouth bit was important because it was a condition of him being able to leave hospital.

There was a period where there was nothing medically wrong with him; he even known to be capable of sucking, because he’d been given a bottle for a night feed once.  But he wasn't allowed to come home because I’d said I wanted to breastfeed, and he hadn't done that yet.

He wasn't going to either- the way things were going. Jimmy’s feeds were scheduled for once every 4 hours. I was managing to make maybe 2 or 3 of them per day. I would hold him up to the breast and he would look up at me sweetly and… do nothing. He’d never been hungry in his life and I think sucking simply didn't occur to him.

We would just sit there together until the nurses got bored of it and then Jimmy would have a feed through his tube and then I would put him down. I knew we were never going to get started with these few, regulated minutes of practice per day. But I was never going to get him home until we’d got started.

Now- I’m a person who’s cautious with her optimism. I like contingency plans. I like to scope out the worst option ahead of time and make my peace with it. So I’d already decided that if I couldn't manage to breast feed, i wouldn't let it bother me. In my opinion, people got altogether too invested in this kind of thing. They placed too much pressure on themselves and then allowed their own expectations to spoil their happiness. I wouldn't be making the same mistake. If it worked out for me, fine. If not- I’d move on.

And this was not working out. It’s instinctual to want to be with your child. Everything in my being was telling me that he needed to be with me. Far, far more than he needed vitamins or immunity from diseases, or hormones or any of the other undoubted benefits of breast milk; he needed just to be with me.

And yet, and yet…

As I faced up to jettisoning the breastfeeding, I did worry. I wrung my hands over it. I even ended up phoning a very uninterested, childless friend for advice:

“You want to give your baby a bottle?” He asked nonplussed “What’s in the bottle? Is it Buckfast?”

Pro tip: Childless friends are great for perspective.

In the end, it didn't come to that. My ceaseless lobbying for a place in Transitional Care finally won out. 
Despite professional concerns that I would “Go mad with post puerperal psychosis” if I were placed there “too early,” I was finally given a private room where I could just hang out with my baby in peace and take 15 minutes fiddling about with the latch if we needed to. Which we frequently did.

We were there for a weekend and it turned out to be the most idyllic two days of my life. Jimmy fed like a trouper, and then slept happily. I read books and phoned friends and wrote discussion pieces on the acrimonious breakup of a far left group I was involved with at the time.
I had a huge sunny window and a comfy hospital bed and my baby sleeping beside me, smelling of sweetness and peace.  I did not develop post puerperal psychosis. I was more deeply contented than I’ve ever been. Perhaps since I was a baby myself.

Jimmy is coming up to a year old now. He eats macaroni and bread crusts and cheese and chocolate cake. I've moved him onto formula during the day so I can return to work, but he still enjoys a good feed of breast milk first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
So my breastfeeding experience is a happy one and it all worked out. 

But for me, breastfeeding was also, as I suspect it is for a lot of people; a quick and dirty lesson in compromise. In the necessity of doing, not the “best” thing for your child; but the best thing in the circumstances. The death of that exacting pressure we are encouraged to place on ourselves.


And for that, I am also grateful. 

Sunday, 23 June 2013

A Sorry Kind of Privilege

There's a description in Carol Craig’s excellent book: The Tears that made the Clyde 
of women and children hanging around the gates of factories and shipyards, or outside pubs. It was pay day and they were hoping to run into their men folk and shame them into giving them something from their pay to run the household, before everything was drunk away.  

At the time, it was common, accepted practice, for the man take all the money and spend it on his own pleasures. So much so, that trade unionists, recognising alcoholism as a problem, had a campaign to persuade landlords to refuse service once half of a man’s pay had been drunk.

In other words, the most progressive, left wing men around at that time thought that it was reasonable for one member of a household, to spend half of the entire money for a family, for one week, on himself, in a single night.

I read this, with a short lived sense of relief at how far we had come.
Short lived until I noticed the number of adult men coming into the advice centre, where I then worked, with raging substance issues and cheerfully tell me about the financial help they were getting from aged parents, from girlfriends, from ex partners even.  

And all those worried looking elderly women with their extravagant debts and frugal lifestyles. A junkie son is like a forest fire. It’s incredible how fast he can burn through everything you can build up over a lifetime.

I had a colleague who used to romanticise this sort of behaviour. “Its amazing how families stick by each other and help each other out isn’t it?” When I pointed out this solidarity only ever seemed to flow one way, she said “Well that’s just the way of the world isn’t it? You’ll never change that.”

I noticed all this and I saw we have come nowhere really. Its only the unemployed mans version of the same behaviour.

There is a concept in intersectional Feminism of privilege. As in, for example, Male Privilege. It can be a difficult one to explain. Perhaps it’s the wrong word for the concept. How can you call someone privileged when they are poor, unemployed, addicted, and miserable?  

Well, I think I understand now how male privilege plays out in the underprivileged man. Those men, they just came into the advice centre with a different attitude to the women.

I’ve only ever seen women agonise over whether they really deserve a benefit, when considering appealing a decision. Its only women who needed to be talked into claiming Disability Living Allowance because, after all, they’re “managing” on Income Support.

 And by the same token, its only men who have suggested that they don’t need to provide any of the information I've asked for because they've “already given you my national insurance number so you should have sorted it out” or who have chosen to use their appointments, not to discuss their cases but to attempt to trip me up and score points against me.

It’s that universal male attitude of entitlement. And rage, of course, that their entitlement had been taken from them. Except that the things they feel entitled to are so pitiably small: a scatter flat, their £71.70 per week, a methadone scrip. The bare bones of a life really.

This was the settlement of the 1980’s after all. We take away your pits and shipyards and docks and in return you we leave you with the bru. Except now the Torys are back to snatch away even that consolation prize and benefits that could once be counted on, now have to be jumped through hoops for and justified and fought for.  Why shouldn’t anyone feel entitled, why shouldn’t they feel angry?

Except that's not all they feel entitled to. Not really. It’s not just the material things. It’s the full attention, sympathy and efforts of women. Those niggly little power struggles were just a tiny taste of what the women in their lives must put up with.

Because the assumption is that the women will make up the difference isn’t it?
Will find the money, will take out that bank loan, will stroke that ego, and will pity you when self pity is not enough. Emotionally porous; will be available to absorb the ugly emotions of shame, defeat and rage.


That is male privilege. That is how it plays itself out in the under privileged man. And again privilege seems to be the wrong word- because what are they getting out of it, except the avoidance of personal responsibility, which is surely not in anyone’s long term interest. A sorry sort of privilege indeed. 

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Fucking Off the Baby Circuit


When I was pregnant I went along to NCT classes and got to know a small group of very nervous, very middle class people with whom I had nothing in common, except the fact that we were all having babies at about the same time.

There was an effort to all stay in touch afterwards, for mutual support I suppose. So once the babies were born and the menfolk were back at work, we women began to meet up once a week. Typically we would attend some god awful baby themed event, (which the babies were indifferent towards at best) followed by a few hours of fascinating baby comparison and analysis in someone’s extremely tasteful living room.

I didn’t last long.

There were a few reasons for this

First, they all seemed to live places completely inaccessible by public transport.  Second, I find babies on mass are slightly unnerving and sinister (the dozens of baby eyes peering out of the dark at baby cinema will live with me for a long time!) Third: Even in the short time it took me to bail, things had begun to get a little competitive.

This was most obvious in the hospitality. The last thing I went to: our hostess provided an expensively constructed Jamie Oliver salad; with an air of studied casualness air as if to imply this is how she eats all the time. The time before that, we’d been treated to nibbles, salad and homemade quiche (by someone who’d given birth 2 weeks before!) I contributed a box of Greggs Do-nuts. They ended the day untouched.  

But it was also starting to seep into the baby talk.

I could understand it, really I could. These people were new at being mothers, they were keen but they were also scared. They wanted to do everything right. They couldn’t let themselves off the hook for a minute.

There can be a terror to motherhood. The natural desire to protect, set alongside the unpredictability of fate, mixed with exacting and contradictory social expectations.

I went the other way and affected nonchalance. I told myself I wouldn't mind if I couldn't breast feed or if I didn't bond right away. I aimed deliberately low- aspiring to adequate parenting and expecting that to be hard enough.

But deep down I was no more together than they were. The same anxiety was waiting for me. Too much time around it would drag me down there with them. And this, more than anything else is the true reason why I backed away.

Instead of trying to fit in with the mum crowd, I hung out with my existing friends, carried on with my normal life and took my baby to a lot of places babies aren't meant to go.

So Jimmy went to conferences and meetings. He went to the pub and stayed for the lock in. He got passed about in radical book shops and restaurants. He travelled up mountains tucked inside my raincoat and across the country sleeping in my suitcase at night. He developed an almost adult sleeping pattern, midnight to 9.00 am, unhindered by any “bedtime routine”

And everyone said how relaxed I was everything and how little motherhood had changed me. It was a funny kind of non-compliment if you think about it, because in fact being a mother is incredibly important to me.

And then one day, it wasn’t enough. We went to a meeting and he couldn't sit quietly. He began to crawl and started to crack his head against all those chair and table legs that I hadn’t really noticed before but which, in our small living room, are everywhere.

It was time for baby activities.  So a few days ago, we went out to Jungle in the City, Partick’s fantastic soft play centre, where he could crawl off in any direction and I could have a cup of tea and a ham sandwich in peace.

The baby ball pit at Jungle in the City. This is a lot of fun. 












While we were there, I got chatting to another Mum with a baby of the same age. She’d recently moved into the area and was looking for places to take her baby.  Reaching back to the last time I thought of such things, I remembered that you could get a list of baby groups from the GP’s surgery.  

She was way ahead of me. Her baby already went to Baby massage, sensory play, soft play, bounce and rhyme, swimming. The list goes on. Apparently you “have” to take them to something every day to make sure they get enough stimulation. Oh, and change their toys every two weeks so they don’t get bored.

I looked down at Jimmy, who appeared to be meeting his milestones unassisted by this level of organisation or attention to detail. (Almost as though evolution had primed him to do so)
I looked back at the earnest face before me.

I did what Mumsnet has taught me is the only correct response. Nod and smile. Smile and nod.

“My God” I thought, “here we are again. The baby circuit.”  

And even though I have need of it now, and I can acknowledge that: I was so, so grateful to be dealing with it now, with 9 months experience behind me.  Not back then: When we were both so vulnerable and new.

And it was in that moment, that I knew for certain:

Fucking off the Baby Circuit was my best goddam parenting decision so far.  

Friday, 5 April 2013

Babies in Meetings


People who know me may remember the times when I used to bring my baby to meetings with me.

The seal pup has been to anarchist bookfairs, conferences on Scottish independence, planning meetings, public meetings, meetings to wind up failing leftist sects, meetings to decide the content of workshops, meetings to deliver the content of workshops.

I’ve even taken him to day long meetings in which I have discussed social reproduction, in the abstract and at length, while demonstrating the reality of said social reproduction even as I spoke, positioning him on a breast or jigging him about on a hip.

And through all these meeting, baby has smiled and amused himself quietly with linky toys and slept peacefully in my arms and everyone has said “What a good baby” and I have been smug and complacent and thought how easy it is to combine motherhood with activism.

Well, that's all gone now. 

Baby still loves meetings. He’s always happy to be taken to a meeting. It’s just that now he’s able to fully express his enthusiasm better by “joining in” with a lot of high pitched squeak’s and bashing his of his toys on the table.

People are fair put off their Trotskyist bickering.

The only reason we got away with his last appearance is that so many people present have been accused of misogyny and institutional sexism that no one was really in a position to raise an objection.

Some people have suggested I continue to take him, in order to demonstrate the need for organised childcare but I don’t think I quite have the front for it.

So, no more meetings for Jimmy until he learns to put up his hand and speak through the chair.
I’ll leave you with a picture of another baby, behaving impeccably at a meeting of the European Parliament in Strasbourg. How has MEPLicia Ronzulli managed it? It must be some sneaky right wing trick.