The Lunch Box Dilemma

I'm not really one for getting publicly vocal about my feminist principles. Give me a bit of wine and I might hold an earnest debate with you about the patriarchy. But I am not going to lecture you if (as happened today) you force me to chose between a pink princess or a jungle explorer kids meal box. You're a nineteen year old cashier in a café at a tram museum. Life's too short.

None the less, The Lunch Box Dilemma irked me because it highlighted an aspect of modern childhood with which I have a real issue - just how stupidly gendered it has become. Gendering sells. But in the process, it also reinforces stereotypes that lead girls and boys to make assumptions about what they should and shouldn't like and what is and isn't appropriate behaviour for them (or the opposite sex). Equally brainwashed, many parents then line up to reinforce these assumptions in an effort to keep their child happy and conform to the norm.

So what lunch box to choose? Duckling was on the far side of the cafe so not around for me to ask. I had to make the call. Princess box = girl. Aspiration = youth, wealth, beauty and marrying a handsome prince. Explorer box = boy. Aspiration = bravery, adventure, autonomy and an all terrain vehicle. Why two boxes? I thought. Why couldn't they just have a jungle explorer box? Or a neutral castle box featuring both a prince and a princess, if they really had to? Why does LUNCH have to be gendered?!

Eventually, after the cashier had started rapping her nails on the till, I opted for the jungle explorer. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I am not immune to the strong social stigma attached to boys playing with "girl" things. Encouraging boys to actively 'go pink' takes guts, probably more so than suggesting a girl might want to 'go blue'. I'm sure nobody would have said anything had I selected the princess castle and Duckling wouldn't have cared a jot as long as it contained the requested chips (BAD Mummy). It might even have made me feel proud to be so markedly 'gender blind'. But I'm actually not - I would have been deliberately contriving to push a particular counter-identity on my son, for the sake of MY ideology - one that he's not remotely going to understand. Besides which, I don't think the fairytale princess narrative is a particularly positive one for either sex...

Why is it that your sex at birth - the type of human body you have - now maps out virtually every choice you make, down to the colour of the straw you're expected to have in your milkshake?  Intersex individuals aside (and there is a whole other set of issues to be considered there), males and females do have different reproductive organs and different chromosomes. The male / female label really shouldn't do much more than describe our physical attributes however. Our brains for example are not intrinsically blue or pink, whatever the Science Museum may tell you (incidentally, I, straight, eternally scatty woman with one child and a bun in the oven, have a 'male brain' according to that test. Err, yay?!). Our identities are about so much more than our sex. Certainly some personality traits, skills, likes and dislikes may be more commonly found in women than men and vice versa. But it is very hard to unpick nature from nurture, and in most cases, we cannot categorically state that, for example, a woman is caring or a man is aggressive simply because her or his brain is naturally wired that way.  Evolution may be responsible for contributing to a general trend that sees women and men fulfill these stereotypes.  But it is also true that these traits are prominent because society tells us we should be kind as a girl and tough as a boy. Social norms reinforce and amplify any possible 'natural' tendencies (note tendencies, not inevitable traits), to a point where they are seen as fact, and deviation as abnormality. And that is dangerous. When our sex (physical attributes) doesn't seem to fully match our gender (social ideas of what we should be like) it leads people to commit unspeakable acts of violence against each other. For women to be eternally subjugated and exploited. For men to be excused for inexcusable behaviour. For young girls and boys to decide that, because they don't fit with society's identity expectations, there must be something wrong with them. They must have been born the wrong sex, and have the wrong body parts.

So yes, I know it was just a lunch box, but it represented a division that does nobody (except manufacturers and advertisers) any good whatsoever. Give me the neutral elephant, giraffe and monkey boxes at our local swimming pool any day.

The weirder side of pregnancy

So, here we are. Pregnancy No. 5... Like Mambo No. 5 but with less jumping up and down, fewer Ritas, Tinas and Monicas (they're not baby names we're considering) and definitely no gin and juice. So nothing like it at all really. Must work on my analogies.

Anyway, I am currently ten weeks in and as my last post may have indicated, I feel crap most of the time - sick, tired, headachey and generally grumpy. So far so normal. However, I've also noticed the development of a few weirder symptoms, which, given that I have no mental capacity to write about anything vaguely political or intellectual at the moment, I thought I would share.

First up is the hypersensitivity. Not one I've ever read about, but one that probably makes some evolutionary sense if you think about it - pregnant women needing to avoid danger and all that. Loud noises make me cringe. Unexpected hugs from Drake risk him receiving a swift karate chop to the neck. Uncomfortable knickers are torture. A completely overcast day requires sunglasses. Everyone knows about the sensitive smell thing (keep that beer AWAY from me!) but all the other senses? It's very odd and I fear my colleagues think I've developed some form of PTSD given the regularity with which I jump out my skin as they pop up behind my desk. Just give me some warning guys, OK?!

Then there's the weird throat pressure thing. Now this could just be related to the cold I had at the start of the pregnancy, but every so often I get a sensation like someone is throttling me, which is more than a little disconcerting. Thinking about it, maybe this is related to symptom one...?

Then there're the dreams. My God, the dreams. I've always been prone to odd ones, but my pregnancy dreaming really takes odd to new levels. The relief on waking up this morning to discover my new baby wasn't actually a sachet of tomato ketchup I had accidentally stabbed with a biro while trying to write my name on him/her/it was quite pronounced. No less random and disturbing was the dream in which my sister's ears went green and fell off. Then (stop reading now Drake) there was the one where I was trying to get jiggy with Tinie Tempah at my Nanna's house but kept being interrupted by annoying nieces and nephews wanting me to judge their art work. Though who hasn't been in that situation, right?

Then there's the really obscure symptom - the misreading of words. I don't know if this pregnancy per se or simply exhaustion, but last Thursday I passed our local bookshop and saw "My first book of pest control" in the window, complete with a picture of a smiling cartoon ant. Really? I thought. Seems an unlikely children's book. Before I realised it actually said "My first book of pen control" - a cheery tome to help pre-schoolers learn to write and draw. Obviously. "Is that boy really wearing an Abercrombie and Bitch t-shirt?" I wondered yesterday. (Um, no). "A Cub Scout Jumper Sale? Isn't that a bit niche?" I pondered last week. (JUMBLE Sale woman, JUMBLE!). Very strange...

Finally, I'm pretty sure my leg hair seems to be growing faster. Or maybe it's just because I have less energy to shave. Or indeed cause - the baby making bit being accomplished and the sickness putting a bit of a dampener on the libidos of both parties... Unless Tinie Tempah is involved apparently. Whatever, I definitely seem to be a tad more hairy than usual which is annoying in the current warm skirt-necessitating weather. Bring on autumn I say. And the second trimester. Weird symptoms I can cope with, and on occasion even find amusing. The sickness and bone-aching exhaustion are just grim. Still as my dearest husband keeps assuring me, "feeling awful is a really good sign!" Indeed, though I shall be telling him to jump up and down and move it all around under a bus the next time he says it.

25 things that make me feel sick now I'm pregnant (again)

1) Custard. I don't like it even when not pregnant. I now have an active phobia. Our tin of custard powder has gone to live in the garage.

2) The food recycling bin. An excellent excuse to get Drake to empty it.

3) Loud noises.

4) Johnson's Baby Bath. How does that scent not melt Duckling's skin?

5) Sorting out Duckling's potty. WHY did I chose the first trimester to do potty training? I am obviously a masochist.

6) Sorting out the stuff that doesn't quite make it into the potty.

7) Chocolate. What can I say. 

8) Drake's morning breath.

9) Drake's minty fresh toothpastey breath.

10) Brushing my own teeth.

11) Not eating

12) Eating

13) An article about the Mars rover. Because it made me think of Mars Bars and they make me feel sick.

14) Singing?!

15) Drake sitting down too heavily on the sofa next to me.

16) Drake turning over in bed.

17) Drake hugging me to make me feel better. Sorry dearest :-(.

18) The dishwasher, pre wash (particularly when it's been festering for a day or two).

19) People sniffing on the train.

20) Lying down.

21) Standing up.

22) Pigeons.

23) Bananas.

24) Fern raking up alpaca poo in "My Pet and Me".

25) Writing a list of things that make me feel sick. Let's stop.

Dear liberal thinkers of America...

Dear liberal thinkers of America,

Unless you have all been living in an underground bunker for the past couple of years (which, given everything that's been going on would be kind of understandable), you will probably have noticed that the USA is approaching a presidential election between Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump.

The more switched on among you may also know that here in the UK, we have also just had a major vote - on whether to leave the European Union or not. Two very different votes about two very different things you might think. Yet there are a surprising number of parallels to be drawn, and some vital lessons to be learned if Trump's march towards victory is to be halted. Which, given that the man is at best under qualified, and at worst a terrifying narcissistic bile-spewing time bomb, is a bit of a priority if the USA is to continue to function and retain any shred of respect with the rest of the world.

We should know. The rest of the world thinks we're certifiable right now. There has never been much love lost between the UK and the EU. Being the somewhat arrogant, aloof and insular islanders that we are, we as a nation have always viewed the EU with soupçon of suspicion. Different languages, different cultures, different priorities and yet somehow they still get to pass laws by which we have to be governed? All a bit dodgy if you ask most people. We've thus kept ourselves at arm's length, refusing to join the Euro and carving out special dispensations and rebates.

Yet the benefits of EU membership are enormous: it's why we joined. Some perks are tangible - tariff-free imports and exports and bloc-negotiated trade deals, cheap and easy European travel, funding for our scientific community, international university exchange programmes, support for our struggling farmers, regional development grants, the right to work anywhere in the EU without a visa, protections for workers and consumers, the economic and social benefits of immigration (such as the provision of skilled staff for the struggling NHS)... Others are less so - for example the stability and peace that has been achieved by working together as a common, cooperative entity. We simply do not know what conflicts may have arisen or escalated since the end of the Second World War had the EU not been founded.

Despite all these benefits however, the UK chose to leave the EU. 52% of the voting public said 'let's get out'. Why? As a liberal, progressive egalitarian of mixed European heritage, who studied French and Spanish and has lived in France, it is a question I am REALLY not qualified to answer. But by talking to others, it is becoming clearer, and here is where some lessons for you, ordinary Americans who want sanity to prevail, can be drawn:

1) Don't assume the 'other side' are simply idiots. This is a mistake I made personally. Yes, it is tempting to think those who don't share your views are stupid. Your frustration their narrow-minded views and apparently wilfull ignorance will certainly pull you to feel that way. In some cases their intellect may indeed be below average, in others it will not. But bright or dim, people make choices based on a unique set of internal and external factors - environmental, circumstantial and psychological - and when all of these are weighed up, the choice they make will be rational for them. Calling people idiots just makes them want to tell you to f**k off and is likely to push undecided voters away from you, rather than towards. Keep the name calling to circles of like-minded friends (not your whole Facebook friends list or all of your Twitter followers!).

2) Consider all motivations. In our referendum, most remainers assumed that people voting Leave were simply xenophobic. They didn't like foreigners and they didn't like all the open borders imposed by the EU, or the level of immigration this led to. This was undoubtedly a motivation for a not insignificant chunk of Leavers, and the rise in hate crimes since has highlighted a very unpalatable seam of overt racism in our country, fuelled by the Leave campaign's anti-migrant vitriol. But people also voted Leave based on a promise to plough the money we save on EU membership into our creaking National Health Service. They voted because Leave promised change and to "Take back control" of a country they no longer felt they knew. Because they couldn't see what the EU had ever done for them personally. Because they were tired of arrogant, educated snobs and "so called experts" telling them what to do and making them feel belittled. Because they genuinely believed (and despite the fall out, maybe still do) that life would be better for them, their children and grandchildren. Because they got their news from one of several anti-Europe tabloids. Because they felt like protesting about the current government, and this was an accessible way to do it. Because they thought the Remain campaign's warnings were just fear mongering. Because they viewed the EU to be too socialist, or conversely, overly influenced by capitalist values and corporations. Because they believed the whole set up to be undemocratic (it's not, but anyway...). The point is, if you make assumptions about WHY the average voter might plan to vote for the "other side" you will almost inevitably be wrong, because you will be swayed as much by your side's rhetoric as they are by theirs. To truly change hearts and minds you have to understand why hearts feel and minds think that way in the first place and speak to them. This is something we can all do. Which brings me to...

3) Don't preach to the converted. People usually only follow media outlets that reflect their own views. The Daily Show can say what it likes; the vast majority of Fox News fans will never, ever, hear it (unless Fox News is complaining about the Daily Show of course). So you have to find ways to get 'alternative' points of view across. Forget the media, and reach out to communities, friends, families. I'm not claiming this is in any way easy. It requires creativity and the courage of conviction to loudly and repeatedly denounce the lies and hate being served up by your opponents. It also means identifying the values, hope and fears of the voters of the other side, and demonstrating how your side can address these, as well as highlighting how their representative cannot. Political campaigning 101 basically, but still worth underlining.  

In many respects, Trump is doing the job for the Clinton camp. In his comments relating to the parents of the US Serviceman, Humayun Khan, he made a calculated gamble. He hoped the US public would, in general, find the the Khans' religion more distasteful than his own comments about the family of a soldier and patriot; that anti-Islamic feeling would win out against deep-seated respect for military personnel. The dent in his poll ratings suggest his calculations did not add up. This is the kind of tasteless behaviour that needs to be highlighted and shared extensively. Remainers failed to get our message across for many reasons, but it was, primarily, and obviously, because we failed to reach and engage the people who would swing the vote our way. We were initially too wishy-washy, then too negative, too preachy, and too high handed, We also lacked a "man of the people". Which brings me to....

4) Don't underestimate the power of personal charisma and populist rhetoric. Trump is popular because people see him as 'one of them'. He doesn't talk like a politician. He jokes about and says "risqué" (a.k.a offensive) things. His fluency is of the slightly bumbling sort. He's clearly xenophobic (and misogynistic for that matter), but not in a way that is so completely and obviously Hitleresque that he repels those who don't really consider themselves racist (but actually are). We have a politician who ticked all these boxes too. His name is Boris Johnson, and he led the Leave campaign. Despite being about as highly educated and privileged as you can get, like Trump, he managed to persuade great swathes of the country that he was "their man" with "their interests" at heart. He won Leave the vote, looked very shell shocked, then promptly went silent. You see Boris Johnson didn't ACTUALLY want to leave the EU. In fact, he probably knew, deep down it was a ridiculous idea. But what he did want was to become Prime Minister and saw leading the side that opposed the incumbent Prime Minister's Remain campaign as an excellent way to achieve that. Like Trump (and probably most politicians, albeit far less overtly) he was guided by a massive ego. It backfired - he was stabbed in the back by his fellow Leave campaigner, Michael Gove, and Remainer Theresa May became PM instead. But hilariously (ahem) he is now Foreign Secretary. Everyone on the Remain side is sincerely hoping he will make a cataclysmic blunder and launch himself into disgraced obscurity for the rest of his days. But like Trump, the man is Teflon and there are no guarantees.

5) Never assume they cannot win. This is another major reason why Remain did not succeed. We didn't think people could actually, genuinely, be stupid / brave enough to pull us out of the EU. The consequences were too ridiculous to imagine, so we buried our heads in the sand and just shouted "we're right, you're wrong, wake up and realise that thickos!". It didn't happen. In a post-factual society, it doesn't matter who has the facts on their side. It doesn't matter who is backed by the experts (as Michael Gove of the Leave campaign said, people have "had enough of experts"). People are jaded by information overdose and proliferating voices on social media, and no longer feel able to trust anyone to be truthful, least of all aloof, distant 'experts' who issue warnings about intangible things many don't have the energy or resources to investigate, understand or even care about. They cling instead to preachers with a strong, clear message of a better future, who validate their views and make them FEEL good. Take Britain back. Make America great again. It almost doesn't matter what you say - just be populist and you will be popular. Talk down like a teacher and you won't.

6) Be positive. The remain campaign was branded "project fear" because it spent an inordinate amount of time shouting about how terrible the world would be if we left the EU. There was no hope or aspiration. Many of the predictions have of course proven quite accurate (others were a bit over egged and some were too long-term to yet assess given that we haven't actually Brexited yet). Our Prime Minister resigned, our currency fell through the floor, ratings agencies cut our outlook, the stock market crashed massively seriously affecting pension funds, and many businesses found themselves with shelved orders or cancelled deals. The lesson? You may know life under Trump will be execrable, but you really need to focus on how Hilary will be better too.

7) Understand the other side's point of view, but only up to a point. In a progressive, open, trusting society, values of freedom, liberty, equality and tolerance are ALWAYS better than negativity, fear and hate. You believe this because the evidence is overwhelming - and you are right to keep on believing it, and keep on pushing these values. It is a cliché that the worst atrocities in humanity happen when we do not tolerate each other, but it is true. As I say above, you should, by all means, get to know and understand the other side. Understand why they are fearful and why Trump appeals. Respect their right to have a different opinion. Agree to disagree on certain things. That is tolerance and you have to practice what you preach. BUT where freedom of speech tips into inciting hatred, where facts are patently wrong, where fear is whipped up without any solid foundation, PUSH BACK and don't be ashamed to do so. The Remain campaign did not want to brand the leave campaign as racist, and did not want to upset the mass of Conservative voting public who don't much like immigration, so they did not denounce the racism seen in the Leave campaign as loudly as they should have done. They did not sufficiently debunk some of the patently false claims of the Leavers and they did not adequately highlight the massive contribution that so many EU nationals make to UK society. None of us did.  We all dropped the ball, and now the more progressive and tolerant 48% of voters in our country - mostly younger, educated and aspirational people - feel like their identity as residents of an open, cooperative and liberal European country has been stripped away by a fearful and insular 52%. They are angry and grieving and profoundly worried for their future, and that of their nation. It has highlighted deep divisions, and driven wedges into the heart of many families. Never before in recent history has politics been so personal in the UK. A Trump victory will do the same. Like Britain choosing to leave the EU, it will mark a seismic shift from a country seen as comparatively open minded and liberal to one associated with deeply conservative fear politics. Freedoms hard won could be lost as the status quo changes, and nothing generates more anger, whichever side of the fence you're on.

So, in conclusion, understand but don't condone, be respectful but vocal, stay positive, spread the word widely and DON'T be complacent. Easy right?! I just wish Britain had tried a bit harder to do the same.

Yours hopefully,

The Different Duck x

Playing shops with a 2 1/2 year old

"Mummy! Let's play shopping!" says Duckling. I groan inwardly. Shopping is Duckling's favourite 'let's pretend' game at the moment and his enthusiasm for it knows no bounds. We play it in the bath. We play it in the garden. We play it in the sandpit at the swing park. As long as there are items to buy and sell and something that will serve as a 'beeper' (cash register) we're good to go.

There are a few basic rules to "shopping":

1. Everyone must call everyone else 'sir'. I am sir, Drake is sir, Iggle Piggle is sir, Duckling is sir... This has led to some interesting looks when we're out and about and Duckling yells "You like a Pom Bear SIR?" at me from the pushchair. They must think I'm a female version of those overbearing American fathers who insist on their kids calling them 'sir' as a sign of respect. I have tried to explain it's 'madam' when you talk to ladies, but to no avail. And I suspect that might actually sound worse when out in public. So sir it is. A warped victory for equality I say.
2. Customer service is not always a priority. Take this exchange from this morning:
   Duckling: Hello sir!
   Me: Good morrow my fine fellow! Pray tell, what delightful wares have you in your emporium today? [Have I ever mentioned I did A-level Theatre Studies?]
   Duckling: (laughing) Mummy! What you saying?!
   Me: Sorry. What can I buy?
   Duckling: Umm. Some tings.
   Me: Hmm, things eh? What about this digger? Can I buy this?
   Duckling: No you can't. Is MY digger.
   Me: Oh. That's a shame. What about a helicopter? I see you have two!
   Duckling: No. They MY helicopters. I keep them actually. You not buy them.
   Me: Oh dear, this isn't going very well. Can I buy this book then?
   Duckling: No. Is too heavy.
   Me: Too heavy?! Really?
   Duckling: Yes. You buy this book (profering Mr Topsy-Turvy my way). Is niiiiice and clean.
   Me: Um OK, I like clean books. Sold!
   Duckling: No! Give it back! I have to BEEP it Sir Mummy!
   Me: Oh, right.
   Duckling: (waving the barcode scanner on his plastic till at it). Ugggh! Is not working! I sort out numbers. (Mashes all the keys on the till at once, causing cacophonous bleeping). There!
   Me: Good. How much do I owe you?
   Duckling: £20!
   Me: Gosh, that's a bit steep! Let me see if I have enough (rummaging in Duckling's purse for some plastic coins). Here we go!
   Duckling: Thank you! (Opening till) Oh. I not got any change. I borrow your purse sir.
   Me: Umm, I'm not sure that's quite how it works...
   Duckling: Yes. (Dumps all the coins from my purse into his till then gives me back the purse). Here you go sir! Keep the change!
   Me: Err thanks....
3. As per the above, every transaction must end with "keep the change", regardless of whether Duckling is playing the shopkeeper or the customer. I don't know where he got this phrase from, but apparently no game of shopping is complete without it
4. Also as per the above, everything always costs £20. Doesn't matter what you've bought, or how many items you've stuffed in your bag, your shopping will always come to "£20 please sir". Unless I'm the shopkeeper, in which case Duckling's purchases come to somewhere between 10p and £185 million. It's OK, I accept credit cards.
5. Making announcements into the till's microphone (which distorts your voice in a shop tannoy fashion) must always involve actively putting the microphone in your mouth and drooling all over it. 30 months and still teething. Is that normal?
6. There is NOTHING funnier you can buy in Duckling's shop than a small, anatomically correct plastic doll. The unwisely named 'naked baby' gets purchased a lot, and generates particular mirth when stuffed head down into the shopping bag with his bottom sticking out. Poor old naked baby.
7. At the end of the game, all of the items for sale must be violently scattered all over the floor. Any requests to pick them up will be ignored until threats to drop bedtime stories or bribes involving biscuits are cracked out. Actually, this scenario is not unique to games of shops now I think about it...

Like much else in parenthood, I both love and loathe playing shopping. I loathe it because we have to do it about a bazillion fricking times a day and the repetition can get a teensy bit boring. I love it because, well, I quite like shopping and it's the closest thing I get to a decent spend fest these days. But more seriously, because Duckling plays it with an innocent enthusiasm that is a joy to behold. He is both brilliantly aware and woefully ignorant of normal shopping protocols: sequence (greeting, selection, check out, money), great; social niceties and correct monetary exchange, well, not so much. It is incredible to see him engrossed in a make believe world that simply didn't exist in his brain a few months ago. This morning he tried to sell me the bed I was lying in, which I thought was particularly enterprising. So as much as I wish I could duck out sometimes and leave him to play shops with Iggle Piggle, I keep finding myself suckered back in to being his customer, because even when he's stealing my money and throwing my carefully selected cabbages on the floor, seeing his imagination take off is a Mummy privilege that I wouldn't miss for anything.  Plus it's completely hilarious...

Sandpit wars

I loved my NCT classes. I was lucky enough to have a really sensible, down to earth teacher and some lovely classmates that I still meet up with now. There is only so much they can teach you however. Beyond birth and breastfeeding, there is a whole world of lessons you are left to learn for yourself. I suspect these never really end, and I'll still be wondering how on earth to negotiate Duckling-related dilemmas when he's 21, 30, 45... ("How do I tell him that suit makes him look like a gangly undertaker?", "Should I tell him his wife's a narcissist?", "Is it reasonable to let him move back home after his divorce...?") Nonetheless, some basic pointers on negotiating the first few years would have been nice.

Today's quandary: how to react when all the other kids in the playground steal your son's toys. As I'm sure any parent will know, playgrounds are a breeding ground for tantrums, arguments and shoving. Against my advice, Duckling decided to take his small cement mixer, digger, and tipper truck to the sandpit today, along with his bucket, rake and spade. I agreed after deciding a nice quiet sandpit session was probably preferable to him running around, given he's currently battling his usual cold-induced chest issues.  Unsurprisingly, he quickly became a magnet for other children wishing to "share" this bounty, it being far more alluring than the existing selection of discarded, sun-bleached plastic tat to be found in The Pit.

Duckling did not take kindly to this. "No! Is MY bucket! Give it back!" he shouted to the little (as it turned out) quite violent sub-two year old who first appeared on the scene. Duckling tried to grab the bucket, but Violent Victor was having none of that. In full, plain sight of his Mum, he yanked the bucket out of Duckling's hand, turned his back on him and started to fill it with sand.

His Mum asked Violent Victor to give the bucket back (at least I think she did - she spoke Russian). Victor ignored her and carried on shovelling. His Mum gave up instantly and just sat and watched him. Duckling sat and pouted. "Mummy! He protested. "That boy took my bucket! Get it back!". 

What to do? Had Duckling done the same to Victor, I would probably have reprimanded him and made him return the bucket, explaining it didn't belong to him. Or I might have instructed him to ask nicely if he could share (or asked on his behalf if, like Victor, he was still preverbal). His Mum, perhaps because of the language barrier, or because she didn't realise the bucket was Duckling's, did neither. I think she may also have been as scared of Victor as we were. 

So, not willing to wrestle a bucket off a toddler in full sight of his Mum, engage a mother who really didn't seem to want to engage, or send my child to his likely doom to retrieve it, I told Duckling the boy was just borrowing his bucket, and would give it back later. And Duckling, being a bit of a pacifist wimp accepted this, and carried on playing with his trucks, while keeping a wary eye on young Victor. As did I.

For a while all was calm. Then Victor returned for round two, and tried to take Duckling's tipper truck. "My truck!" said Duckling, but was too slow to grab it back. I looked at his Mum. She looked away. 

"Hey, I know," I said to Victor, "Let's do a swap. If you want to borrow Duckling's truck, you need to give his bucket back." I picked up Duckling's discarded bucket and gestured my intention. "Neeeeeee!" screeched Victor and lunged at the bucket, just grabbing the handle. We had a small, embarrassing tug of war before I relented, slightly scared Victor, who was now actively growling, might bite my hand. Thankfully in the tussle, Victor had dropped the truck, which I grabbed and stashed out of sight behind Duckling. Victor, who was legging it with the bucket, failed to notice initially but on turning round was dismayed to see it had disappeared. I did an internal cock-a-snook. Duckling looked on goggle-eyed. "I no like that little boy," he said. I didn't disagree.

Victor settled himself a little way off next to a small girl who was peacefully shovelling sand next to her Mum. At first I thought he might try to grab her spade, but Victor had much grander plans. He filled his bucket with sand and poured it over the girl's Mum's sandals. She was rather surprised. Victor's beleaguered Mum did react to this and apologetically dusted down the lady's shoes for her. Still no real reprimand for Victor though - at least not until he started whacking the poor lady's feet with his spade, at which point she removed him to the other side of The Pit. Clearly he believed gladiator sandals to be rather 2012.

While watching all of this, I had failed to notice a young girl approach Duckling. She was probably also two, but tall for her age so initially I took her for older. She took a shine to Duckling's cement mixer. "Ooh!" she cried and grabbed it. "No! Mine!" cried Duckling like a broken record. "Um, sweetheart, that's not actually yours..." I cried lamely, but Light-fingered Lucy was off, gambling awkwardly across the sand. Thankfully her Mum stopped her and brought her back. Phew, I thought, at least she's on the ball. "Would you mind if she borrowed this for a bit?" asked her Mum. "She really likes cement mixers." I was a bit taken aback. "Oh, err, sure," I said. "Do you mind if this little girl borrows your cement mixer Duckling?" I asked, feeling awful that I'd just loaned out another of his favourite toys. "Humph. OK" said Duckling in a small voice. "Well done," I said relieved, "it's very kind of you to share. She'll bring it back soon, I promise."

It was while I was standing, meerkat like, watching Lucy drive Duckling's cement mixer up a climbing frame, that his green rake was swiped by an older boy, probably about six. "My rake!" yelled Duckling. "GIVE IT BACK". Rakish Ryan ignored Duckling. Now this boy should have been old enough to know better. "Excuse me!" I said in my politest stern tones. "That's actually my son's. Could I swap you for this one?" I proffered a wonky blue rake with no handle, figuring it probably didn't belong to anyone (at least not any more). "Oh sure, sorry" said Ryan, handing back the rake but ignoring my offering. "Don't worry, I'll take this one instead." And he picked up Duckling's spade and charged off. "My spade!" yelled Duckling. "Oh FFS!!!" I muttered a little more loudly than I probably should have done.

In the end, the goodness of humanity prevailed. Violent Victor's Mum brought Duckling's bucket back (along with someone else's sieve and a plastic fish that he'd apparently also pilfered), Light-fingered Lucy's Mum returned the cement mixer while Lucy was busy stealing another child's scooter, and I reclaimed the spade off Ryan's friend's Mum, who was profoundly apologetic, even though she couldn't have had any idea where the spade had come from.

By the time we got home, I was exhausted by the social awkwardness of it all, as was Duckling. Had I let my own son down because of my personal dislike of making a scene and confronting strangers?  Should I have stood up for him more?  Or should I have made him stand up for himself?  Was it wrong not to pull him up for shouting at the other children?  Or, conversely, should I have praised him more for being so accommodating?

In the end I decided I didn't have a bloody clue, and nor does anyone really.  You don't know other people's kids, you don't know why their parents parent them as they do, and you don't know how they (or their parents) will react to whatever type of intervention you try.  So muddling through and trying to stop your own child dissolving into a rage of injustice is really the only option.  Or you move to Finland, where the local authorities provide a shed load of toys in every public sandpit. It's definitely a bit easier to referee when the plastic digger with a missing wheel being fought over doesn't actually belong to either child. Or, more realistically, you say NO when your toddler asks to take half his toybox to the playground. Strictly bucket and spade only in future.  With his name written on them.  In caps. And maybe GPS security tagged for easy tracking.  Surely there's an app for that?

What it's like to have a miscarriage (or three)

Since I embarked on the whole parenthood project, I have had three miscarriages: two before Duckling came along, and one last month. All have been pre-12 weeks, and for that small mercy I am grateful. I know many people who have lost babies after this point and it is a whole different ball game - one I hope I never have to experience. Not that miscarriage before 12 weeks is a picnic by any stretch of the imagination.

Every miscarriage has been different. My first wasn't really a miscarriage at all, in that I did not spontaneously lose the baby. I went for my 12 week scan, and they basically told me the baby had died at about 8.5 weeks - what's known as a 'missed miscarriage'. I had an ERPC* to deal with that one, which wasn't exactly fun, but did mean I wasn't waiting weeks for my body to let go of its tiny cargo. My second was a 'classic' miscarriage at seven weeks, though I don't think the baby had got much beyond five. No surgery needed thankfully - just lots of toilet trips. My latest one was very early, around four weeks. I got a positive pregnancy test the day before we went on holiday, and three days in, my period started. So essentially a 'chemical pregnancy' - had I not taken an early pregnancy test I would probably never have known (apart from the week of ridiculous hunger and total aversion to bananas).

Miscarriage is little discussed in the public domain, or indeed the private. Plenty discussed in Mummy blogs and the odd article entitled "Why does nobody mention miscarriage?" but barely examined beyond, which is perhaps surprising given how incredibly common it is. Too yicky, too female, too depressing I suspect. Nobody likes to make others (or themselves) cry.  So before I had my first miscarriage, I had no real understanding of what it would be like to have one, other than the fact it would involve bleeding and medical examinations and much sorrow. All of these were accurate assumptions (although I didn't bother seeing a doctor this time around) but the whole multiple miscarriage experience has been far more complex than I would ever have imagined. I don't for a second want to suggest that every woman feels the same about miscarriage, but I would imagine most would be able to identify at least one or two of the following emotions:

Shock
When you realise the inevitable (be that seeing your tiny silent foetus on a screen or that first, true heavy streak of blood), you go into shock. Ear ringing, heart thumping shock. You may have expected it deep down (and I did with all three of mine) but you're still taken aback by your fear becoming a reality.

Sorrow
This is the emotion most people associate with miscarriage. My first loss was undoubtedly the saddest. I was unprepared and the rapid freefall from excitement to despair was devastating. But it's not just the fact your baby has died and your pregnancy is over. It's a loss of a future that must now be put back on hold indefinitely. A due date that no longer means anything; the pregnancy notes that are now redundant; the mat leave departure date postponed; the tiny impulse buys that must be pushed to the back of the drawer...

Vain hope
You know it's over in your core, but part of you still wants to believe your fears might be unfounded and yours will be the miracle baby that survives when everyone says it has gone. It never is.

Relief
At the same time as the vain hope, I find I usually feel some sense of dark relief. The prospect of miscarriage makes the first twelve weeks of pregnancy (and beyond) deeply stressful for anyone; but this is amplified ten fold when you have past evidence that your body cannot be relied upon to take a pregnancy to term. A miscarriage, despite being the thing you fear, puts an end to the uncertainty, the stress, the constant preoccupation and the feeling of impending doom. It's over, and once you've recovered, you know you'll get to start afresh and try again.  Also, being in France for the last one meant I could suddenly eat gooey cheeses and drink rosé again, which was kind of a bonus.

Fear
What if I can't get pregnant again? What if I can but my next pregnancy ends this way? What if this means I can't have kids at all? What if my body is broken? I felt the fear particularly acutely after my second loss, where it dawned on me that there could be a problem beyond it being 'just one of those things'. This prompted me to see a private specialist (the NHS won't test you until you've had three miscarriages) who for a small fortune diagnosed Polycystic Ovary Syndrome - which I'd always suspected but never had confirmed - and a possible problem with my immune system. He prescribed aspirin, progesterone and prednisolone, and they worked (or it could have been a coincidence - who knows). Either way, after a very bumpy 9 month emotional rollercoaster, Duckling was born safe and sound in February 2014.

Curiosity
This strikes on two levels. Firstly, when I had my second, "proper" miscarriage, I was kind of grimly intrigued as to what would actually appear. I fully recognise many women would absolutely not feel that way, but for some reason I wanted to see what came out as some kind of validation that I had actually been pregnant. As it happened it was just a lot of blood and a couple of nondescript grey blobs, which was probably for the best given my mental state. TMI I'm sure.

Then there's the question of WHY. Sating my curiosity on this front started with endless Googling (of course), but it also drove me to see the specialist, who ran a bunch of standard tests plus a few additional ones. The PCOS almost certainly plays a role (it increases miscarriage risks for a whole host of reasons) and the immune system theory is also a possibility (I'm not so convinced of that one though) but I think I may also have something called super-receptivity, or an "unfussy uterus" in more layman's terms. This essentially means I get pregnant very easily, but I do so because my uterus does not discriminate between high quality embryos (which will go on to develop into a healthy baby) and low quality embryos (which have cell division issues or genetic defects and are doomed to fail). My womb is basically a totally rubbish nightclub bouncer. It lets anyone in, only to have to chuck out the bad'uns later in the evening, causing much kerfuffle in the process. As much as I am lucky that I have no problem falling pregnant therefore (I'm sure many women with PCOS, and many without, would kill to be this fertile), I kind of wish my uterus was a bit more discerning so I could avoid all the heartache and bleeding that results from its free-for-all policy.

Denial
"I'm not pregnant, I'm not pregnant, I'm not pregnant, AHHHH I'm so pregnant! NO, stop it, I'm not pregnant, don't think about it, don't acknowledge it, it's never going to stick, so just pretend it's not happening. I'm not pregnant.... Oh, bugger, I'm really NOT pregnant now."

Guilt
Oh the guilt. The irrational guilt I may have done something to cause my losses (was it the stupid amount of wine I drank at that restaurant before I knew I was pregnant? Was it those two days I lived off custard creams? Was it that cold I caught?). The guilt that I'm letting everyone down.  The guilt of having to take time off work. Again. The guilt that you can't see your tiny bundle of cells as a baby because attaching that label to it makes it too difficult to process (I am not one of these people who refers to them as rainbow babies / angels I'm afraid). The guilt that I feel and express things other than 'devastation' each time (which is the only acceptable emotion in the face of miscarriage, or people think you're a callous bitch) or that I dwell too much and bring everyone around me down. The guilt that I cried more about Brexit than I did my latest loss... The Guilt.

Stress

All of the above combine to create a buzz of stress that bothers you like tinnitus the whole time you're trying for a baby, growing louder in the two weeks leading up to The Test and reaching a crescendo with that first blue line that doesn't really die until your pregnancy does, or you reach some kind of "and relax" point (which for me, if I'm honest, was about 6 weeks after Duckling was born). It's exhausting, but life continues. You make dinner and wipe countertops and fiddle with Excel spreadsheets and sigh about politics as though nothing is happening because what else can you do? I wish I had control. I wish I could know the future. I wish I could have reassured my pre-Duckling self that it would be all right, I would get my baby in the end. I wish a future me could come back and say "keep going, you'll get number two", or " take out a second mortgage and go back to your specialist" or "don't bother, it's just not going to work out." That isn't how life works though. So I shall persevere, and hope that three does not become four, five, six or more... And if we don't get a second child? Well then we'll just love the first all the more.

*Evacuation of Retained Products of Conception.  A charming term I'm sure you'll agree.