It takes a village to raise a child. And apparently one to champion this mother.

After giving birth to my son, I was alone. Just me and my crying, peeing, and pooing bundle of joy. The closest family member was about 400 miles away, with most being about 8,000 miles. My ex-husband was working 70-hour work weeks. And the vast majority of my former workmates were busy living their sans child lives going to gigs, pubs and all-the-rage restaurants, unable to compete in a National Nappy Changing Competition if their lives depended on it.

I had the blues worthy of a Robert Johnson song, and just as it is said that Mr. Johnson sold his soul to the devil for the ability to play the greatest blues ever heard, I felt as though I sold my sanity to ol’ Lucifer in order to have a baby who happened to have the lengthiest crying sessions ever heard.

I sought the help of a therapist, and she discussed post-natal depression. She recommended I research some mom and baby groups in my area, and I told her I had no desire to become a member of the Goo Goo Ga Ga Gang or Mamas Who Coffee Clique. She said I should force myself, and the next week I found myself doing downward dogs with fellow new mothers in a mums and babies yoga group.

Unbeknownst to me, this was the first day of the formation of my village, a village which initially helped me overcome my baby blues and a village which has subsequently helped me look after myself, raise my son, and nurture the baby in my belly.

Some of the mothers in that yoga class have become lifelong friends and parental pillars. And they have introduced me to other moms – at playgroups, story times and classes, at birthday parties and picnics, and in parks and gardens – with whom I’ve formed lasting friendships. These moms are the bricks and sticky tack, the shoulders, the “come overs” and the “I’ll be right overs” of my village.

We’ve spent countless hours in each other’s homes, celebrating milestones together, listening to stories of monster-in-laws, sharing holiday stories and photos, fetching tissues for leaky boobs, supporting one another in pregnancies and returns to work, and caring for each other’s children as if they were our own.

When my little Enlai had the chicken pox, my village wanted to bring over medicine. When I started a new business, my village all came to the launch party. When Enlai was in the hospital, my village visited him, offered to donate blood, brought him gifts, and called at all hours to check on the little fella. When Enlai started his first day at school, no less than a handful of my village moms called me within ten minutes of dropping him off to check if I was okay. When I separated from Enlai’s father, my village opened their homes. The first night Enlai and I moved into our new flat, my village came over with champagne and housewarming gifts.

Upon finding out I was pregnant with my second child and sharing the news with a mom in my village, she sat across the table crying tears of joy just as I did. When I announced this happiest of news to all the moms in my village, I received numerous offers of grocery shopping and babysitting while I rested. My village spoiled me with several home-cooked meals.

The sweet bun in my oven has already been shown so much village love. In addition to offers of going with me to antenatal visits and being a birth partner, my village has given me maternity clothes, a crib/cot, highchair, bath, baby gym, clothes, bottles and toys.

I have endless gratitude for my village of fellow moms. Endless. Happy Mother’s Day (US) to all of them. Now then, if only I could convince the majority of fellow tube passengers that they are also part of the village and that by offering a pregnant woman a seat, they may be contributing to the well-being of a child.

While I have no burning desire for my four-year-old son or the sweet pea in my belly to be artists, I want them to know art, to feel art, to rely on art if they need to, to trust art when they feel they can’t trust humans, to mistrust art when their instincts tell them to, to crave art – more than salty or spicy thises or thats, more than chocolate – to find art and to allow it find them, to look for the chords, the dissonance, the obsession, the adoration and the repulsion, and the constriction and the breath in art.  I want my children to have the intelligence which will help them decide when an artist is being true.

My son Enlai and I have been to exhibitions aplenty.  There was the time we went to see Sigrid Holmwood at Annely Juda Fine Art, when Enlai in his baby carrier kicked his legs feverishly in front of one particular piece with fluorescent lemon yellow and lead antimonite among other media as I considered Van Gogh’s influence and started thumbing around my bag to find my sunglasses.  It was bright in the gallery during Holmwood’s occupation.

While we’re on Mr. Vincent V.G., there was the Royal Academy of Arts exhibition “The Real Van Gogh: The Artist and His Letters”.  Upon walking into the first room, with wall-to-wall paintings, drawings and letters, Enlai surveyed the space and in the same shouting voice he uses at the playground to get my attention when he is competing with the volume that accompanies after-school energy he declared, “Oh, great, I love Picasso!”  The gentleman a few feet away was not amused.  I was.

There was Cy Twombly at Tate Modern, when I did everything in my power to keep Enlai awake half the night – including cookie bribery, Tigger and Pooh impersonations, and building Play-Doh pillars as tall as the wee man – so that he’d sleep a better part of the next day, during our time at the exhibition.  I wanted him to see the Twombly tour de force, but I also wanted to view the works, as if they existed only for me, as if I had all the time in the world to view them.

And in keeping with the technique of the last chancer, Enlai and I ventured over to White Cube, Mason’s Yard to see the Christian Marclay show.  As to be expected on the last day of the exhibition, there was a long line outside.  Spotting me with the buggy and restless toddler, the gallery invigilator/saint pulled us out of the line and told us to follow her inside the gallery.  Oh, the daggers thrown at us by the sideline sufferers.  I still have scars from where the blades entered.  While watching Marclay’s The Clock, a 24-hour assemblage of time-associated scenes from movies, I could appreciate his concept and his obsessive adherence to his concept, but visually, watching the video for me became an exercise in “Oh, I know that film, that’s (insert title here),” and “Note to self, watch that film again,” and “Oh, what’s that actor up to these days?”  Enlai, on the other hand, was glued to the screen.

And lest I not forget our visit to the Hauser & Wirth space on Old Bond Street that the gallery shares with Old Master dealer Colnaghi, to see the Berlinde de Bruyckere/Luca Giordano show “We Are All Flesh”.  Bruyckere’s uncompromising talent, her haunting wax sculptures, her understanding of betweenness and the human condition is arresting.  As our eyes were on the deconstructed human figures writhing in contradictory brutal and sensual contortions – part orgy, part nude wrestling, and part massacre – Enlai looked at me and asked, “Why is this happening?”  And although he didn’t understand then, I hope that he will understand in the future what I meant when I told him that he needed to decide for himself why this is happening.

Just as I thought it an opportune time a couple years ago, I think this is another apt time with Mother’s Day (US) only over a couple weeks away to share with you a variety of artworks which depict a mother, commemorate a mother or were inspired by a mother.  I am captivated by the artists’ use of empty toothpaste tubes, vintage infantwear, ivory and formica, among other media in the pieces.  The perspective, the confrontation, and the meditation on family life evident in the works is deserving of our eyes and minds.

When I view the Seurat and Schjerfbeck pieces, I think of my own mom, who sewed my clothes as a young child, my outfits and prom dresses as a teenager,  and my wedding dress as an adult.  I owe my limited knowledge of silk dupioni, organza and bouclé to her, as I do my love of the sound of patterns being pulled out of envelopes.  I can still see her carrying bolts of burlap and lamé to the cutting table, and the woman about to cut the fabric asking what she planned to make.  My mom, motioning towards me, responded, “A dress for her.”  Perplexed, the woman asked, “With these two fabrics?”  My mom, somewhat embarrassed, shook her head at me, and told the woman, “I tried to tell her, but she insists this is what she wants.”  The life and times of a mother and a determined child.

Arshile Gorky
The Artist and His Mother, 1926-36

Frank Benson
Portrait of the Artist's Mother, 2004

David Alfaro Siqueiros
The Artist's Mother, 1950

Sher Fick
Portrait of Artist's Mother as a Child, 2008

Georges Seurat
Embroidering (Portrait of the artist's mother), 1883

Song Dong
Waste Not installation, 2012

Edvard Munch
The Dead Mother, 1899

Egon Schiele
Mother Sleeping, 1911

Thomas Seir Cummings
A Mother's Pearls (Portraits of the Artist's Children), 1841

Helene Schjerfbeck
At Home Mother Sewing, 1903

If I think about who, what, where and when I am, the answers usually involve being a mother.  The why and the how do as well; however, the responses are much more intricate.  I’m unsure as to whether I’ve always wanted to be a mother, but I seem to have been born with a hyperempathy that has compelled me to want to care for and protect people, to hug complete strangers, to feed them, to wipe their tears away.

When I was younger, I couldn’t count myself among the little lasses who dream of jumping on the back of that prince’s white horse or who fantasise about walking down a petal-lined aisle.  I do remember, though, reading about Josephine Baker and her melting pot of adopted children, and it made me smile.  I thought what a beautiful life it would be to be surrounded by life.

The first time I became pregnant, I was 32.  From the time I read about Miss Baker until then, I knew I wanted to have children.  Not just one or two, but a lot.  I used to say I wanted at least as many as the offensive line-up of an American football team.

When I met my ex-husband, he made it clear that he did not want to have any children.  After he said this, I questioned my desire to have my own brood, asking myself if I really wanted to be a mother or was I only interested in children, or if there was a difference.  For me, there was a difference, and I was sure I wanted both.  I didn’t only want to work with children, teach children or be an aunt or godparent; I wanted to mother as only a mother can.  But because my ex-husband was adamant about not wanting children, and because I was in love – a love that I had never known up to that point in my life – I agreed that we wouldn’t have children.

Love was not the only factor.  Fear was another.  And in retrospect, I think I used love as an excuse to mask my fear of becoming a mother.  I knew that the razor-sharp emotions of a mother, steeped in unconditional love, ran so deep so as to render me raw at any given moment.  When one is raw, one is exponentially more susceptible to pain and sorrow.  Yes, one is simultaneously extremely vulnerable to overwhelming bliss, pride, and affection, but even then, I would be raw, my heart aching with positive sentiments.

I began to truly believe that I could live a fulfilled life without being a mother, without having a child.  Until my seven-month-old nephew came to visit.  I watched his fascination with the cracks and holes in our hardwood floors, with a water bottle, with his food.  Witnessing his sense of wonder and listening to his word-noises made me so happy; that time with him is tattooed on my soul.  And I’m not referring to one of those fading henna tattoos.  After he left, I cried for a week.

My ex-husband knew why I was crying, and we agreed to start trying to have a child.  Attempting to conceive was not without its difficulties.  After aiming to become pregnant for a year, I was discouraged.  It seemed that all the women in my family and all my friends need only sneeze, and their bellies were swollen with a fetus.  I decided to consult a fertility specialist and learned that I might have trouble conceiving.  The fertility specialist scheduled a second ultrasound so we could learn the severity to determine whether the next step should be fertility drugs.  At this second ultrasound, the sonographer saw something on the monitor, a dot which she said looked like an embryo.  She asked if there was a chance that I was pregnant, and I told her it wasn’t likely as we had been trying for so long without any luck.  She told me to jump off the table and gave me a pregnancy test.  I was five weeks pregnant.

I wept tears of joy the whole way home from the clinic, and as I rubbed my belly, it felt as though my life was only beginning.  I made a promise to my child that morning: I would do everything in my power to be the best mother I could be, and not a day would pass when my child didn’t know and feel how loved he or she was by me.

My life changed the day my son was born.  He has taught me more in the span of four years than I will probably be capable of teaching him in his lifetime.  His imagination astounds me, and his affectionate nature has thawed parts of me that I thought were no longer frozen.  Those eyes of his speak a language all their own, even when they’re closed.  As I anticipated I would be as a mother, I am at all times raw, but I’m a better human being for it.

This is not to say I haven’t missed my sleep, a chance to pee in private, or leaving my home without half of it in my bag in the way of toys, snacks, wipes and other baby and child accoutrement, but these things are overshadowed by the overpowering exhilaration, the pure elation I derive from being a mother.

When my son Enlai was about 18 months old, I knew I wanted a second child.  I was brimming with love, and I wanted to share this love with another child.  My ex-husband already compromised by having one child, and he was absolutely resolute in his decision to not have another.  He said he realised his limitations – emotional and financial – and he would never agree to have an additional offspring.  I respected his honesty.  But if I compromised by agreeing to not have another child, I would be lying to myself, depriving myself of something so extraordinarily wonderful, and depriving my son of a lifelong friend, a sibling to share life experiences with as only a sibling can.

In lying to myself, I felt pieces of myself chipping away, my soul was fragmented.  I’ve never been one to not pursue my dreams, despite the most difficult adversities and self-placed obstacles.  I started to imagine myself in my later years, resenting not a decision that I had a choice to make and didn’t, but more importantly, resenting myself.  How could I live with myself if I resented myself?  How could I be a good mother and teach my son about being true to himself and following his heart if I wasn’t?  ‘Tis true that words are my mistress, but a wise man once told me that actions speak louder.  I had heard the saying a million times before and understood the meaning, but not until this wise man showed me did I truly understand the meaning.  I try to be an action mother, not a word mother, reminding myself that the Nike slogan wasn’t “Just Say It”.

When my ex-husband and I decided to divorce, I thought my chance of having another child dissolved along with the marriage.  I was an anemic version of myself after our union collapsed, and my childbearing years were nearly over.  Everything seemed blurry.  But, as I cooked my son’s meals, I took off my gauzy goggles and prepared my own optimism hors d’oeuvre.  And one day, as we sat at the table eating and laughing together, I realised I was still able to have another child.  I would be a single parent, and it would undoubtedly be a labyrinthine journey, but I was capable.

I am over the moon to share with you that I am now pregnant with my second child, conceived by a donor.  This pregnancy has not been without physical and emotional snags.  I have been hurt from judgments from both family and friends.  It is possible that I have mistaken worry for judgments, but anyone who knows me and understands my heart is aware of how long I’ve yearned for another child.  After I found out last week of a possible complication with my baby, I could only hold my Enlai’s hand and rub my belly, reminding myself how fortunate I am to be a mother, something I would never, ever take for granted.

My little Enlai has been to my sonograms, waving to his sibling, who he said was waving to him on the monitor.  He says he can’t wait to teach the baby about Scooby Doo and Batman, to share with the baby his special “blankies” and toys, to kiss the baby’s cheeks.  The other day, Enlai had his arm over my belly, and the baby kicked right where his hand was.  Enlai said, “That’s the baby’s way of talking to me.”  An action.  No words.

I am the mother of all gifts, of one child and another on the way.  Of Enlai’s instinct to be kind, to laugh until he can’t breathe.  Of his little voice, his stories, and even the times when he’s ill and only wants to lie next to me the entire day.  These are all incredible gifts.  With the sweet pea in my belly, I will be the mother of its sweet scent, its softness, of sleepless nights and engorged breasts.  I am the mother of the most important gift: life.

Thrifty’s Mint n Chip ice cream.  Knee-high to a grasshopper, I remember it being all of 15 cents (9 pence) for a single scoop.  Each lick of the green and brown stuff was like arctic euphoria, and this flavour remained my favoured frosty friend for years.  That is, until I sampled butter pecan and green tea flavours.  And then those two fellas from Vermont had me hooked on their Vanilla Toffee Crunch.  I could easily eat a whole pint in one go.  Ditto for Haagen Dazs’ Pralines and Cream, which has served as my glacial gratifier for the last handful of years.  But above all the aforementioned flavours, there is only one which sent my gustatory cells into a shivery tizzy – Haagen Dazs’ Limited Edition Mascarpone, Passion Fruit & Truffles.  Nobody could talk to me while I ate it.  The lights in the room had to be dim.  And I had to have a blanket on me.

Although accounts of how I licked the life out of my favourite flavours could easily make up the bulk of my creamy chronicles, the chronicles could not be complete without the chase scene.  My childhood involved not one chase scene, but several.  Ice cream trucks frequently drove up and down my granny’s street, and upon hearing that first note of the truck’s melodic chime, I worked myself into a frenzy.  The truck was usually a mile away, but due to my keen sense of hearing when it came to all things ice cream, I would dart inside the house to beg my granny for change.  My granny was usually occupied doing things that grannies do, but because ice cream was the top priority, I always expected her to stop everything in order to get her coin purse and give me some change.  My poor granny was arthritic so it would take her what seemed years to a seven-year-old to shuffle to her room to get her coin purse and shuffle back to the front door to give me some coins.  I usually ended up having to chase the ice cream truck, which had since driven past my granny’s house.  I always bought the same ice cream – Strawberry Shortcake.

On one occasion, I was giving one of my pink plastic performances à la hula hoop.  I thought my audience was only the bougainvilleas and dry blades of grass.  But on a single special day, the ice cream man paused for my show, applauded when my gyrating stopped, and gestured for me to come to the truck window.  He handed me my usual Strawberry Shortcake, on the house, so to speak.

Whenever my cousin Ileana and I would get an ice cream together, she would frustrate me to no end with her failure to lick feverishly.  I would look at her fingers covered in dripping ice cream and feel compelled to grab her ice cream and clean it up with my mouth vacuum.

Maybe it’s obsessive compulsive disorder, or perhaps our dear old friend Freud would say I have a maladaptive oral fixation.  Whatever it is, I currently leave my son with no choice but to let me tidy up his ice creams.  During his first ice cream experience, in a perfect setting of sun, beach and sand, it took everything in me not to seize the deliciousness from him and lick-sculpt it into its former form.  Over the last four years, my little fella has resolved to simply handing me his ice creams when they start melting quicker than his little mouth can neaten the tasty trickles, asking, “Ma, do you want to do your job?”

I was most recently required to do my job while my little prince and I attended a gelato workshop.  A fellow mom organised the class for us and a group of friends at Dri Dri Gelato in Notting Hill.  The kiddos learned exactly how gelato is made, creating their own strawberry gelato and pear and lemon gelato.  They cut, measured, poured, stirred, crushed, juiced, scooped, packed and labelled.  The munchkins even had an opportunity to behold Dri Dri’s original 1960s gelato equipment in action.  When it came time for the taste test, my little Enlai licked the scoop from his spoon, saying, “Look, ma, you don’t have to clean the spoon, there aren’t any drips.”  In a split second, I “accidentally” pushed the back of the spoon down on the gelato, lifting the spoon up to show him that there was indeed gelato residue that necessitated the talents of my tongue.  Gelato instructor Daniella ensured that all the little ones had their own ½ litre of gelato to take home, along with their gelatiere certificates.

Sitting inside the gelateria reminded me of a birthday party I had as a child at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour.  We all sat around a rectangular table, eating ice cream for lunch and more ice cream for dessert.  And then a mini band/choir came out, decked out in their straw hats and shirts with vests and ties, singing their own rendition of Happy Birthday while playing the drums and banjo and carrying sparklers.  As birthday girl, I was treated to Farrell’s Zoo, a gargantuan ice cream treat that could’ve potentially become the 51^st state in America.  There seemed to be about ten different flavours, hot butterscotch, fudge and caramel syrups, bananas, whipped cream, nuts and cherries.  It was a birthday party Willy Wonka himself could’ve easily organised.  I’m happy to say that Farrell’s still hosts birthday parties today, but I’m guessing they don’t rock like those Farrell’s parties of the Seventies.  Nonetheless, revellers can indulge in ice cream delicacies with names like “The Pig’s Trough”, “Mt. Saint Helen” and “Gold-Digger”.

There was another popular ice cream parlour called Swensen’s, and I recall some moaning about how expensive their cones were.  The greatest things about this parlour, besides the icy goodness, were the high swivel chairs and the mirror behind the parlour not unlike Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère.  One could dizzy herself on her whirligig seat whilst simultaneously perfecting her licking method by studying the movements of the tongue in the mirror.  In one of life’s rare moments, my cousin TC invited me alone to Swensen’s (he invited me to sneak off with him while our granny did her shopping at the market next door).  Being older than me and the one with the cash, he got to choose the flavour.  He said we would share licks.  Somehow he managed to get in ten licks for every one of mine.  No matter.  It was one of the best times I had that whole, hot summer.  Today, Swensen’s is pleasing palates in several countries, but sadly, because we do not have one anywhere in the UK, we are deprived from enjoying such wintry delights as “Sticky Chewy” and “The Earthquake”.

One thing we in the UK can make a fuss of is our ice cream during theatre intermissions.  While I was anticipating seeing Richard II and Coriolanus, part of the anticipation was the half-time icy bit.  Those dainty single serve cups with their provided plastic spoons smaller than the size of my pinky finger made all the politics in Richard II and all the blood in Coriolanus easier to digest.  I hope Enlai develops an appreciation for interval ice cream.  If this gratitude entices him to see a play he wouldn’t otherwise want to see, the ice cream will have worked its magic.

It makes me smile to know my son and I share a love of ice cream.  I am determined to let him enjoy his frozen regalement, interruption-free (i.e. without ma’s mouth coming near it), even if it’s dripping, melting or attempting to stain his clothes.  When he asks me to please not touch his bowl of ice cream because he’s making ice cream soup, I will refrain from grabbing a straw to test that the consistency of the soup is correct.  When he requests chocolate instead of vanilla, I will not try to encourage him to opt for vanilla so as to prevent stains.  And I will teach him that, unlike Prufrock, we should measure our lives with ice cream scoops, not coffee spoons.

For the most part, I like the rain.  I like the sound of it, the puddles, the unpredictability of which way a downpour will sometimes blow, and the fact that it gives me an excuse to stay inside all day with my little guy and play games, pretend we’re superheroes and paint.

And I like rain accoutrement – the wellies, the coats, and the umbrellas.  After watching Mary Poppins as a child, I had a fascination with umbrellas that lasted a few months.  I’d borrow my granny’s black umbrella, open it up at the top of the sloped driveway, hold it up high and run down, waiting for the umbrella to works its magic and elevate me.  On several occasions, I slipped on the oil-slicked surface – with the bruises and cuts to prove it – but I continued nonetheless, hoping that one day that umbrella would bump me up to the skies.

Cut to a few decades later when my wish was that Mary Poppins herself would appear with her bottomless carpet bag and pull out of it something that would allow me to push my son in his buggy without becoming drenched while braving cats-and-dogs rain.  Like I said, for the most part, I like the rain, but not when I was trying to figure out a buggy/stroller raincover while holding an umbrella in one hand (and the majority of the time, with a crying baby/toddler who was not too keen on a raincover).  And I wasn’t too fond of the rain when I was attempting to simultaneously hold an umbrella and push a buggy.  Ambidexterity is not overrated.

I somehow only managed to find out about the Buggy Brolly after my son was out of his pushchair, but I suspect that even had I known about this brainchild of a mother of three, I may have opted for one of the more interesting choices below.  So, rain rain go away, come again after the pram pushers have had a chance to pick up a UFO cap.

Chemical coveralls

Nubrella

UFO Cap

Bicycle raincoat

Brella bag

Disposable poncho raincoat

Umbrella raincoat

Umbrella hat

Japanese umbrella

Hands-free umbrella

I used to travel heavy.  By heavy, I mean when my son and I travelled to the US last year, three of the carry-ons were full of his toys, books, markers, stickers, and puzzles.  It wasn’t that I thought he actually needed all of this for the 11-hour flight, but I was concerned for the welfare of our fellow passengers.  I didn’t want any of them to be privy to a meltdown in the skies.

On the way to the flight gate – a beast of burden carrying my son and these huge bags (so colossal that they didn’t fit in the handy “check if your carry-ons are small enough to be considered carry-ons” guide near the check-in counter, but I winked and smiled at the counter attendant and managed to finagle my way through) – I vowed to find the toy of all toys.  I was on a quest for the ultimate all-in-one little darling’s doodah that didn’t require me carrying half our home, the toy that came complete with bells, whistles and foghorns, with cry-proof gadgetry (for the little guy and me), with harm-proof gadgetry (for passers-by and passengers in the seats near us), and with educational gallimaufry.

A few months after this trip, my son was in hospital and a friend of his let him borrow her iPad.  Complete with games, books and movies, this little rectangular piece of technology became the Apple of his eye (amusing myself with that pun, I am).  This book-sized piece of modern machinery was the toy I had been searching for, the holy grail of playthings.  This extraordinary curio eliminated the need for me to carry 30lbs worth of child amusement accoutrement.

When my son left the hospital, his pa bought him his own iPad.  It was a true blessing as distractor during various tests at subsequent hospital visits.  Almost a year later, and I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I love his – ahem, our – iPad as much as him.  Don’t tell him, but I occasionally play with some of his apps when he’s not around.  That reminds me, where the heck is that iPad charger?

Here are our five favourite entertainment, game and book iPad apps for little ones right now:

Scribblify
Compatible with iPhone and iPad
Age recommendation:  4+ (if using alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be used at 2+)
Cost:  $0.99 in the US, £0.69 in the UK

Scribblify is my and my four-year-old son’s favourite iPad app.  We play with this drawing and painting app the most, and it never gets old.  It keeps him engrossed for at least an hour at a time, and the art pieces he creates really are amazing.  My dad told me David Hockney creates exhibition-worthy art on iPads, and as I perused Sir Hock’s creations, I have to admit that I thought to myself that my little guy’s masterpieces are worthy of an exhibition.

This app does not require any artistic abilities to create figurative, abstract, surreal, or scenic art pieces. With effects, 28 different brushes/textures and hundreds of colours – varying values, combinations of colours and custom blends – children and adults alike are only limited by their own imagination.  And although the age recommendation is 4+, if a parent is using Scribblify with a little one, a munchkin as young as two could easily enjoy the app.  We love the horizontal, vertical and quadrant mirrors.  Remember when as a child, you’d fold paper in half, cut shapes with scissors, unfold the paper, and see the mirror shapes on both halves?  Well, imagine that, but in electronic form.  We also love the fact that we can share Enlai’s  works of genius with friends and family on Facebook or by email.

Drawing Pad
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+ (if using alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be used at 2+)
Cost:  $1.99 in the US, £1.19 in the UK

This portable art studio app is delicious.  Whenever my little guy chooses this app, I become the kid in the candy shop.  If you and/or your mini-me have any sort of art appetite, this will satisfy your hunger.  Enlai loves opening up the electronic drawer filled with brushes, pencils, crayons, a blending tool (we call it “the smudgy”), markers, stamps, paper, stickers, and rubbers (erasers for my US compatriots).  When any one of the tools is tapped, a range of colours is presented.  The coloured pencils alone offer about 60 different hues.

Nevermind that Apple chose Drawing Pad as “iPad App of the Week” in several countries, or that it has been featured on nytimes.com, usatoday.com, and awarded Editor’s Choice Award from Children’s Technology Review.  What I – a mama whose role often includes acting as foremost funmaker and principal picker-upper – love about this app is the fact that it keeps my little fella entertained for at least as long as it takes me to do some cooking and washing, and sitting down to take a breath and doesn’t present a whole new mess to clean up.

Enlai taught me how to use two fingers to rotate and resize the stickers, and he sometimes magnifies the stickers so much that they become the background for his drawings.  He loves that he can save his art should he be interrupted – potty breaks happen, as do meal and bath times – and reload it later to continue his touchscreen tour de force.  And just as we can with Scribblify, we are able to share Enlai’s art with friends and family on Facebook or by email.

Elmo’s  Monster Maker
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 1+)
Cost:  $3.99 in the US

We both laugh out loud every time we use this app.  Elmo prompts us to select one “blank” monster from a choice of five and then to decide on something for the top of the head, the eyes and the nose.  The choices alone make us giggle, including Elvis wigs and lampshades for tops, fried eggs and Groucho Marx glasses for eyes, and disco balls and butterflies for noses.

We go into chuckle overdrive once our monster is created because we are then given the option to allow him to dance, pose for a photo, or play.  If we choose the former, the monsters dance to different tunes, from polka to country to some 80s keyboardy tune.  Some of their dance moves and dance faces have me in stitches.   If we opt for Elmo to snap a photo, he asks the monsters to say “cheese”, the screen momentarily goes white (as if an actual camera flashes), and the shot – complete with different backdrops – can then be retrieved in the iPad photos.  Enlai’s favourite is the play mode, when Elmo comes out to play with the monster.  He sometimes says “boo” and startles the monster or does random things with the monsters, like ducking so as to miss a rubber chicken or pretending to ride a roller coaster.

My little guy somehow figured out how to tickle the monsters (this is not an obvious option in the app).  One day, Enlai came running from his room to my shower, excitedly shouting, “Ma, you won’t believe this!  Come and see this!”  I asked if there was a fire, rodents or bugs involved, to which he shouted in reply, “No, it’s the Elmo monster.  He’s ticklish!  And the other one plays a trumpet!”  He discovered that if you do absolutely nothing (i.e. ignore Elmo’s prompts to press a button) and just watch the monster for a few seconds, one of them plays a trumpet, one chomps on an apple, and others yawn, doze off or say something funny, among other things.  The sounds of some of their voices crack me up.

One thing I love about this app is the fact that it’s seasonal.  The options and backgrounds change according to season and highlight different objects we often see during particular times of the year, such as bunny ears and Easter eggs in the spring, seashells and ice cream in the summer, Christmas baubles and reindeer antlers in the winter, and acorns and leaves in the fall.

The Monster at the End of This Book
Compatible with iPhone and iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 2+)
Cost:  $3.99 in the US, £2.49 in the UK

With narration by lovable, furry Grover, touch-point animation and silliness wrapped up in more silliness, this quickly became an adored app.  Our fuzzy blue friend spends the story worrying about the monster at the end of the book, aiming to convince us not to turn the page.  The clever software developers of this app must have children, because if you tell a toddler to not turn a page, what do they do?  Exactly.

The fact that Grover helps little ones learn to read by speaking the words of the story as they appear on the screen was lost on us.  And although the fact that this app reached No. 1 in books in the app store, was the recipient of the Editor’s Choice Award in the Children’s Technology Review and was named one of Babble’s Best Apps for Kids of 2011 is wonderful, but once again, all these accolades were completely lost on us. Enlai and I both just appreciate the story, silliness and interactivity.

Because Grover is genuinely frightened at the possibility of confronting the monster at the end of the book – even becoming a comical drama king with shrills and arms thrown in the air – he ties down pages with knotted ropes, nails wooden slabs, and builds brick walls, all in an effort to keep us from turning the pages.  Little ones are able to decide the pace of the story as their touch determines whether the story stays static on one page for several minutes or whether they turn the page as soon as the prompt to do so pops up. Telling you what happens with the monster at the end of the book would be like disclosing what happens at the end of The Godfather trilogy.  I can’t bring myself to do it.  Rest assured that there is a likelihood of  laughter, not tears.

Toy Story
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 2+)
Cost:  Free

If you and your little one have watched the three-part Disney dynamo that is known as the Toy Story franchise, then it is likely you will enjoy this app, if for nothing else than it affords an opportunity to interact with familiar and cherished characters.

While we are yet to take full advantage of all the app has to offer, including an interactive book , games, colouring pages, two sing-along videos and two games, Enlai colours the three colouring pages nearly every time he has the iPad in his hands.  He has even developed his own stories around these pages that have nothing to do with the actual Toy Story plot.

With this app, your little ones can hear the story read aloud, and can even record their own narration to listen to (or for younger children, their parent’s narration).   On each page, we can tap the screen to play various sound effects and character voices.  While I like the games – Parachute Drop and Toy Barn Maze – Enlai is not very interested at this stage.  The two sing-along videos – You’ve Got A Friend In Me and Strange Things – come with lyrics, and we’ve probably watched the former video about 20 times over the last ten months.  I think the main appeal of this app is the price and the choice.  It’s not a one-trick piece of software; there’s a lot on offer.

Now then, it can’t all be fun and games, can it.  Watch this space for my and Enlai’s review of our top handful of educational apps for precious offspring.  In the meantime, happy apping.

Here I am, my little Enlai, contemplating underneathness and upsides.  Optimism holds my hand, but occasionally I feel its fingers loosening.  And it is during these moments that I think of you, your curiosity, your laugh when I do my master Winnie the Pooh impersonation, your top-o-the-lungs shouting to anyone who would listen at the playground that you needed a plaster because your ma tripped and fell while chasing you, your desire to kiss my eyelids just as I’ve always kissed yours.

After a decade together, your pa and I are divorcing.  All three of us have new adventures in our paths ahead, and despite the inevitable adversities that go hand-in-hand with separation and change, I think we should feel reassured, feel warm.  There is still – and always will be – a genuine love and affection between your pa and me, so let’s choose to be excited about embarkations, about the opening of different doors.  The fact that the movers had to take the door off of the hinges in our new home in order to fit things in should not be lost on us.  Metaphors leak truths, my son.

There are benefits to bond breaks.  In addition to gaining insight into ourselves and life, we are given an opportunity to stop, to stop and be grateful.  To pause and think about how we must never take anything for granted.

What I want you to know is that I loved your pa with every part of my being.  He was my everything.  His eyes mesmerised me (as did his calf muscles), but it was his intelligence, his wonderment and lust for learning, his dark sense of humour, and his sensitive soul which enamoured me.

On our first date, your pa talked about Hemingway and made me smile.  I talked about how one of Haruki Murakami’s books changed me.  I told him about a poetry class I was taking and a Bukowski poem about stirring beans that I liked, and he started in with Auden and Yeats.  We talked about visits to Greece and France and Japan and China and how we’d like to go back.  He told me he spent his summers at camp in the Hamptons, and I told him that I spent mine in Oakland, picking blackberries and raspberries and eating green tea ice cream.  We laughed a lot.  And five hours later, with everyone else in the restaurant long gone and the staff staring at us as if to say, “Happy to see that you two are having a great date and all, but can we wrap this sh*t up,” your pa drove me home.  I think it was evident to both of us that we liked each other.  But, more significantly, I think it was evident that we needed each other.

Following this first date, there was rarely a day when we didn’t see each other.  I took him to see Buena Vista Social Club in concert, and to my surprise, your pa stood up and starting dancing in the aisle.  And even though he was dancing to a beat that only he seemed to hear, I threw my arms up, shook my hips and joined him, and once again, we laughed.  My sweet son, I can only say that you are fortunate that you inherited your sense of rhythm from your ma.  A few weeks later, I invited him to hear David Sedaris speak.  We laughed so hard, we cried.

Not long after this, your pa gave me a present:  ee cummings’ complete poems.  Wherever life takes me, this book will always travel with me, to remind me that “love is more thicker than forget”.

Fast forward a bit, and I can tell you about the time we had our own two-person Super Bowl party, complete with a trip to Fatburger to stock up on some fatty burgers, chilli cheese fries oozing with grease, onion rings dripping with oil, and cookies and cream milkshakes.  After eating and drinking this lardy line-up,  we lay on the bed comatosed.  We fell asleep and missed the Super Bowl.

Four months after our first date, your pa invited me to drive up the California coast for the weekend on the back of his motorcycle.  He taught me how to give the secret hand signal to fellow riders, and a motorcycle mama was born.  It was during this weekend that your pa proposed to me.  I did not expect it at all, and after he asked, I sat there silent for about 15 minutes.  He handed me the gold and fuchsia plastic ring that came out of a vending machine a couple months prior (when I asked him if he had any change so I could get a treat from the machine), and when I saw this ring, I knew that your pa understood me.  I said yes.

To mark the occasion, we indulged in some highly recommended spa treatments.  I wondered if he might retract his proposal due to the events that unfolded after the spa visit.  Your pa decided to get a head and neck massage, and I opted for a facial.  Halfway into my facial, I heard the spa technician say, “Hmmm.  Let’s try something different.”  She wiped my face, applied something else, and said, “Hmmm.  Hmmm.”  I asked if there was something wrong, and she said, “Have a look for yourself.”  She held up a mirror, and after looking in it, I said, “Hmmm.”  My face was bright red, with even brighter red bumps all over.  I was obviously allergic to the secret potions she used.  She wiped my face of all products, and I said I thought it best to end the facial.  I walked back to our room in a makeshift bathrobe burqa.  I took a shower, and just as I was getting out, your pa walked in.  He said he couldn’t really lift his head up because he was in so much pain from his massage, and I said that was a good thing because a funny little thing happened to me at the spa.

Shortly thereafter, we moved in together and lived in sin.  It was during this time that we realised the continual compromises required when one of us is a hoarder and the other a minimalist.  For the record, the one who you call pa is the former.  It was during this time that I found out that your pa had a penchant for midnight barbecues.  He doesn’t like to be rushed when he cooks.  And it was during this time that I roasted some spicy chicken and managed to measure ingredients incorrectly, and your pa nearly had to go to the A&E from cayenne pepper ingestion.

It was during this time that your pa read poetry to me in the buff.  And I started to write love letters to him and stick them in his briefcase whenever he had to travel.  And it was during this time that we initiated DJ nights, when we’d sit down in dim light, drink wine and take turns playing each other songs.  For every one of these nights, I could count on your pa to play Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash singing “Girl from the North Country”.  I often wondered if it was the emotion in the song itself or whether he was thinking of a former love when he listened to this song because he would usually cry.  To this day, I don’t know where the tears came from, but if it was for a former love, she is lucky to have spent time with your pa.

When we were planning our wedding, we were both eager for the ceremony to be modest.  We decided to marry in Greece, and there were six people in attendance, including us and the officiant.  It was a day with water, with anticipation.  It was a day with a motorcycle crash and contemplation.  A day with gyros and laughter.  A day with ignorance as to how to tie a bow tie and a sunset concocted just for us.  A day with Procol Harum singing at an unexpected moment, a day with what felt like an entire island on their terraces to cheer us on.  A day of love on top of love on top of love, a day that nobody can ever take away from me.

Cut to a few months later, when we moved from the West Coast to the East Coast of the US.  On our departure, we met Grandpa Tony for lunch.  I don’t think it was easy for him to say goodbye, and it wasn’t for me.  Watching through the windshield of your pa’s Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce, I saw your grandpa tell pa something and give him a hug.  When your pa got in the car, his eyes were welled up with tears.  I asked him what grandpa told him, and he said, “He just said that I better take care of you.”  And your pa said he would.

This cross-country adventure of ours, my sweet Enlai, has to go down in history as one of the most reckless and necessarily amusing trips in history.  For our first night in Arizona, we checked into a dubious motel.  You should’ve seen the suspicious stain on the carpet of this motel room.  I felt a little nauseous, but your pa was roarin’ to go to Denny’s for a Grand Slam this-or-that or a this-or-that skillet or scramble.  I told your pa I would just have a bite or two of what he was having.  I didn’t sleep at all that first night, for fear that the stain perpetrator would be back for more.  I know humans can sometimes exaggerate the size of things, but I kid you not when I say that this stain was the size of a dromedary whose belly was swollen after eating his fair share of grass and fallen leaves that day.  And the stain was not a nice colour.  Then there were all the armadillo road kill in Texas, the strange petrol station in Oklahoma, the dry county in Arkansas, and all the big rigs in the rain that insisted on frightening the bejesus out of me.  I fed your pa ham, cheese and olives as he drove, and we sang along to Eric Clapton (your pa unapologetically singing all the wrong lyrics).

After our moving truck arrived in Washington, DC shortly after we turned up, your pa and I had a pizza picnic in a small space among cardboard box walls.  We ate in light borrowed from the street lamps outside our big windows, laughed, and fell asleep in each other’s arms next to a half-eaten pizza.

One day, while living in Washington, DC, we ventured to the Maine Avenue Fish Market for some goodies.  Upon leaving with a belly full of blue crab, I jumped on the back of pa’s motorcycle.  What was supposed to be a ten-minute ride home turned into me almost losing my life.  Your pa forgot to take the correct exit, and we ended up on some highway in Virginia.  It wasn’t the shock of the 120mph speed that nearly killed me; it was the fact that the strap from the helmet that flew off my head was wrapped around my neck and choking me.  When we finally pulled off the highway, I told your pa that I would be getting a taxi home.  We laughed hysterically – he from genuinely getting a kick out of the situation and me from disbelief that I was alive – as I rubbed the strap burn on my neck.

On one occasion while in DC, one of my friends said he had a chance to move to London for work.  I extolled the virtues of living in such an amazing city and told him he should not let the opportunity pass.  Your pa overheard my conversation and asked if he detected a hint of my wanting to live across the pond because he wouldn’t mind.  We both worked hard at making the possibility of living and working in London became a reality, but it was really your pa that took the reins.  I gladly galloped.

The day came, and we were living our first week as Londoners.  The initial transition was not an easy one, particularly for me.  Your pa recognised this and did what he has always done – be there.  We had Sainsbury’s Indian in a Box dinner nightly, with forks and spoons that were loaned to us, unbeknownst to the loaners.  We listened to BBC radio on our Grundig.  We were pals on yet another amazing voyage.  And we were very much in love, always holding hands.

There was the time in Paris when we sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg – one of my favourite places in the world – and nearly fell asleep in our chairs.  The time your pa made the mistake of hanging his coat on the decorative hook at that Parisian bistro, when the moustachioed host came sprinting over, shouting,  Monsieur, noooooooo…..”  The time we had the oysters, Sancerre and the most delicious cigarette at that restaurant near the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise.  As we were leaving, the waiter ran after me and presented me with one of my most prized possessions – an ashtray.  The time we had a huge meal before going to the Picasso Museum (which we never went to because the meal carried on, and the museum closed).  We finished the feast with the best Roquefort I’ve ever tasted.  For one reason or another, we didn’t have to pay for the meal, and if you ever hear your pa say, “Merci pour le Roquefort,” he is referring to something he has received gratis.  There was that blue light that your pa knows I crave seeing with my own eyes, and he gave me that light.  There were all those walks in the rain, and the time during one torrential downpour when we sought refuge under an awning near Le Bon Marché with several strangers.  Your pa pulled me close to him and held me tight.

And Berlin on my 30^th birthday.  I indulged your pa with his love of schnitzel and bratwurst, and he my love of art.  The day we ate a meal while looking out the window at the Gendarmenmarkt is inscribed into my bones, as is the meal that nearly made us miss our flight because we didn’t want to leave.  Try as I might to take a stab at German phrases, your pa could only laugh at me every time I attempted to say anything.  He’s the language maestro, I’m the listener.

Your pa has been my biggest fan, and I his.  When he has felt like the universe was against him, I told him I would fetch our coonskin hats, and we’d put up a fight together.  He has encouraged me, and he was sincere in his encouragement.  He has taught me more than anyone ever has.  And I’ve taught him.  At the very least, he knows a bit more about tamales and hip hop.

When I said I wanted to have a child, your pa knew.  And you, my precious, precious Enlai, were born of love.  Your pa was the first to see you when you were born, and his first words were, “It’s a boy, and he has my arches.”  Every opportunity he has to brag about you, he takes full advantage.  As far as my love for you, I know you know.  I will never falter in showing you.

Things happen in a marriage, my sweet son, which make it irreparable.  But just because the marriage is broken doesn’t mean the friendship is, or for that matter, that the family is.  We remain The Three Musketeers.

There are empty spaces in this tale.  These spaces are for your pa to fill in your conversations with him over the years.  Or for you to ask me about.  I will always be more than happy to tell you whatever you would like to know. If ever you detect a hint of sadness in my demeanour in the coming days, weeks, months or years, it is only because life is so short.  It is so short that your pa and I were only allowed to have so many of those extraordinary moments of silence as husband and wife when we were both so moved to be sharing an experience with the other that no words needed to be spoken.  Your pa and I comprehended that silence, breathed that silence, and in my experience, not many humans do.

There is this way your pa would switch gears when he drove his car, and with me in the passenger seat next to him, he would always put his hand on my leg in between, in a “I’m here, always” way.  I know he still will be.  And I will be for him.  And we will be for you.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy, founder of Silent Sunday, to see what she has posted today.

“Let’s go back to the other art project, let’s go back to the snow,” my little guy said over and over.  While some parents dread hearing “Are we there yet, are we there yet?” I was starting to develop pleadstoreturntothisparticularartpiecephobia.  The “art project” he was referring to was Oliver Guy-Watkins’ installation entitled “Technicolour Process”, created with wood, resin, wax, reclaimed furniture, salt, Dacron, shredded poly, rockwall, spray frost and LED lights.  I could understand his desire to continually go back to view this work; he was afforded his own mini winter wonderland.  I too was intrigued by what I saw to be a slice of our modern age viewed through an apocalyptic filter.

For sale at the bargain price of £22,500, this piece was one of over 400 pieces on display from nearly 80 students at the Central Saint Martins MA Fine Art degree show.  It was especially important for me to view this exhibition as it is the last show to take place at the historical Charing Cross site.  So long Soho, hello King’s Cross and Archway, the two locations to which the programme is moving.

When my son was not even a week old, I took him to see a previous degree show there.  Well, I didn’t really take him to “see” the show as his eyes were barely open.  And I may or may not have had my own yearning to see the exhibition.  I think I secretly hoped that all the energy and creativity in the works would  somehow affect my breast milk production, and by some osmosis-like process find their way to my son’s psyche and bones when I gave him the boob.  High hopes, you say?  Okay, I’ll give you that.  Delusional, freakish mom?  Fine.  You can have that, too.

The institution that is Central Saint Martins holds a distinctive place in my ticker.  More important than it being the establishment from which I received my degree, it represents a wish I had that I was determined to fulfill, and it represents the mother of all psychological experiments.

In my final year as a US college student, I decided to study in London.  While studying abroad – at a school that was a two-minute walk to the British Museum – one of my professors was keen to introduce us to different art schools throughout London, giving us their respective histories, telling us of different alumni, and explaining the schools’ diverse curriculum.  Of all these art schools, Central Saint Martins is the one that stood out for me.  There was an odour of  imagination and authenticity, and a stench of sweat, acrylics, and varnishes that took hold of me and never loosened its grip.  I told myself I would be back in London to attend Central Saint Martins one day.

Fast forward a decade later, and my husband and I were now living in London.  There we were on a lazy Sunday, and out of nowhere, he declared that he was going to apply to get his Master of Laws.  I told him that if it would make him happy to obtain yet another degree – he already had three – and if he thought it would improve his chances of being accepted into the Overachiever Hall of Fame, he should go for it.  And then it happened.  The thought.  The thought of me realising my own dream of going to Central Saint Martins.  I asked my husband what he thought, and he said, “Apply today!”  He suggested I apply to more than one school, to which I responded, “There’s really only one.”  So I sat down, filled out the forms and wrote my statement.  That statement is an assemblage of the most honest words I’ve ever written.  I started to write it, with words, sentiments, and examples pouring out, and I finished it in about ten minutes.  And I felt strongly about not wanting to edit it.

When the letter arrived saying I was accepted into the programme, there may have been some yippeekayaying, some yahooing, some jumping on the bed.  There is a possibility that I may have headed to Cass Art, Cowling & Wilcox and London Graphic Centre that same day to peruse some goodies.  A slight possibility.

I met some exceptionally intelligent and ingenious artists on the course.  I even asked one of my fellow artists to be my son’s godfather.  That said, the experience wasn’t an all together affable one.  In fact – probably because of my emotional makeup – I felt like the course was a psychological experiment of gargantuan proportions.  Freud and his buddies would’ve had a field day, with the egos, screams, crying, grunting, perversity, and other unmentionables I witnessed.  But with art and artists, as with almost any endeavour or occupation, there will be neuroses.

As my little fella and I walked from floor to floor to view this year’s degree show, memories of being there in my pre-mom days surrounded me.  I was  reminded of critiques from tutors and fellow students, of visits to certain exhibitions together, of discussions about Frieze and Art Basel, and of smoking Zhong Nan Hai reds for the first time on the stairwell (not me, of course, but my fellow students).  Nicotine is bad, I tell ya, bad, bad, bad.

There were several pieces that both Enlai and I were captivated by, among them Pallas Citroen’s “The ecstasy of Saint Theresa” and Tan Peiling’s “Room with a postcard on floor”.  The latter explores how visual media informs human perception and understanding of reality.  While I was fascinated by how Peiling challenges us to reassess how a visual-biased culture shapes our attention and experience, my little prince wondered what the heck was going on in the space until he saw a portion of the postcard and said, “Ma, it’s a mystery.  Let’s ask Scooby and Shaggy to help us solve it.”

Rock on in your new digs, Central Saint Martins, and if you happen to come across an application years from now from one Enlai Rooney, I can attest – with a tiny bias – that he’s an extraordinary artist, and you’d be crazy to not admit him into the MA Fine Art programme.