There’s the usual bit of bibliophilia going on in our home.  My little softcover savant and we bookworm begetters have been doing eye and mind gymnastics with our latest nightstand reads.

My husband’s reading a Ford Madox Ford book and Grimm’s Fairy Tales, among a handful of other tomes.  I’m reading a book similar to those I imagine a lot of my fellow parents are reading, a guide to understanding the monsters identified as toddlers.  And when I’ve read a few pages of that and am feeling like I understand a tad better the human being known as my three-year-old son, I move on to either John Carey’s What Good Are The Arts?, Andrew Oldham’s collection of poems Ghosts of a Low Moon or a book a friend recently gave me, Conversations with God.  My most recent conversation with God consisted of my asking him how I can end my husband’s latest fascination with the Brothers Grimm because it really has me spooked, and I don’t know how much longer I can sleep with one eye open.  I’m still waiting for God’s response.

My little guy’s folio fare of late seems to be more of the creative and emotional variety.  These handful of books have quickly become my favourites, and every night I ask him if we can please, please, please read one of these.  Sometimes he indulges me, but last night he said, “Let’s give it a break, ma, it’s pirate book time.”

The first of the five I recommend reading with your munchkins is Zen Ghosts by Jon Muth.  Muth created Stillwater the panda, who features in Zen Shorts, Zen Ties and now Zen Ghosts.  The book is a tale adapted from a writing included in a collection of 48 koans by a Chinese Buddhist monk in the 13^th century.  These koans are defined by Muth as questions that one has to answer for himself/herself and which appeal directly to the intuitive part of human consciousness as opposed to the intellect. 

I think the best children’s books are those that strike a chord with both children and adults, and Zen Ghosts certainly fulfills that criteria.  Kids may not understand what Muth is trying to convey, but they will appreciate the characters and the beautiful illustrations throughout the book.   Parents might be pleased that not only is this an intriguing ghost story, but also that their bambinos will learn more about duality – the people they are with their parents, the people they are with their friends, the people they are with their teachers.

While we’re on Buddhist books, another current favourite is Buddha at Bedtime.  Seem as though I’m some sort of ringing endorsement for Buddhism?  I’m not Buddhist, and this is purely coincidental (although in Buddhism, there is no such thing as a pure coincidence, so you can cue in the Twilight Zone theme now).  A friend gave the book to Enlai as a gift, and it really is the gift that keeps on giving – our own little written, illustrated and bound philanthropist.  The subtitle of the book – Tales of Love and Wisdom for You to Read With Your Child to Enchant, Enlighten and Inspire – says everything.  Author Dharmachari Nagaraja retells some of the narratives believed to have been told by the Buddha himself – the Jataka Tales – in 20 stories. 

The colourful illustrations depict a particular scene in the tales, and little ones are sure to recognise the images of animals and nature.  While Nagaraja says the stories are aimed at children six to ten years old, my three-year-old enjoys them, particularly The Prince and Sticky Hair, a tale about words being more powerful than weapons, and The Small Bowl of Rice, which teaches that generosity is its own reward.

And travelling from Buddhism to art, another favourite book is Beautiful Oops!.  Author Barney Saltzberg is my hero, teaching children and adults alike that when you think you’ve made a mistake, think of it as an adventure in creativity and an opportunity to make something beautiful.  The very colourful, 28-page board book – complete with flaps, different textures, and an accordion-like pop-up – naysays blunders and instead teaches that spills, smears, smudges and crumbled-up paper can “make magic appear”.

If I had a choice to buy one book for little ones, this would be the one, regardless of whether or not they have an interest in artistic endeavours.  At any age, it’s worth being reminded that a tear in a page can literally be turned into a smile.

Another current favourite book, which happens to be in the same vein as Beautiful Oops! is The Scribble Book issued by Tate Publishing.  Surprise, surprise, the book is about scribbling and allows for freehand drawing by prompting little ones to turn scribbles into blooming flowers, a dinosaur’s breath, snail shells, smoke from chimneys and hair on already-provided faces.  We’ve had so much fun with this book, giving shy scribbles friends with crayon squiggles of our own, colouring in the loops created by scribbles, drawing scribble spaghetti, and sketching trails in the snow left by skiers.

Within the 64-page book, little ones are encouraged to scribble dust (“otherwise the vacuum cleaner will get bored”), scrawl over the Mona Lisa, scribble on monsters as hard as they can, and decide whether their doodles should make calm or choppy seas.  And for parents who may want to borrow their budding artist’s book, it’s worth noting that art therapists have utilised the “scribble technique” as a method to lessen inhibitions and release spontaneous imagery from one’s unconscious.

The final recommendation from our three-member We Feel The Need, The Need to Read Book Club is Oliver Jeffers’ most recent piece of brilliance, The Heart and the Bottle.  With thought-provoking themes of loss, longing and loneliness, the book is admittedly geared more toward adults than children, but the way Jeffers addresses mortality through both his words and his illustrations is honest and poetic regardless of the age of the reader.

In books, I appreciate when the author leaves space for interpretation.  Jeffers does this.  He hasn’t spoon-fed me or my little guy with this book; instead, he has given us a starting point for discussing death and the emptiness that often follows.  I realise I may be different from other parents in that I have not chosen to shield my little prince from unhappy thoughts of loss, but in the same token, I know a three-year-old is, well, a three-year-old.  He won’t understand it all, but I hope he will find some poetry in the story, poetry in how an empty chair doesn’t have to stay an empty chair.  For any poetry buffs, this book brought to mind what I believe is one of the greatest poems ever written, Wordsworth’s ode “Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”, and I think that for a 32-page book to do that says a lot. 

Now then, sashay to your local library or bookshop for your dose of bibliofeelia!  Or, if it’s too chilly outside, check out the Oomphalos Bookworms Bookshop.

© Martin Creed, Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photo: Hugo Glendinning

Martin Creed is my kind of guy.  He’s the intriguing artist whose current exhibition “Mothers” is on at Hauser & Wirth on Savile Row.  I, along with my mom and son, had the fortunate opportunity to behold, chew over and digest the works.  I’m still digesting.

As both a mother and an artist, two works stood out for me, Work No. 1092 (or the work commonly referred to as Mothers) and Work No. 1177.

When asked about his thinking behind Mothers, a 12 ½ meters long, 2 ½ meters high steel beam supporting white neon lights which spell out Mothers in capital letters, Creed said in an interview that he thought mothers are probably the most important people.  I momentarily thought of Norman Bates, but after reading Creed’s explanation in a separate interview, I know he’s speaking on a more macro level.  Creed said, “This work made me sick, there were so many times when I felt sick working on it.  I think it has something to do with Mothers… I think families are really difficult.”  Families difficult?  I don’t know anyone who’s ever had difficulties with their family (cue the uproarious laughter).  Creed added, “I think the most powerful and difficult relationship in the whole world is between a mother and child.  That is the one where the baby is literally part of the mother and is not separate, and then you have to come out and be separate.  It is the most difficult thing to do.  I think to actually be a mother is very difficult and to have a mother is difficult.”

And when asked why he wanted the motorised sculpture to spin – orbiting at varying speeds and bringing to mind the different settings of a ceiling fan – Creed replied, “Mothers spinning out of control rang true to me.”  He must know about the Whirling Dervishes Playgroup or the Our Descendants Sometimes Make Us Dizzy Support Group.

Standing in the room, seemingly purpose-built for this enormous sculpture, I considered Creed’s explanation that the size reflects the importance of mothers and how they literally contain us at birth.  He pronounced, “In general we think of something as ‘big’ if it’s bigger than us, so because as babies we are inside the mother, by definition the mother has to be big.”  I also found it curious that while welcomed to, none of the 50 or so fellow observers ventured under the sculpture.  At one point, I felt said observers – whose hair and attire looked a bit windswept while the sculpture moved at its full speed – staring at me and my little guy in his buggy, as if to say, “You’re obviously a mother and as such, this sculpture includes a gyratory halo for you, so go for it, go stand under it.”  Risk my life under this monster?  No thanks, not today (my initial apprehension paralleled that of when I went to see a Damien Hirst piece)  I am aware that, sadly, fine art malfunctions have caused very tragic situations, and the irony of mothers taking this mother’s life was too much to bear.

© Martin Creed, Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth.

Using his art to comment on the magnitude of the matriarch in our lives, Creed also graces us with Work No. 1177’s presence.  This black and white, silent 35mm film – which especially when combined with Mothers – alludes to a domineering mama in our friend Freud’s oedipal phase.  The film centers on a woman’s breast, whose nipple goes from its usual state to an erect state after a hand tweaks it.  In his past work, Creed has shown a fascination with how our bodies function and react, often with overt sexual undertones, but this film was different than others in the series.  I thought it was beautiful.  I thought it was persuasive.  And despite having breasts of my own and having breastfed my son, this was the first time I’ve witnessed this sequence in such a manner.  It helps that I’m also a fan of silent films; they leave more space for one’s own interpretation.  My three-year-old watched the film and asked why it wasn’t moving.  He stood watching it for 15 seconds, I’m sure wondering why there wasn’t a caped crusader or scallywag entering the scene.  I asked him if he knew what the image in the film was, and he responded, “Let’s go.”

There are dozens of additional pieces in this exhibition, but these are the only two that spoke to me.  There was a wit, a cheeky little boy at play, and a minimalism – as there was with Creed’s Blu-Tack, lights switching on and off, and balloons pieces – that has enamoured me to the artist.

Is Creed’s own mom as enamoured as his myriad admirers?  He said he thinks his relationship with his mom is quite good.  She’s always been very supportive of his art practice and often comes to his shows.  Aww, bless.  Just in case this isn’t actually the case, I’m sending her an invite to a spinning class I know of whose instructor focuses on using physical exertion to cope with snags in mother-son relationships.

I recently found myself forced to consider my three-year-old son’s mortality.  He and I were alone in a dark hospital room, and in these moments, I stared at him, stroked his hair, held his little hand inside mine and cried.  I thought of the day he was born, and of how the nurses encouraged me to keep him in the nursery overnight while I slept, but I insisted he sleep in my bed.  Of how on his first birthday, he painted himself head to toe with cake.  Of how he says, “Oh, that’s a true classic,” whenever we read Oh, The Places You’ll Go.  Of all the spots he’s ticklish and his infectious laugh, of how he can never keep from giggling and fidgeting when we’re trying to hide and jump out to scare pa. 

A few days after Christmas, Enlai complained of stomach cramps and came down with diarrhea.  I thought it might have something to do with all the sweets he was allowed to eat at various Christmas celebrations; perhaps all that chocolate was too rich for him.  But when the diarrhea didn’t stop after a few days and then became bloody, I called our GP’s out of hours service, and the doctor told me to call an ambulance.   While at the A&E, one of the doctors said that while his symptoms matched those of one stricken by E.coli, Enlai’s appearance didn’t look as though he had E.coli.  “I’ve seen patients with E.coli, and they do not look as healthy as he does,” she said.  

Some hours later, she asked if we’d ever heard of Haemolytic Uremic Syndrome (HUS).  I never had and immediately looked it up.  I started reading aloud to my husband what I found, and he asked me to stop.  He said that doctors often mention possibilities that match the symptoms of the patient, things they are investigating, but that does not mean these things are the diagnoses.  We were released from the hospital that evening, and the doctors said that they would call us when they received the results from the stool samples, which would likely be in several days as it takes time to grow the bacteria. 

While at home that evening, things became progressively worse.  I called the GP first thing in the morning, and we were fortunate to get an appointment.  After examining him, she sent us straight back to the A&E.  At this stage, Enlai had to use the toilet every 15 minutes, and what was in the toilet was primarily blood.  He was admitted into the hospital, given a fluid replacement and electrolyte IV drip, and continued to be monitored.  The doctors finally informed us that his stool samples showed that he had E.coli 0157, as well as the Rota virus. 

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It seems that every year during the holiday season, I find myself having to brush up on my Christmas vocabulary.  I only learned a few years ago what myrrh is, and I heard the word “Ruprecht” for the first time this year and wish I hadn’t.  Yikes. 

With Christmas right around the corner and with my little guy walking around singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I thought this an opportune time to learn the actual names of Santa’s furry, antlered friends as opposed to making up names that I like.  I also thought this an opportune time to share a page from the Oomphalos Christmas Dictionary for Parents and Carers.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good lexicon!

ADVENT – (verb) parents venting at ads whose products and services somehow sneak their way onto children’s “I need” lists.

BOXING DAY – (noun) what some mothers half-jokingly tell their children the day will be if their fathers forget to put down the toilet seat or take out the rubbish, as in “Today is Boxing Day, and in this corner we have forgetful daddy, and in this corner, had-it-up-to-here mommy.”

CANDLE – (verb) what new parents the world over have said newborns have the ability to do to their sex lives, even if temporarily.

DECK THE HALLS (verb) – what certain toddlers do in the midst of a particularly dramatic tantrum in the home.

EGG NOG (noun, shortened form of EGG NOGGIN) – a scrambled parent’s brain, often caused by lack of sleep, talking excessive baby talk, or singing Baa Baa Black Sheep 50 times in one day.

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Here is a transcript of a conversation I overheard at the playground a few days ago:

Mom A:  “I haven’t even started my Christmas shopping yet.  What are you getting little Janey Jane for Christmas?”

Mom B (who is sincerely sweet, always looks amazing, whose children are little angels, and who is apparently very well-organised):  I finished all my shopping, and little Johnny John’s presents are all wrapped and hidden away until Christmas.”

If you lie somewhere between Mom A and Mom B and are looking for gift suggestions for your own or other children, you’re in luck!  Here are some just-waiting-to-be-wrapped-and-put-under-the-tree ideas that might appeal to you.

If they’re toys you’re after, look no further than Petit Chou in London W1, an itsy bitsy toy shop that could’ve been plucked from a scene in Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, packed wall-to-wall with wonderful toys.  Some of my favourites in the shop include the life-size abacus, wooden shape and size sorters, and the perfectly tuned xylophone.  For those of you not in London, Petit Chou offers worldwide shipping.  

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We get a move on, we’re on the move, we move in different circles, we move while standing still, and then we move house.

Since my son was in my womb, we’ve moved home five times.  Of course, this nomadic modus vivendi was not intentional.  While pregnant, I envisioned us in the same home until my little guy went off to college or at least until he graduated from high school and announced that he’d take a year to live in the Andes and run with the Alpacas, learn to make igloos from Inupiat Eskimos, or train to perfect his trick catch in an effort to win the boomerang world championship.

Alas, my control over where we hung our hats was limited when it came to mould, mice and marital interruptions.  We live in London; mould happens.  And mice happen here too.  Marital interruptions?  Another blog entirely.

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For you Londoners who are looking for activities in Marylebone, your wishes have been granted.  The inimitable Ben, of Oomphalos and Regent’s Park football classes fame, has launched Small Beginnings.  

The Small Beginnings website is under construction, but in the meantime, you can contact the Small Beginnings hotline on 07799 760 510 or email smallbeginningsuk@gmail.com to receive the timetable and sign up for classes now!

This post is a guest article from Tamsin Oxford, staff writer at PlayPennies.com, a UK blog for money-conscious parents. 

I’m raising a genius.  I know you are too.  All our children are these amazing sponges, sucking up information at a rate of knots and amazing us with their progress in this world.  Most of us are cutting corners and saving money every single day so that we can give them the best possible future.

So what about university/college?  This great big walloping expense is looming on all our horizons and, with a bit of forethought and planning, you can gradually save up money to cover all the Uni/College eventualities.

We get thrown all sorts of terrifying figures by the media.  £20k to raise a child!  Government stealing our benefits!  It’s surprising that more of us aren’t hiding under the sofa, quivering in terror at the mere mention of Uni.

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Here you are, close to celebrating three years under your belt, my sweet Enlai.  And just as I wished for you the moment I first saw you as a tiny dot on a screen, I wish you love.  A love that you know and feel.

I wish you more running through sprinklers, rolling down hills, and making sand and snow angels.  Perhaps this year I will consider building some sort of stick, leaf and rock repository so that you no longer have to leave behind your park souvenirs.

I wish you more jumping on beds.  And I hope you never lose your love of blankets and pillows – lots and lots of pillows.

I wish you more somersaults and the mastering of a cartwheel.

I wish for you to be sincere and for others to be sincere to you.  And when you’re with someone, really be with that someone.

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Ladies and gentlemen, I have become that mom.  We’ve been visiting family in the States for the last few months, and I have become the mom who frequents the McDonald’s drive-thru.  The other day, while hollering into the microphone to the invisible McOrderTaker, I found myself asking whether she could throw an Incredible Hulk into our Happy Meal because we already had Spiderman, Iron Man, Human Torch and Wolverine.  

When we drove up to the first window to pay, the woman kindly told me that she couldn’t find any Hulks, to which I responded, “Oh, okay, well, how about Silver Surfer or Captain America?”  She said to give her a minute to check.  Minute up, and neither of these superheroes was available.  I told her that we would not actually be wanting the Happy Meal after all because we really don’t want any duplicate superheroes.  I left empty-handed.  She was probably annoyed.  And as we hightailed it out of the driveway, my son let me know he was still hungry.  There was no happy in this meal; this non-existent meal turned out to be sad.  Very, very sad. 

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