Let’s bitch about hazardous toy boxes. I have always been of the opinion that toy boxes were made for children’s toys. Perhaps the occasional lateral thinker may use one as a make-shift table, a laundry ‘basket’ or even a lamp stand if one is really creative. But for argument’s sake, let’s operate under the assumption that toy boxes are in fact made for toys.

Based on the aforementioned premise, one would logically assume that if a certain box is marketed by a company or a shop as a “toy box” it is not too far fetched to assume that said box would fall under the mark of ‘child friendly’.

Okay then… on what planet is it okay to produce a toy box that requires screws the size of Cleopatra’s Needle to be jammed into the sides, and to thus protrude aggressively into the interior of the box; laying in wait with ravenous appetite…ready to puncture some poor child’s hand? Lame, lame LAME!

Moral of the story: looks can be deceiving!

Let’s bitch about stupid books. I would usually only spend my precious time reviewing books that I find interesting – the book I have in mind is so stupid that my thoughts are best formatted into a bitch session than a review. I would completely ignore said book but I wasted money on it and would like to warn other parents against it. Okay… so it wasn’t that much money; I picked it up at a bargain shop as I was just about to pay for my items. The book was like those naughty little chocolates that sit at the front-of-store till and call you while you unpack your groceries. Damn my impulsiveness. The cute kitty smiling on the front of the book wooed me into submission and I forked out a couple of pounds.

The book is called Poppy Cat Smile and if the mere title hasn’t given you a hint as to why this book is stupid then let me explain: ‘Poppy Cat’ is not written in proper English and I hate it. “Poppy Cat smile” should be “Poppy Cat Smiles” – the tenses are all out of whack. A singular subject requires a singular verb and in the title “Poppy Cat smile” the verb is plural rather than singular. I know my daughter is a baby but that doesn’t mean that I intend on speaking to her, or reading to her, like someone with a grade one level education. The rest of the book mimics the speech of a two year old. Here’s how it reads:

Poppy cat up.
Poppy cat down.
Poppy cat smile.
Poppy cat frown.
Poppy cat wriggly and giggly up high.

Cringe. Expletive! Expletive! Expletive! These stupid sentences made me so mad that I took a black pen and filled in the missing words in order to make complete sentences. My husband thinks that I am completely bonkers and doesn’t understand why I haven’t just ditched the book. That, of course, would be the logical thing to do but although ‘Poppy Cat’ deserves to be guillotined, I could never throw it away. books are a privilege and I’d hate to just junk one – no matter how bad it is. I should probably drop it off at a charity shop – at least I have corrected the sentences so I won’t feel guilty about potentially inspiring poor language habits in some other child whose parent is dumb enough to buy the book. On that note, I realise that this rant is not only about stupid ‘Poppy Cat’, but about impulsive shoppers who actually have no right to complain about things they buy when they haven’t taken the time to investigate their purchase. Cringe.

I exit my little bitch session with a cautionary word: BEWARE there is a whole range of poppy cat bullshit. Don’t let that sweet kitty tempt you; beneath that smile lurks unspeakable horror!

Let’s bitch about tantruming two year olds. Yesterday, when the little boy in front of me on the bus tantrumed for an entire hour I really tried not to judge. I know well that the poor mom trying to control little Mr Psycho could be me in two years. But seriously! This kid was completely wild and out of control – he threw his arms and legs around like an overturned insect, he bit his mom and he screeched like a demon being exorcised back to hell. My daughter was sleeping soundly next to Mr Psycho and when he started bashing her pram I envisioned picking the kid up by his hair and throwing him out of the bus window. Lucky for Mr Psycho his mom yanked his arm away and he listened … well, he started bashing her instead of my baby’s pram. Fine by me. Everyone on the bus watched in uncomfortable silence and those with iPods thanked God in heaven and cranked up the volume. After Mr Psycho’s mom eventually managed to strap mini-Satan into his stroller (with the help of my husband) he writhed around like a mental patient in a straight-jacket and his crazed eyes darted around in search of someone who he could direct his fury at. I have heard of the ‘terrible twos’ but have never ever seen behaviour like this. I am scarred for life.

Let’s bitch about midwives. Let me say off the bat that I appreciate the service offered by midwives and an amazingly competent midwife called Julianna delivered my baby girl a week ago. But I am becoming increasingly sick of condescending comments and ‘the beady eye’. I dread the days that the midwife, aka baby police, comes to visit. I have been told to cut my nails. I have been advised that my house is “very cold” – yes really? So what do Eskimos do? Wrap their babies up and keep them warm. Thanks. My husband was cautioned not to walk down the stairs with our baby. I was commanded to breastfeed whilst the police took blood from my baby’s heel (mandatory) – sure, just breastfeed – no problem. I love whipping out my boob on demand at a stranger’s command, especially when my baby is not hungry. I can only assume that years of dealing with thirteen-year-old council estate moms has resulted in the teacheresque manner adopted by a portion of the midwives that I have had dealings with. Having a baby is magical but I still have to get used to the invasions that come along with it – well intentioned or not, necessary or not. Have a baby and everyone reserves the right to comment. I am open to advice and as a first time parents we are figuring things out on a trial and error basis. It is not the advice that annoys me but the tone in which it is delivered, professionally or other.

Let’s bitch about breastfeeding in public. This is a sensitive subject for many and as a non-mom, about to become a mom in three weeks, I need to get my non-breastfeeding opinion out there for the record. Here’s my stance: just cover the boob please … that’s all. I know it’s natural and I know that the stigmas attached to breastfeeding are pretty irrational and I probably subscribe to most of them – I am a product of my Western upbringing – but come on moms. Help me out here! I was with my husband in Harrods the other day – in the food section – and a woman was sitting on the edge of one of the freezers, boob in full view, breastfeeding her baby. It was gross and I was appalled. I subscribe to the philosophy: “If you don’t like it don’t look” but in the food court of all places. Is that even hygienic – what if ‘leaky breast’ happens all over the place? What if the baby vomits milk on things or people? It’s not like Harrods lacks the facilities – they are quite beautiful in fact.

To a baby, a breast is merely a source of nourishment and comfort yet a breast to a man is an object of eroticism and sexuality – and perhaps that is why breastfeeding is an uncomfortable scene for people to witness. The ambiguity of the breast is uncomfortable. I know that I am not at all at ease with the thought of half of London city being made privy to my baby suckling on my breast, never mind me watching somebody else do it. In spite of the fact that breastfeeding is completely natural; just as I would not walk around with half my shirt off, I have no intention of sharing my breast with passers by. The feminist in me says “let the moms do what they want” but that voice is quelled by my discomfort. I guess that for me, it’s all about being discreet and sensible and doing what’s best for me and my baby whilst considering the people around me.

Point of Interest: In 2007 the Single Equality Bill was expanded by the British government to include an anti-discrimination law regarding the rights of breastfeeding mothers: allowing nursing mothers of children up to a year old to breastfeed their babies ‘discreetly’ in any public place – irrespective of the misgivings of restaurant managers or the possible embarrassment of other diners. According to the new act, restaurants, cafes and shops which try to ban breastfeeding of mothers subscribing to the above criteria will face court action and fines of up to £2,500. (Sources: Thisislondon.co.uk and Timesonline.co.uk)

Let’s Bitch about prams. I am not a mom yet but will be in five weeks time and I am speaking out on behalf of all the pedestrians in London (and elsewhere) in case I take a different stance after my baby is born. London is a busy place and is rather overpopulated, which has forced city-dwellers to live their lives in as time-economic manner as possible: it is a survival mechanism that prams are slowly but surely unravelling. Prams have become the Brontosaurus of every London sidewalk and event: they slowly lumber in front of pedestrians, roll at the pace of zero, stop abruptly in the middle of flowing people-traffic and insist on absolute pavement domination. As baby paraphernalia spills from every possible pram appendage, these vehicles bulldoze their way onto busses, along Oxford Street on a weekend and around jam-packed city events. When I see a pram I play Ally McBeal and envision smashing those ankle-biting wheels with an axe so that they will never roll again. It would be my pleasure. I won’t even get started on the complete retardation of four- and five-year-old children sitting in prams … um legs? I get that it’s a free country and prams have as much right as any to claim their living and commuting space – all it takes is an ounce of logic and a tad of consideration. And has anyone ever heard of a sling?