When I was Little G's age (1951 if you MUST know) babies were left in playpens or Silver Cross prams, preferably outside in all weathers, until they went to school. Fast forward 64 years and it's a totally different world.
Before she left London, Little G had been to Baby Massage, Baby Yoga, Baby Art and Baby Cinema. And then there was all the musical stuff: Baby Bach, Mini Mozart and Tiny Tchaikovsky. OK, I made up the last two, but you get the picture.
As I don't want her to inhabit the same cultural wilderness that I grew up in, we have started rocking up to Baby Rhyme Time at the local library. The best way I can describe it is Last Night of the Proms for under 2s, conducted by a nice children's librarian and a large blue teddy bear.
The audience consists of a variety of screamers, crawlers, shufflers, lurchers, topplers and their minders: a few yummy mummies, one lone daddy and a lot of nannies and Eastern European au pairs. Now augmented by me and Little G
Little G loves it. She sits on the floor, propped up by me in case of spillage, and waves our bus ticket enthusiastically while burbling something that bears no resemblance whatsoever to what the librarian and the rest of the adult participants are singing.
Because we SING. Oh yes. Songs about speckled frogs, songs about currant buns, songs about body parts, and a song about some elderly Scottish bloke who had a farm. Cultural wilderness? Not on my watch.
To be continued ... ...
