Dino-sorry we went

To be tired of London, is to be tired of life as Dr Johnson famously said all those centuries ago. But I wish he hadn't. Every time I get frustrated by living here, his words come back to haunt me, making me feel bad for not being more grateful for living in one of the world's great metropolises. Yet I bet Dr Johnson didn't have to queue behind the longest line of fluorescent-bibbed schoolchildren before he could use the loo in the Natural History Museum. Or fight his way across London on the Circle line to get there in the first place. 

And if he'd kept quiet, then chances are we wouldn't have felt the need to schlep all the way to South Kensington to fill a bonus day en famille after the weather gods kiboshed our beach plans. Instead, we'd have been happy with our umpteenth trip to the Tate Modern, just so we could pretend it's walking distance from where we live. (To be fair, it is; it's just a very long walk.) But no, we thought we'd take Louis for that childhood rite of passage that is visiting the dinosaur skeletons, especially as his current favourite Charlie and Lola episode ends with them donating the fossil they have found to their local museum. 

In retrospect, we should have aborted once we saw the queue. To get in. But we dutifully trekked to the other entrance, even if it was at least a mile from the dinosaur in question. It wasn't the distance we minded, but the fact that we had then to negotiate the length of the museum to find the dinosaur hall. And everyone else in it.... On the plus side, Louis did spot a bonus digger, or half a digger, in the lame exhibition about our earth's resources. Or whatever it was. But on the downside, that meant the second we finally made it to the dinosaur, Louis took one look and announced: "I want to see the digger." 

And the moral? Next time we get the urge to test our zest for life we're sticking well clear of anything aimed at children. Art galleries, yes; museums popular with kids, no. I hope Louis took a long, hard look at those dinosaur skeletons because it's the last he'll be seeing of them for quite some time. Until he dons his own fluorescent yellow vest on some future school trip I imagine. Provided London doesn't totally tire me out first.  

Double trouble

What is it about toddlers? Why do they have such a bad reputation? Louis has just turned two, which by all accounts should make him twice as annoying as when he was one. But frankly he's anything but. I realise I'm tempting all kinds of fate in writing this, which partly explains my recent reticence in posting (either that or I'm still struggling to come to terms with my new look), but if anything life with Louis is getting easier, not harder. 

If I'm honest, I'd always been dreading this. Dreading him hitting two. Double trouble and all that. Babies, I figured I could deal with. After all, they don't want for much beyond copious milk and a warm chest to cuddle. And with enough coffee even the sleepless nights were bearable. Kind of. But two year olds. Quite a different matter. For starters, you actually have to do stuff with them; you can't just tout them around on endless walks and lunches out. And this prospect had, frankly, terrified me. Thinking of them as their own little person, with opinions, and wants, and needs. That, that scared me. 

Yet the reality is quite, quite different from my misguided anticipation. And what I'm wondering is, why? Why is it that everyone fears a toddler? Why do you only ever hear about the tantrums; the frustration - theirs and yours; the potty training nightmares; the sibling jealousy? I'm not exaggerating the bad press they get. Just the other day I got an email at work from some random PR telling me "two-thirds of parents admit their toddler is a thief". (Apparently they filch stuff from shops.) 

So I realise this might be unpopular and I'm prepared for it to come back and bite me on my copious behind, but just for the record I'd like to pay Louis a tribute. Heck, I'd like to pay all toddlers a tribute. They're funny and smart and loving and sweet and darn good company, all at the same time. And that's a lot more than I can say for most of their parents; present company very much included. 

Or am I totally bonkers?? 

New year, new look

Same old haircut though!

New year, new look. Well, it was probably about time. Not sure I like it though. I know the white on black font was never very popular but I liked it, which is why I kept it for so long. But, well, bwb is getting on a bit now; at least, its protagonist is. Can you believe he's two? Post to follow.... 

But for now, let me know whether you like the look. Or indeed like the blog. Bwb has had a bit of a hiatus of late, and to be honest, with the exception of Sophie I hadn't thought anyone had noticed. Or cared. But then one loyal friend did email me with a request. That said, she's not loyal enough to comment! Talking of comments, please do. I love them. Honestly. And I'll comment back and everything. I promise. 

But back to the new look. Blogger promised it would be so easy, but I feel let down by the result. And I'd really like a swanky header. No clue how to do one though. Heavens, I can't even upload a twitterpic. But seriously. Do let me know what you think. Please? 

Chai baby

It's the little things that make a holiday. 

- Like those two men sending two cups of Turkish tea over to DJ and I while we were grabbing a little respite from the Istanbul hubbub in the courtyard of a mosque while Louis napped.

- Or Louis declaring that "Louis come swimming too" after I told him I fancied climbing down the steps from the pontoon into a very wavy sea for a swim. And coming with me. And loving it. 

- Or even our ill-advised late evening ferry over to the Asian side, which resulted in the best Turkish food we've had plus two lovely pedestrianised streets to wander through that deserve to feature in my future best buggy pushing spots in the world travel guide. 

- Not forgetting Louis dancing in the street to a busking band - and drawing nearly as big a crowd as the singers. 

- And our impromptu late-afternoon Ergo walk through the ruins of Olympos, or the "falling down houses on the beach" as Louis called them. And, more importantly, chancing on a little Anatolian shack serving yummy pancakes just as it became impossible to ignore a little voice insisting "Louis is hungry". (At 6pm. It was fair enough.) 

- Plus the tractor we spotted "resting" on the grass by the runway from our window seat on our flight to Antalya. 

- Then Louis declaring he was "floating all by myself" in the swimming pool when I finally persuaded him to try on his armbands. 

- And more dancing: this time on the beach en famille after dinner with Norman Jay DJing in the background. And those half 11 bedtimes that meant we were getting the same amount of sleep as Louis. Plus a lie-in until, oh, at least 7am and sometimes 8am. 

- And lastly two hours of pure heaven: getting Louis to nap in his buggy under the shade on the beach while I devoured Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna (before it won the Orange prize for fiction award I might add).

But mostly it was that cup of tea. And the second one they sent over after Louis woke up. 

Turkish toddler

Bosphorus boats

Turkish "acorn"

Bosphorus see-saw

If one of the attractions of travelling is seeing the world through other people's eyes, then a holiday with a toddler in tow is like one of those two-for-one offers at the supermarket because you get their take on things thrown in for free. Starting with with the pre-holiday build up. I purposefully kept it pretty short for Louis because he's still struggling with the concept of time. (He's trying: it's amazing how many things we're going to do "tomorrow". Or what we did "last morning".) I left it until a week to go before I revealed we were going away but I should have waited a bit longer. Somehow I'd forgotten that even an afternoon stretches away like an eternity for a toddler; Louis nearly died of anticipation during those seven looooooooooong days. But somehow he made it to Sunday. (And I made it to our 6am easyJet flight, although in retrospect: what was I thinking?) 

Istanbul through a toddler's eyes looks like one big playpark. If Louis wasn't marvelling at the tram that ran the length of the main Istiklal shopping street or the ferries that ply the Bosphorus, he was having fun careering down one of the city's many steep cobbled streets or snacking on the corn on the cobs that are hawked everywhere. "Acorns" he called them. Other excitements included the men fishing off the Galeta Bridge that bisects the Golden Horn. I don't know which he enjoyed more: watching the silver sardines jerking around in the buckets or seeing them being reeled up from the sea from his fish sandwich pitstop vantage spot underneath the bridge itself. 

Another Louis Istanbul moment was his impromptu trip to a haman. Our hotel had given his parents a free pass to the city's oldest (and most tourist-friendly) hamam to make up for the drilling that destroyed our day one nap hopes. We had intended to visit the hamam in rotation, for a spot of serious steaming and a massage, Turkish-style. But the lady on the door insisted that Louis come too, claiming a nearly two-year-old could cope with the heat. So, not wanting to deprive him of the chance for a splash about I thought we should give it a go. Needless to say he adored it, even if my massage wasn't very relaxing. Then again, that's hardly the point of one of those abrasive Turkish body sandings. I only wish I could have snapped him wrapped in his little modesty cloth, filling his silver bowl with cold water from one of the cooling off taps. It's an image that will stay in my head forever.  

Then there were the playgrounds themselves. We found two of what must rank as some of the world's best situated swing-parks, right on the shore of the Bosphoros. The first was in the nick of time. Given how down on taking toddlers to Istanbul our guidebook was, warning only that the pavements were hopeless for buggies and decent parks a serious schlep out of the centre, we'd long since despaired of finding anywhere better for Louis to play than the square in between the Aya Sophia and Blue Mosque. But there, like a mirage in the desert, mere minutes after Louis declared, "I think we'd better find some swings now", loomed a picture-postcard perfect set of swings, see-saw and climbing frame. The other, even better, playground was in Bebek, the now achingly-chic northern district where DJ was born many moons ago and which fittingly means "baby" in Turkish. 

If nothing else, our four nights in Istanbul were the perfect reminder that just because something or somewhere might not initially seem designed for a toddler, that's probably a greater reason either to do it, or go there, than not.