How to be a bad mother - part 2

I always thought I'd be a creative, fun mum, one who would always have time to read a book or build blocks for hours on end. I do do these things, but just not as often as perhaps I should. I have succumbed to that awful thing, the TV. I never wanted to just shove on a dvd to keep my son quiet for a bit and yet that's exactly what I do. If I need to cook the tea, Mr Tumble goes on. When I need to write e-mails, his makaton nursery rhymes dvd goes on. When I'm folding the laundry, it's Wallace and Gromit. For a long time Tom's attention would wander and I'd get mildly irritated that he wouldn't just stay put and watch the thing from beginning to end. Well, now he will sit there and watch an entire dvd (give or take a wander to check I'm still around) and while it allows me to do my jobs, I feel horribly guilty. I'm ruining his creativity!
I always remember those kids at school whose parents allowed them one hour of tv a week and they were always the brainy ones. They'd have family performances of Much ado about nothing and learn Sanskrit in the evenings. Ok, they were a bit geeky, but geeky you can grow out of. I'm not sure you can grow out of a serious tv addiction. Or can you? Can I cold-turkey him when he starts school?

How to be a bad mother - part 1

Wow. I thought I'd turned a corner when I finally put corner guards on the coffee table but it seems I'm still a work in progress as far as being a competent mum goes.
Before the nitty gritty I shall regale you with a few details or, in my case, mitigating circumstances.
I very rarely have the time for a shower, let alone a bath, and so last night when my husband kindly offered to watch Tom for a bit whilst I took a bath, I bit his hand off. I was in that bathroom quicker than you can say mouldy toes. Anyway, I scrubbed, shaved and rinsed and felt thoroughly human once more by the end of it.
Fast forward to this morning and my story begins. I was having a number two (the door was open too ensure a quick getaway if any vaguely worrying noises from the beast wafted in) but as it was he, as is his wont, came in to see me. Imagine my horror, then, when he went straight to the razor I'd left on the side of the bath. Aaggh! The fact that he put it straight in his mouth and smirked when I started shrieking at him didn't help to calm me in any way. Thankfully I managed to carefully get it out of his mouth and grasp before any damage was done. I sat back down to finish my doings and to chastise myself severely for being a crap mum only for Tom to return with a pair of scissors in his hands. I'd left it on the bloody dining room table! Ok, note to self, he can now climb onto chairs and therefore onto the table. Nothing is safe. I suppose a cage is out of the question? Yes? Oh, bum.

My favourite things (this week)

Over the past fifteen months I've noticed that these babies tend to grow pretty quickly. They're like mushrooms, the little buggers. I've therefore decided to jot down what my own little fungus is up to on a regular basis;one wouldn't want to forget their milestone moments, would one?
Here goes.
My absolute favourite thing about Tom is his dancing. Where he got his style/skill from is anyone's guess as I've got two left feet and husband just stands still and shakes his imaginary maracas, but nevertheless Tom is a groover. He starts his Ball Popper, the music kicks in and he starts swaying rhythmically and bopping up and down like he's practising headers. It's hilarious to watch and he clearly thinks he's the finest dancer in the land, such is the joy on his little face.
My other favourite thing is also one of the most tiring. While my back is turned, he'll clamber up onto my computer chair and start banging away on the keyboard. I rush over, gently place him back on the floor and tend to my damaged computer. He in the meantime has gone over to daddy's desk and taken his i-pod. I rush over to retrieve it and he flings it away and rushes off to grab the telephone. After I've re-claimed the telephone, he's pulling the dvds out of their cases. Once I've rescued Pingu from his grasp, he's back in my computer chair. Aaahhhh! It makes me laugh every time. He's so bleedin' quick!
My final favourite thing from this week is listening to his new words. 'Car! Car! Car! Car! Car!' he screams at every single car he sees which, seeing as we live pretty much on the main thoroughfare in our village, is a lot. He's also learnt to roar and to say ciao ciao. What a boy!

Teething woes

Tom now has ten teeth, including two of the biggies at the back, and they seem to have arrived without too much fuss. He was noticeably whingier but didn't seem overly uncomfortable or in pain. Last night, however, oh boy. I clocked him at about six-ish chewing on his dummy and pummelling his face with his little fat fist and thought casually, 'ah, teething', but that didn't prepare me for the following eight hours. He started to scream, and he carried on screaming, and he didn't let up until about two o'clock in the morning. Calpol didn't work, cuddles didn't work and even our fail-safe remedy - letting him sleep in our bed - didn't work. He was clearly in a lot of discomfort and there was nothing I could do. It was quite upsetting, actually. Come this morning and the teeth pain seems to have gone but it's been replaced by a rasping cough and voice that comes from a lifelong B&H fan. And there's another thing. His bottom. When I changed his nappy this morning, his bum wasn't only red but it was raised, swollen and bumpy and painful-looking. I smeared him in sudocrem and that gave him some immediate relief but on changing him again a little while ago the rash was still there and looking as angry as before. I'm reliably informed that red bum syndrome goes hand-in-hand with teething so I'm not to worry on that front. Both will sort themselves out. I used to complain about having a whingey baby but I'd rather have that than the screaming whirling dervish of last night. Not pleasant. Roll on adolescence!

Taking advice

Before my son was born I was warned by several people that everyone would offer me advice. I was reliably informed that everyone has an opinion on the best way to raise a child and that mine very often wouldn't be right. No problem, I thought, I'll take the advice graciously but not necessarily apply it. Graciously, my eye. I really thought I was more mature but clearly not; I find myself grinding my teeth, or arguing my contrary case against the advice given to me, often offering proof in the form of balanced research (wikipedia). Of course, it depends largely on where the advice is coming from. I can usually take it from my mum because more often than not I'm the one who's asked for it. My mother-in-law, though, is a completely different kettle of f. She doesn't offer advice, instead she tells me what I'm doing is wrong, or else that it would be much better to do it her way. She doesn't encourage, she watches silently, biding her time until- No, sorry. She means well, I know she does, but her extremely forthright manner is so utterly alien to me, so unlike anything I was used to pre-Italian life, that I find it difficult to nod and thank her for her wisdom. I automatically go on the defensive and ask her why I should stir my risotto slower, why he needs to wear a sweater on top of his shirt and bodysuit when I'm only wearing a t-shirt, and why I have to give him his lunch at 11.30 and his dinner at 4.30 when clearly he gets hungry at 12 and 6. These are small things, I know, and I should be happy that she takes an interest and wants to help, and so my new mini-mission is to bite my tongue and smile (or at least grimace) when she tells me how to do the next thing, and hopefully I'll become a slightly better person.

The Flight - how it went - or judgemental parents

Well, not too bad actually.
We got to Bergamo airport and it was absolutely heaving so I decided on Tom's behalf that we'd leave the shopping area and go straight through to the departure lounge...two and a half hours early. (I should explain - it had been snowing heavily, I'd been worried about traffic, I had to leave my car in an off-site car park...hence the ridiculously early arrival). It was perfect. The lounge for flights to Liverpool is a sort of add-on to the main airport (a posh shed, really) and when we arrived it was empty. I released him from his shackles (let him out of his pram) and watched as he climbed over seats, crawled under tables and toddled from one end to the other, all with a delight worth the muck and grime he was getting all over himself. The problems started when the other passengers started to wander in. I had sympathetic looks and smiles from some mums but an awful lot of why-can't-you-control-your-son looks as well. I wanted to point out that they'd get a lot more annoyed with Tom if he were in his pram as he'd scream non-stop for the remaining two hours. And so I let him run amok, occasionally wandering into someone's leg or picking up someone's water bottle but on the whole being very well-behaved.
Once on the flight, Tom wriggled and whinged for ten minutes before I clamped him to my chest, stuck my cardigan over his head and he fell asleep. There was a collective sigh of relief as I lay him across two seats (people had wisely avoided the seat next to us) and he settled in for the next seventy minutes. When he eventually woke up, he was so groggy he just sat still on my lap for the remainder of the flight. All in all, apart from the odd look from judgemental folk, it all went pretty well. I'm not sure I'd do it again in a hurry, or at least until he can sit still with a book that is, but yes, not bad.

Trying for a baby!

Ok, so I've got one and he's slowly killing me, but I want another. It's some warped joke mother nature plays on us girlies: baby number one tore you in half trying to get out and then destroys your figure, your home and your sanity once he's out, and yet you still want another one. Husband and I have been officially trying now for two weeks and I'm excited. Husband is permanently excited knowing sex is up for grabs but it's become slightly, ok, very formulaic for me now, even after only two weeks. Must have sex, must have baby. I'm becoming obsessed, wondering whether one sexual position is more conducive to baby-making than another. I only hope I fall preggers soon so that sex can return to its normal role.

Wish me luck! We're going to Blighty

My wonderful son has many fine qualities but patience is not, as yet, one of them. This morning in bed I sent up a silent prayer that today he might suddenly develop a little - we'll be in need of it at the airport. This isn't the first time he's flown. Oh no, he's a seasoned flier, my little boy. I think this is his sixth flight. The first three were bearable because although he cried he was still immobile and therefore manageable. The last few, though, have been difficult and today's will be too, no doubt. Sitting still is an impossibility and staying in his pram when we're queueing is torture. I've packed up all the usual suspects - The very hungry caterpillar, his favourite car, his cuddly kiwi (the animal, not the fruit) - in the hope that they'll keep him entertained and, failing this, I've also packed chocolate. I admit it's not the best to be bribing your son into submission with sugary products (and they'll only make him more hyper afterwards anyway) but it's my contingency plan and I'm sticking to it.

Myleene - my celebrity crush

Oh, damn. I hate to admit that I like celebrities in this cynical and vicious world, but I do! Ok, I draw the line at Paris Hilton and Kerry Katona and I can assure you that those who go on Big Brother do not count as celebrities in my book, but I am partial to a bit of heatworld. Strictly Come Dancing is my favourite programme despite the fact that I usually don't know who the celebrities are. Hollyoaks? Celebrities? Come on now, behave. Anyway, when I was in the early stages of my pregnancy, my lovely, thoughtful mum bought me 'My Bump and Me', a pregnancy diary written by Myleene Klass, who, as far as I was concerned, was someone who used to be in a rubbish pop group. I thanked my mother, whist secretly scoffing inwardly. Ha! As if I'm going to read this rubbish! However, one dark afternoon, lying on the settee, no doubt eating chocolate (I can't remember but it's probable) I opened her book. Well, I thought, I might as well so at least I'll be able to laugh about it afterwards. But no! I found myself empathising with her morning sickness, smiling knowingly when she mentioned getting ratty with her boyfriend and generally feeling quite smug that I was now in the same Pregnant Club as Myleene. I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The only annoying element from my perspective was the fact that she had an epidural. Here in Italy I knew in all likelihood I wouldn't be able to have one (timing issues) and I was desperate to get the nitty gritty on a natural birth. (I soon enough found out anyway and I don't suppose a book description could really prepare you fully). Now I've read on one of my many gossip sites that she's pregnant again. Woohoo! I only hope now she brings out a book on what it's like with a newborn and a young child because, with any luck, that's where I'll be this time next year.

Sleeping - naps and The Big One

I admit that most of the first three or four months of Tom's life have disappeared somewhere in my inadequate memory but I do remember the not sleeping part. For a good three months I didn't sleep more than two hours in one go. I couldn't see how it would ever change and when I'd ever get a night's sleep again.
One weekend we packed ourselves up in the car and went off to Verona for the weekend. I'd booked a B&B near the centre and we got ourselves settled in before going off for a mooch. On our return we decided not to do our usual routine of bed at seven-ish and then a dream-feed at eleven, but instead to keep him awake for as long as possible and then give him his last feed then. He could barely keep open his eyes by eight o'clock and so by the time we'd stuffed him full of warm milk he was out like a light for the next eleven hours. Eleven hours! When I woke the next day I had no idea what time it was, where I was or even who I was. Why hadn't I been woken bleary-eyed and exhausted at three in the morning? Because my baby was sleeping! Oh joy! It was miraculous! Who the hell told us to do this dream-feed thing anyway? The dream-feed used to buy us two hours sleep, but waking at one in the morning or three in the morning is pretty much the same thing anyway. Perhaps it was a coincidence and he was just sufficiently grown to sleep through the night but either way I was like a new woman.
At the start he never slept a lot during the day. Even in the hospital after he was born I'd watch in silent, envious confusion as other babies dozed throughout the day and Tom would wriggle and cry and howl. Which behaviour was normal? Surely the sleeping baby. The nurses there, though, assured me that everything was fine and that Tom was just a super-active baby. Che fortuna. (My Italian sister-in-law has three children, all of whom were perfect little textbook babies, who never cried, did what they were told and ate everything that was put in front of them. Last time she was pregnant I secretly hoped she'd get a hurricane baby like Tom, but to no avail.) The advantage of having such an energetic baby is that now he's reached the stage of toddling around, climbing and wreaking havoc, he wears himself out enough to have two ninety minute naps a day, enough time for me to do my housework, get myself sorted for mealtimes and have a little flutter on the gee gees.

Older mums v young mums

I know these days thirty-two isn't considered old to have a baby, but seeing as I'd always envisaged being twenty five with three kids, I could definitely hear the old clock ticking. The year before I got pregnant, my sister-in-law had a baby and she, at the time, was twenty-one. Another sister-in-law fell pregnant at the same time as I did and she is now thirty-nine. We've all done pretty well as mums, I'd say (no broken bones, no manic rushes to hospital with marbles up nostrils, no forgotten meal times etc) but there are distinct differences to our mothering styles. (The following descriptions relate solely to my relatives - I know there are plenty of different mums out there, good and bad young ones and equally good and bad old ones. So there.)
Young mum sister-in-law does absolutely no planning, no preparation, has no personal goals and doesn't know what she's doing from one day to the next. Her two-year old daughter has very little routine in her life and one day will eat a home-cooked meal and the next a happy meal. Young mum never panics and shrugs her shoulders (actually sticks two fingers up) in the face of difficulties. She doesn't worry about pensions, schools and universities or savings accounts and doesn't mind if her daughter watches two hours of tv on the trot. She doesn't worry about her mothering style and doesn't ever question what she's doing. Her life is never predictable.
Old mum sister-in-law, on the other hand, plans everything. She knows what her eighteen-month old will be eating for breakfast for the next month, what he'll be wearing the next day and what he'll be doing at every moment of each day. He has allotted time slots for different activities and is constantly provided with intellectual stimulation. Television is limited, he's already got a place at a primary school and his bank account has been ticking over nicely since he was born.
Money, of course, plays a part in this. Old mum s-in-l is rich, has a nanny and, living in an exclusive part of London, has had to walk across burning coals to get her son into a decent nursery, never mind school. Young mum s-in-l, though, works part time, lives in the north of England where the cost of living is lower and has a choice of schools. Make of that what you will.
 I apologise for the predictability of this but, as a mum, I think I fall somewhere between the two. I'm not great at planning, but I have managed to locate a nursery for Tom (if not actually enrol him yet). I don't have a pension, but I have set up a post office account for him. He watches telly when I'm at the end of my tether, but we also read for about an hour a day. I worry pretty much constantly about whether or not I'm doing things the right way and still check that he's breathing when he's asleep. I should point out as well, though, that all three of these children are happy and well-adjusted and I don't think benefit more from any one style of childcare. And anyway, as I was told early on and as I've read in various books, there is no correct way to be a mum. Whatever you think is right for you and your baby probably is.

Hurricane Baby

Does anyone else out there have a completely gorgeous baby, utterly intent on destroying everything in their wake? I've never seen anything like it. Yesterday he surpassed himself. For a period of about fifteen minutes, anything within his range was flung across the room, chucked against walls, stamped on or destroyed. Books, magazines, cuddly toys, lego...nothing was safe. And he isn't angry or upset. Oh, no! He's having a whale of a time.
When I first recognised this cyclonic tendency in my son, I would follow him around trying to pick up the things he'd left behind, sellotape in one hand, glue in the other. I now, however, sit back and let him get on with it. Nothing I can say, do or distract him with will stop the destruction so I decided not to waste the energy. Today my intention is merely damage limitation. One day, yes one day I'll have a nice living room again...

Losing the baby weight

I'm sure there are some very lucky ladies out there who pop out a baby and then fit straight back into their size ten jeans but I am not one of them. I am a curvy twelve/fourteen on a good day and a wobbly sixteen on a bad day. I didn't go manically eating for two when I was pregnant but nor did I particularly watch what I was eating and as a result I was, post-birth, about eight kilos, or seventeen pounds, overweight. It was a shock, I can tell you, to no longer have a baby there to blame for the sheer mass of me. The baby was out and I was still a whale. I decided immediately that I didn't want to remain that way and so I gave myself a year to shift the lot.

I started slowly, drinking water by the bucket-load and eating lots of fish and fruit (I was still at that time trying to breastfeed so I was being super-healthy anyway). I've always found, though, that food is less important in my battle with the bulge than exercise, and so I started pounding the streets of my little village with Tommy strapped up in his sling. We must have walked a good two hours every day for the first four months, at which point I switched him to the pram and continued. I think we met every villager over that period and I even made some friends en-route. Such was my speed, one lady suggested I enter myself into an annual pram-walking marathon they hold in Bergamo. 

Tom was born in August and by Christmas I'd lost a stone. Hurrah! However, I repeat, Christmas. I was back in England for the holiday and eating myself silly. I couldn't help it! I'd been living in Italy and hadn't seen a wispa or a Richmond Irish sausage for months! New Year's day, though, brought the determination back and now, fifteen months down the line, I am back to my pre-baby twelve/fourteen. 

Having said that, I do not look as I did pre-baby. Good grief, no. Whip my clothes off and I have wobbles in all the wrong places. Everything is softer, although I have to admit I quite like the softness. I was never a sculpted goddess anyway and I suppose I'm enjoying getting used to the idea of being a mum. What helps as well, of course, is the fact that my husband still fancies me and tells me constantly. I'm a lucky girl!

Weaning - a guide

Weaning chart - a basic guide

Stage	Can Have	Can't Have
First Foods It's advised that you wait until your child is six months old before you introduce solids. You need to assess carefully whether your child genuinely needs solids earlier than 6 months. Click here for more information on when to wean. If you’re unsure, speak to your health visitor.	Baby Rice Basic fruit and vegetable purees Lentils Note: babies can digest yellow/orange vegetables more easily than green vegetables initially.	Gluten (avoid wheat, rye and barley-based foods e.g. bread, flour, pasta, some breakfast cereals, rusks and oats.) Eggs Nuts and sesame foods (like sesame oil) Fish or shellfish Soya-based products Honey Cows, goats and sheep's milk Soft and unpasteurised cheeses Chicken or meat Salt
6 to 9 months See our food allergies and intolerances pages for more information on why it is important to delay the introduction of certain foods. You can find information from the FSA about peanut allergy, and introducing nuts to your child's diet here.	Fruits and vegetables  Oats and other gluten foods. Avoid very high fibre foods though Cooked eggs Peanut butter and ground nuts (only if no history of allergies in family and not whole nuts as they’re a choking hazard) Chicken Fish Meat (including beef, pork and lamb) Cheese and cow's milk for cooking Notes:  It’s best to start giving mild tasting chicken and white fish before introducing the stronger flavours of beef or lamb. While cow’s milk is suitable for cooking, it shouldn’t replace breast or formula milk as a drink until your child is 12 months old as it is too high in salt and protein and too low in iron and other vitamins.	Honey Salt Shark, swordfish or marlin (due to high mercury levels) Goats and sheep's milk Mould ripened soft cheeses Raw or lightly cooked eggs Sugary foods and drinks (these can encourage a sweet tooth and lead to tooth decay when your baby’s teeth start to come through. Only add sugar to foods if it’s really necessary. Sweet puddings, biscuits, sweets and ice creams are not recommended.)
9 – 12 months See our toddler food page for more ideas.	As above Finger foods and bigger lumps	As above

Thanks to http://www.netmums.com/

Feeding time

I had no idea how much of my time avec fils would be spent thinking about food. All I seem to do is think about what Tom's eaten, when he last ate, what he's got to eat next and when. I do the washing and cleaning planning dishes. My thought process goes something like this: "Ok, so he ate a good breakfast this morning but he didn't eat very much pasta at lunch time. He had a banana at 11 though so he's not starving. What can I make for tea? He could have that pasta from lunchtime re-heated, couldn't he? Or is that bad mothering? But he likes it! Well, give him that then. Ok, and I'll stick some fish fingers in the oven for good measure. Now, in the meantime, let's see if he'll finish that yoghurt from yesterday..." My husband thinks I sit at home with Tom, playing all day and occasionally whipping up something yummy and nutritional for our son to eat. He has no idea how exhausting it is for me just thinking what the next thing is to be done. Organise his clothes, pack away the small ones, clean behind the loo, plant the bulbs that mum sent from England, get the water on for the pasta, take him to the park, change his nappy, think about what husband is going to eat when he gets back from work, change the sheets, do a wash, go to the dry-cleaner's, go to the loo and, if there's time, eat something. Phew. I do enjoy it but there's no denying it's tiring.
Tom was ready for weaning from about five months and I started slipping him bits of pureed fruit from about then (my husband insisted we waited until the six-month marker because that's what you do. Ha. He loved it and at six months we started in earnest. He absolutely loved the HIPP products and miraculously also loved the vegetable soups that I invented - thick, peppery carrot soup was his favourite. The difficulty I've found is what to give him now. I mean, he'd be quite happy to eat pasta and pesto every day but I'm not sure that it'd do him much good. He eats fruit happily (and veggies if I make them invisible in other things) and he loves pizza, rice and fish fingers. He's not keen on pies, casseroles, cheese or eggs. Actually, now I've written it down, he's not doing too badly, is he? I'll just have to hope that scrambled eggs and shepherd's pie will grow on him.

Milk - what happens when you haven't got any

I was beside myself with guilt, disappointment and anger when it turned out I couldn't breastfeed. I tried, I really did, but it just didn't happen. It all started at the hospital three days after Tom's birth when I was sitting in the 'new mums' feeding area' trying to will his sucking into stimulating things enough to get it all going. Nothing doing. The nurses were lovely at the hospital with the exception of one, who just happened to be the one on duty with us that night. It was three o'clock in the morning, I was physically and mentally exhausted and distraught that everyone else's milk had arrived and mine hadn't. The general consensus was that I was not to worry, that it would arrive if I just relaxed. This lady, though, shouted at me in full view of the other mums, reminding me that Tom was losing weight and that he had to eat, pushing a bottle under my nose the whole time. Had I done my research beforehand, I would have known that babies lose weight immediately after being born. Furthermore I would have known that if you give your newborn a bottle, the incentive to suck and therefore get the milk flowing is diminished. Bugger. Of course, thinking I was depriving my son of nourishment, I gave in and gave him the bottle. I carried on breast feeding but the milk just never came. I drank stout (advice from my dad), massaged my boobs and plied them with hot and cold compresses (thanks auntie Sue) and used the breast pump constantly in the hope of something working. It was so upsetting. My husband tried to persuade me to give up trying, hoping I'd relax and feel better if I stopped worrying about breast-is-best, and he was right; I just couldn't see it at the time. I carried on plugging away with the pump and the compresses for five weeks before I thought 'sod it' and adopted the bottle. What a relief. Firstly because it just took away an enormous amount of pressure, secondly because I could see that Tom was flourishing and not suffering at all and finally because, I soon realised, my husband could help out with the feeding. Bonus!
I would love to have breastfed Tom but it wasn't to be and now I can't help but see the positives in bottle-feeding. If our second baby ever comes along I'll try to breastfeed again but I will not be pressured into giving the bottle immediately and I will not feel guilty if I don't get any milk again. Baby will be fine either way.

Bringing up baby.....in Italy

My husband is Italian and we very early on decided to live in Italy, one of the reasons being that we wanted to bring up our children over here. That does not mean, however, that we have decided to bring him up as solely Italian. He is and will remain half English. We've done the research, weighed up the pros and cons and decided that our home will be an English speaking domain and everything else beyond our four walls Italian. (I recently spoke to my step-cousin at a family wedding about this very subject. She married a French man and lives over there and they chose to renounce all forms of English and speak only French. Ten years on and they both regret the decision. Their kids couldn't speak to anyone in the extended family and indeed seemed positively disgusted whenever anyone tried to chat to them.) Tommy, my son, starts asilo nido (nursery) in a couple of months and that will give a kick start to the bits of Italian he's picked up from his nonni.

Apart from the language aspect, the biggest difference I've noticed between English and Italian babies is the way they're dressed. Italian babies are cocooned, dressed much, much more warmly than an English mum would ever do. I have seen young babies in an Italian August wrapped in blankets and wearing hats. This, of course, is a personal choice, and I'd never dream of saying anything to my Italian mum friends whose babies are wrapped up in seventeen layers because a window has been opened. However, this does not stop them, and complete strangers I might add, from telling me off when my son hasn't got his jacket on as well as his jumper, t-shirt and body. My theory is that if I'm not cold, he shouldn't be cold. If I'm sweating, he's probably feeling it a bit as well. A slight breeze is not going to make him ill. Actually, in Lancashire (and possibly all over the UK, I'm not sure) a good walk in a fresh breeze is thought to do you good, not send you to bed with a cold. These mums over here, though, look at me like the devil-mum whenever we go out and there's a bit of his flesh uncovered. The other day, a bright, blue-skied autumn