12 Baby Facts Yet To Be Proven By Science But Which All Parents Know To Be True

1. Your baby is hardwired to wake up the second you pour yourself a hot drink and sit down to relax. Do not even try to convince yourself you should have just said, 'Sod tidying the kitchen!', and had a cuppa first. If you had, your baby would have just woken up sooner.

2. Infants are predisposed to fill their nappies just as you are about to go somewhere. They are also naturally inclined to ensure their nappy leaks on the day you decide to put them in that brand new outfit you were saving for a special occasion.

3. A child's appetite will always increase dramatically in strength if you are in the middle of preparing, or have not yet managed to prepare, food. Just as the appetite grows larger when you are out and about and have only brought a set amount of food. It also follows that should you have pre-prepared a meal, particularly one that is homemade and requires a lot of effort, the baby's appetite will be lost.

4. Babies are genetically conditioned to sleep through the night the one time you don't bother to set an alarm but have somewhere important to be.

5. A child is not physically able to perform its best new trick in front of others, no matter how much they seemed never to tire of it in front of you. Your best option is to keep it to yourself and hope they spontaneously demonstrate it in public. But they are more attuned to do it when no one is looking.

6. A baby is able to sense the one time you don't have a clean nappy ready to go straight underneath when you change them, and are guaranteed to wee everywhere in seconds. They get an added endorphin release if it is on an occasion you thought you could get away with a quick change not using a mat.

7. Infants have a subconscious awareness of which substances make the most mess, even if they have never encountered them before. They also have an inbuilt sonar system to detect objects which are the most difficult to clean, so that they can spray said debris in that direction.

8. Babies feel most comfortable sleeping in the position which is most painful and uncomfortable for you. But, regardless of how deep their slumber appears to be, they will wake instantly should you move a millimetre.

9. Children are always more pleased to see their secondary carer the second they walk through the door, regardless of previous mood. Except if you are planning to leave them with the secondary carer and dare to take some time for yourself. Children can sense this and will act up accordingly.

10. A baby's cry will always be louder the more quiet their environment. Despite having no noise to compete with they emit a much greater sound when surrounded by silence, in locations such as a waiting room, a library, a church or a group activity populated by quiet and well-behaved children.

11. Children are able to lock their skeletons at will, imitating a plank of wood, rendering it impossible to put them into a buggy, highchair or bed when you need to.

12. A child's ability to fight sleep is colossal. They can smell exhaustion and any desire you have for an early night only fuels their fire. However, the moment you decide that keeping them awake might be at all convenient for you will trigger a reflex action in them to nod off immediately.

The Great Escape

4am: I can't sleep. I've been awake since about 1am with a million thoughts stampeding through my mind.

It's the day of my friend's wedding and I have the jitters.

It's not like I'm the one exchanging vows and I don't have to make a speech, or do a reading at the ceremony. I expect no one will even notice what I'm wearing, I'm only a minor guest.

But I am leaving my baby for 12 hours - the longest time since she was born almost eight months ago.

What if she won't stop crying? What if she won't drink milk from a bottle? What if she falls over and cracks her head open?

Don't be silly, my mother raised me and four other children, she'll be fine looking after her.

I need to shave my legs. And pump some milk. And find my good shoes.

Oh, maybe I shouldn't go. It's just not worth the hassle.

5.45am: The baby is awake. I must have nodded off at last.

It's a bit early, but I'll just go and get her and bring her into bed. I need to make sure she has plenty of milk. 

And I'm going to have to say goodbye to her in a few hours. I'm going to miss her!

7am: I must charge my phone so that I have full battery for checking she's okay.

Where did I put that smart vintage handbag? I need breast pads, money, keys, Oyster.... At least I don't have to pack nappies and wet wipes and an endless list of baby stuff.

8am: There's no point washing my hair until after I've fed her her porridge.

I must show my mother where the nappies are. And put her favourite books in a pile.

Is it too soon to express some milk?

9.30am: She's having a nap. She looks so peaceful. I'd better have a shower now while I can.

10am: I've forgotten how to put make-up on. I look like a clown. These eyeliner flicks don't match, but if I try to even them up I could end up having to start all over again and I just can't face it.

I can't remember when I last used a hairdryer. Is there any point? I've put some product in, I could just twist it up and leave it to dry and make it look like I've gone for that, 'Just Got Out Of Bed', look on purpose...

11.45am: I need to leave in five minutes. But she seems quite happy, so maybe I should just get out while the going is good. Before I change my mind.

If I give her a kiss goodbye it might set her off. Sod it! I want a kiss goodbye!

She's slobbering in my hair. Ah, how sweet. I'll treasure that clumpy bit of hair for the rest of the day. Hey, it adds a new authentic twist to the, 'Just Got Out Of Bed', look.

11.50am: I'm walking down the road away from the house. I feel sick. My stomach hasn't felt this lurchy since I was pregnant!

I can hear a baby crying! It can't be mine, I couldn't hear her from here. Actually, is there even a baby crying at all or is that just in my mind?!

I must make an effort to stop clutching my breasts every time I hear a baby crying.

12pm: My mother hasn't sent me any messages. Is that good or bad?

12.10pm: She's sent a picture of her playing happily. But maybe that only lasted a few seconds and she's screaming the house down now.

12.20pm: Another picture of her looking happy... It still could all be a cunning ruse just to make me feel better.

12.30pm: She's sitting in her highchair stuffing food in. Still smiling. Maybe she doesn't miss me at all.

I've read about this. There's some kind of psychological term for it, about how babies behave different away from their mothers.

12.40pm: I better not check my phone this much at the wedding. Oh God! I'm going to be one of those frightful bores who just talks about their kids and shows people pictures on their phone.

12.50pm: My mother just sent a picture of her drinking from a bottle! It's not even that really expensive miracle teat that we bought when she started refusing to drink from a bottle. She's not even making a fuss.

My mother says she's downed it all!

She doesn't miss me one tiny bit! She doesn't even care that I've gone!

That's a good thing. Of course it's a good thing. I wouldn't want her to have cried nonstop for 12 hours straight.

The little minx....

2pm: Now she's napping. She hardly ever naps for me in the afternoons. Not unless I take her in the pram and walk around for ages.

Why doesn't she behave so well for me?! I've been too soft.

5pm: That was a lovely ceremony. I'll just check my phone to see how things are going.

Ah, a video of her clapping. That's the first time she's clapped I think! She's learned to clap!

I'd better get out of this cubicle, I can hear a queue forming.

My breasts are starting to feel full already! Maybe I should have brought a pump in my handbag? Could I squirt a bit out into the basin if it gets too painful later? No that would be disgusting!

Ooh, champagne!

7.30pm: My mother says she drank another bottle and is now fast asleep! What was I worrying about. We could have booked a hotel and stayed out all night! I'm actually starting to have fun.

But I don't think I'd want to not be there when she wakes up. What if we miss the train?!

11pm: Phew! We've made the last train. We won't have to sleep at the station and we will be there for her in the morning. Actually, it's the train before the last train because I was so paranoid about missing the last one.

It was a great wedding. The band were really starting to get going. I'd quite like to have stayed a bit longer and done some dancing. Except my breasts are agony now. They might have started squirting across the dance floor if I'd risked jiggling them around too much.

12am: She's fast asleep. I'll just kiss her head very lightly so I don't wake her up. My breasts are like rocks! I could wake her up and feed her... No, I'll get the pump.

6.30am: My head feels fuzzy and my tongue feels furry. And my breasts are fit to burst again!

Oh good, she's awake.

She looks pleased to see me! She remembers who I am! She doesn't resent me for leaving! I should damn well hope so too!

Or it could just be because she's hungry. Who cares! She's sucking. What a relief.

Love Thy Labour

There was quite a buzz in the air at playgroup this week.

All around me women were getting fired up and excited, talking over each other as they raced to join in the conversation and say their piece.

I'd never seen this collection of sleep-deprived, worn-out women so animated.

No, we weren't discussing the ethics of controlled crying, the damage disposable nappies are doing to the environment, or debating Brexit. 

Someone had brought up the subject of labour.

It seems any mother who gave birth to her own child, be it by Caesarian section or through the more traditional exit, has a battle story they relish in recounting, gory detail by gory detail.

Like world-weary war veterans comparing their firsthand experiences from the front line, when a gathering of mothers start regaling each other with their bloody birth tales there's no stopping them.

And there are so many subjects ripe for dissection as the oneupmanship commences.

First of all there's the circumstances in which you go into labour.

Now there is plenty of opportunity for drama here. The woman whose waters broke at a football match and had the St John's Ambulance Brigade deliver her child on the sidelines, next to the orange segments at halftime, probably thinks she has a trump card.

But it's not all location, location, location when it comes to childbirth, and a speedy delivery leaves little space for disasters encountered along the way.

So the Bizarre Situation birth is having it easy as far as the Heavily Overdue mother is concerned. She went through three extra weeks of hulking that enormous bump around in the height of summer, her back breaking, unable to sleep. And then was admitted to hospital and made to walk up and down the corridor for hours only to eventually undergo all number of extra unpleasant procedures just to get things moving.

Then there's the issue of the midwife. 

Was she the kind who talked patronisingly to you like you were a petulant child and kept barking at, "Dad", to, "Come down here and have a closer look,"? Or had she worked such a long shift you realised she'd nodded off in the corner just as you were getting ready for the big push?

Pain relief is another big topic for discussion.

You've got the 'Natural Birth' advocates who did the whole thing without so much as a tug on the gas and air, and love to tell everybody about how they just channelled the pain away with their mind. Or admit that it hurt like hell, but they felt, "a real sense of accomplishment."

The majority of us will have resorted to something to numb the agony, but even then there are a variety of different options.

My NCT midwife was really anti epidurals and had succeeded in completely putting me off. She was full of horror stories of spinal taps gone wrong, and the drawn out labours of women unable to feel their contractions. I went from a birth plan that simply said, "epidural", to one that said, "avoid epidural at all costs".

As the midwife herself chirruped, "Maybe it's because I'm from Edinburgh, where they made Trainspotting, but I can't recommend morphine highly enough."

So when the pain was getting unbearable (and I was on an oxytocin drip, said to increase the agony), I hollered, "Give me the drugs!"

But the midwife with me at the time said, "Why don't you just have an epidural? Then you won't feel anything at all."

"Oh yes, okay then," I nodded, so exhausted and uncomfortable that I'd have probably agreed to just cutting off the lower half of my body if she'd suggested it.

It was then that Him Indoors tentatively reminded me that I had said that was the one thing I DEFINITELY didn't want and to insist on the drugs. 

So I ended up feeling exactly like Ewan McGregor when he sinks through the floor in Trainspotting and then had bizarre hallucinations of two maintenance men entering the room and discussing doing some work on the wall behind my bed, but agreeing they should probably wait until I had finished having my baby first.

When they had closed the door behind them I began to observe how strange it had been for them to come in without knocking, before realising hazily that they had never really been there at all.

But the opium did its thing, because while I felt every contraction, it just didn't hurt any more. Until the very end...

I've listened to accounts from women who hadn't planned to have water births but were too late for any other form of pain relief and there happened to be a free pool so they jumped in, willing to give anything a go. 

While others were embracing their water birthing experience, until the baby got stuck and they were dragged out so the medics could use the ventouse.

I've heard tell of an epidural that didn't work while the mother was in a foreign country, so her husband had to attempt to translate her frantic pleas to the doctors and persuade them to do it again.

And others have regaled me with tales of epidurals that worked a little too well, so much so, they didn't get the feeling back in one leg for several days afterwards.

There's the mother who, after hours of pushing, had to have an episiotomy and felt butchered as she watched a midwife hack her apart with a terrifyingly outdated looking pair of pliers.

Though she won't win sympathy from the woman who had a horrific and agonising perennial tear, only to be told just a few hours later by a blunt obstetrician, while she was still recovering from the shock and trauma, that next time she will be better off having a Caesarian.

But despite all the competition, women also find sharing their labour stories something of a bonding exercise.

And it's a very good way to find out more about a mother you have recently met and so far only discussed your offspring with.

It would actually be a great way to introduce people at parties.

"Emma, I'd like you to meet Lisa, she had a forceps delivery and her epidural only worked on her right side. Lisa, Emma's epidural didn't work properly either and she felt her entire Caesarian Section. I think you will both have lots to talk about."

Do you enjoy talking about your labour? What's your stand out moment?

Frozen

Once upon a time there was a little princess whose mother breastfed her to sleep every night until she was seven months old.

The idle queen was so lazy she would sit for hours in a darkened room watching trash TV on an iPad, waiting for the princess to drink herself into a deep sleep, so she could lay her in the cot and creep away.

If the princess ever stirred the queen dashed in and thrust her teet into her rosebud mouth as a quick as a flash, in order to keep peace and quiet reigning throughout the kingdom.

Then one day the queen was invited to a ball to celebrate the wedding of a friend.

It would be the king and queen's first night out together since the princess was born, but just a few weeks before the big day there was an addendum to the invitation which said, 'No babies'.

The queen knew that she must persuade the princess to take a bottle and learn to settle herself to sleep so that the queen mother could babysit, and she could go to the ball.

So the queen trawled the World Wide Web for spells and knowledge and embarked upon her new quest - sleep training.

On the first night bedtime began as normal for the poor, little, unsuspecting princess.

The queen read her the same story, wrapped her in the same blanket and breastfed her in the nursery chair as normal.

But just as the princess was drifting into The Land Of Nod, the wicked queen popped her into her cot, kissed her good night and vanished from the room.

The precious little princess awoke with a start and wondered where her warm, cosy mummy could possibly have gone and why she was left all alone in the cavernous cot.

Her cherry red lips trembled and tears immediately sprung forth from her big blue eyes, streaming down her face and pooling up in her ears.

The princess wailed and wailed with all her might, sure that this would bring her mother dashing back to her side, as it always had for the whole of her life until now.

Her tears flowed out of her eyes and down her cheeks and filled the cot, until they spilled onto the nursery floor and seeped under the door. Or so it seemed.

But outside the nursery door the cruel queen sat on the stairs listening to the princess' cries and looking at her watch.

After five long minutes that seemed like 100 years, she returned to her daughter. But when the princess realised she wasn't going to pick her up, her screams only grew more hysterical.

The cold-hearted queen administered superficial kisses and pointless pats before turning her back and deserting her little darling once again.

And so it went on for about an hour until eventually the princess gave up and sobbed herself to sleep.

Later on in the dead of night, the silence that echoed around the castle was broken by the sound of a weak and feeble whimper.

The princess had awoken once again, but had clearly lost all faith in her mother and didn't have the strength to call out for her in her usual manner.

The queen lay awake staring at the baby monitor, waiting.

If the cries grew worse she resolved she must go and tend to the princess. But she knew that as soon as the princess set eyes on her, the hysteria would begin all over again.

After letting out a couple more pathetic whines the princess gave up.

The queen checked the baby monitor and could hear breathing.

She felt deep down in her heart she should go and check the princess was tucked up tight, but she didn't want to risk disturbing her, so she remained rooted to her own bed.

In the morning the wicked queen woke up and went into the nursery to see her baby.

The princess had kicked off all her blankets and wriggled her way up to one corner at the top of the cot, where she lay awake, blinking her wide, sorrowful eyes in disbelief.

The queen reached out to touch her tiny toes and they were cold as ice.

She pressed her heartbroken princess to her rock-hard bosom and promised to buy her a new sleeping bag to keep her warm through the night.

The princess suckled forlornly at the milk she had been denied all night and gazed up at her mother with a look of disillusionment.

Eventually she came up for air and broke into a grin. "Dadadada", she chuckled.

The queen hugged her princess to her chest and hoped she had forgiven her for her wicked ways.

But there on the princess' cheek she was sure she could see, one last, tiny tear, frozen like a diamond, shimmering there forever after.

The Omen

There is a magpie that appears to be shadowing me.

Since I moved out of the city to my new suburban home, every time I leave my house with my baby daughter I see it.

On the way to playgroup to try and make friends in this unfamiliar neighbourhood, there it is, pecking the grass beside the pavement.

As I am walking to the shops each day to buy food for that evening's meal, something I spread out all week just to give myself a reason to leave the house each day, it swoops over me and lands on a wall.

I even saw it while I was pegging washing on the line, squawking ominously above me from the branch of a tree in the garden next door.

In case you don't know the old rhyme, seeing a single magpie means, "One for sorrow."

"One for sorrow, two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret that's never been told."

Maybe it's not always the same magpie but they're not a friendly bunch round here. I only ever see them alone.

Here is my secret. I feel alone.

I miss my job. I miss going to an office everyday and seeing the same people, making small talk about the day's headlines, the dripping tap in the loo that's still not fixed, moaning about that telephone bore who is impossible to get rid of, and joking about who managed to get a free coffee at Pret.

I miss my friends. My friends I've known for years and live so far away, who knew me before I was a mother, before my conversation became stuck in a cycle of weaning recipes, teething solutions and sleep patterns.

And I miss my new friends that I met at baby groups with my daughter and bonded with over all the new and overwhelming experiences of parenthood we shared, before I moved away and had to start all over again.

I miss a door that opened up my whole life onto the world and made me feel free, before a wall of parenthood came down and boxed me in.

And I miss my own mother, who is always there at the end of the phone but can't give me a hug to let me know everything will be okay.

Moving to this new place, shackled to my pram and knowing nobody has been a lot more challenging than I expected.

But as the weeks ticked by we've been going to groups and started meeting other mothers. 

Even though at first it seemed like we had nothing in common, they have been kind and supportive over shared problems and seeing our babies develop alongside one another.

And gradually bits of our personalities have begun to peep through, like baby teeth emerging from where they were hiding beneath dribble and cries.

And I have started to feel not just a mum, but a person again.

I have even been invited to the pub by a group of mothers, not as my daughter's plus one, but for my own company!

After a playgroup session this week I walked through the park with some of the other women, processing along with our buggies, and exchanging chit chat about our children and also ourselves.

As we turned onto the road to head home I saw that magpie perched on the kerb, eyeing me.

"Another magpie!", I sighed aloud, "They always seem to be on their own round here."

"No, look", said one of my new found friends, as another black and white bird hopped out from behind a bush.

"There are two. 'Two for joy.'"

Fahrenheit 111

My mother probably will mind me saying this, but she is something of a hypochondriac. Not so much where her own health is concerned, but when it comes to her children being sick she most definitely overreacts.

As a child we spent so much time at the doctor's surgery the waiting room felt like a second home. I can still picture the play area now... Before and after the refurbishment. 

Long beforeGoogle self diagnosis was even a possibility, my mother regularly visited the local WH Smith to thumb through their medical dictionary. So much so they eventually wrapped it in cellophane, perhaps in an attempt to get her to fork out and actually buy her favourite book.

I can vividly remember if I ever even so much as hinted to my mother I might be feeling unwell, the first thing she would do was make me look up at the light, the initial check for meningitis at the time to ascertain if your neck was stiff. And any hint of a rash would always be submitted to close scrutiny under a glass.

When we were slightly older and saw an episode of Casualty in which a disturbed mother was making her child ill, we learned the term Munchausen by Proxy and used it to taunt her.

So I always resolved I would be a relaxed parent when it came to illness.

I was not going to be one of those mad mothers who dial 111 every time their child gets a sniffle and takes them to the GP just to check their nappy rash isn't something more serious.

And so far I have remained calm.

My daughter has had her share of colds and I just let her snuffle her way through them since she didn't seem to be suffering.

I didn't buy any medical kit until the nurse told me I'd have to give her Calpol after her first set of jabs.

And I only bought a thermometer last week, when she was almost seven months old, because a mother at playgroup expressed surprise when I said I hadn't got one.

Maybe that was where it all started to unravel.

The other mother's baby had been ill with a fever and kept her up all night at the weekend. And while he now seemed fine, he indulged in some face pawing with my daughter, spreading invisible germs I can only see in hindsight.

Anyway, she'd had a runny nose for about a week already, when she awoke at 2am and would not settle back to sleep.

Though she seemed okay, not floppy or bawling her head off, she felt unusually hot. 

But testing out my new forehead strip thermometer at 4am it said her temperature was normal.

Then she started coughing and I resolved to take her to the doctor in the morning.

She woke up smiling and perky, but still hot and coughing, so we trundled down first thing to get in the queue for the unscheduled appointments.

When we got in to see the GP she began grinning and flirting with him, and I babbled excuses about why I was wasting his time.

"I know she looks fine, but she's had a cold for a week, and now her cough sounds nasty and her temperature seems high."

"It is high", he told me sternly, showing me the reading of 38.7 and ordering me to buy a proper digital thermometer.

After examining her further he diagnosed an ear infection, as well as the cough,  prescribed antibiotics, and instructed me to give her Calpol for the temperature.

"If her temperature is not down within four hours you need to take her to A&E", he told me. Twice.

I hurried home via the chemist feeling guilty and a little dazed.

We holed up in bed with biscuits, toys and Netflix and a range of plastic syringes for dispensing sticky sweet liquids into her mouth and she had a feed and dozed off.

But four hours later her temperature was still high. And fifteen minutes after giving her more Calpol it had gone up.

I called her father and told her we were off to the hospital.

"You're mad!", he scoffed. "There are more germs there. You're turning into your mother."

But a medical professional had told me to go, and you don't take chances with your child's life, I retorted indignantly.

We checked into A&E and took a seat in a waiting area full of broken toys and several slumped children holding cardboard sick bowls or bandaged arms, while CBeebies blasted out of a huge TV screen.

It wasn't long before we were called in to see the nurse and I explained the GP had told us to come.

"I'm not one of those mad mothers," I said.

"That is so naughty", tutted the nurse. "He should not have told you to come. She looks fine, you are the best judge of baby's health. And now you're going to be stuck here for hours."

Four hours later I arrived home with a leaflet on how to treat a high fever.

My mother seemed pretty blasé about our little trip.

She'd Googled it and concurred with the paediatrician that I needed to combine Calpol and Neurofen to treat the temperature.

"At least you'll be able to gauge the seriousness of her condition in future", she said sagely.

Diagnosis: Hypo-hypochondriac, hereditary.