What to do on a wet, wintry day with a toddling babe and a getting bored-out-of-her-tiny-mind mother? There’s only one option: Manchester Art Gallery. I packed up the pram and braved the bus into town, me a bit twitchy lest I get heckled again, Milo a bit grumpy for no reason other than he’s a baby and he’s allowed to be grumpy if he feels like it, OK?
Anyway, we arrived at the gallery in time for lunch, sidling into the café where Milo stuffed down a pint sized cheese sarnie and I quietly ate the homemade version I’d smuggled in under cover of Milo’s bib. And then I unleashed Milo in the children’s gallery. He loves it there: he can run about, watch, goggle-eyed, as bigger kids muck about, and manhandle any number of artworks (I’m hoping they’re replicas; if not, we owe Manchester Art Gallery more than the cost of my cheese sandwich).
But there’s always room for new games, and, today, Milo’s favourite was making a mad dash for the fire extinguisher and attempting to wrench it from the wall before I, or an attendant, could reach him. It was quite impressive: he really does have a knack for identifying the one thing he’s not supposed to do. And then doing it.
Somewhere, in a darkened CCTV room in Manchester, there are grainy photos of me and Milo pinned up on the walls. Below them reads the sign: ‘If these two troublemakers are identified, proceed immediately to DEFCON 1.’
Later, Milo and I climb onto the bus on our way home, joined a few moments later by one of our neighbours.
‘Been shopping?’ puffs the neighbour as she drops onto the seat next to us. ‘Mum dragged you round the shops, you poor little mite?’
Milo gives the neighbour a baby death stare, looking her full in the face without smiling and without, apparently, blinking.
‘Er, no, we’ve been to Manchester Art Gallery.’
‘Oooh, the art gallery,’ she mocks. ‘Well, what a place to take a baby.’
She winks at Milo, who is continuing an unimpressed stare. Blink, damn you, I think. You’re starting to scare me.
‘It has an interactive gallery for children.’
‘I don’t know,’ she clucks on, ignoring me. ‘You new parents just can’t help hot-housing your babies, can you?’
I grit my teeth and smile, by now used to this particular neighbour’s delight in criticising my parenting skills. All of a sudden, in my mind’s eye, an image pops into view: Milo playing with his favourite toy, a yellow fireman’s hat. And then I remember Milo’s obsession with the fire extinguisher in the gallery today. Oh my god, I think, maybe the old battleaxe is right: maybe I am hot-housing him, except it’s not art he’s being groomed to like. It’s fire fighting.
‘What do you think about that then, Milo?’ I ask the boy, imagining him, in years to come, cursing his pushy mother as he douses the flames of yet another chip pan fire.
He finally breaks off from his death stare, yawns and looks out of the window.
‘Sheee,’ he says, which is Milo-speak for tree.
I suspect he may be right: both the battleaxe and I are, as usual, barking up the wrong tree.
Ratings. Babychanging facilities: Yes, the best in Manchester. Cafe: Yes, with a very good kiddie menu. Buggy-friendly? Yes. Cost: Free. Worth it? Yes, the interactive gallery is fantastic and they usually put on a good child-friendly exhibition in the summer holidays.
Travels with my baby 