Charlotte Philby's Parental Leave: 'I'm not prepared for the 'Where do babies come from?' chat'

A mother's weekly dispatch from the pre-school frontline

"Where was I before I was born?" the four-year-old asks, as I attempt to manoeuvre our buggy along the aisle of the bus, which is thrashing along the high street.

"You were in my tummy," I cry out, leaving smears of ketchup across the walkway, as we're tossed between an abandoned box of chips and a snoozing commuter. "But before I was in your tummy?" she asks, settling herself on to a seat by the window.

I'm not quite prepared for this incarnation of the "Where do babies come from?" chat, which comes in varying and frequent guises. After all, it is the tail-end of a day whose stand-out features include a toddler swimming class which had to be swiftly abandoned as the result of a nose-bleed induced by a particularly boisterous game of Humpty Dumpty, and a flat tyre.

"You weren't here," I say, preempting the next in a relentless line of questioning which would break even the most hardened terrorist: "But then Mummy and Daddy were in Russia and that's where you were conceived." For a moment she looks satisfied, but then turns back: "What's conceived?" I think for a moment: "It means made." She squints: "But how was I made?" I shake my head: "Actually, it's more like 'got'." She smiles: "In Russia?" I smile back before standing to press the bell.

Outside, the pavements glisten in the sunshine. Minutes later, we arrive at the tool shop where a nice young man distracts the kids while I sift through endless samples of peculiarly named shades of grey. "Do you know," I hear the four-year-old announce loudly: "Mummy and Daddy got me in Russia!"

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