Under-age clubbing

Imogen Edwards-Jones says that alpha mothers over-extend their children 'S o what classes does Allegra do?' asks my new supernanny as she unpacks her wheelie bag.

'Sorry?' I say, a little distracted.

'What's Allegra's schedule?'

'Schedule?' I repeat. 'She doesn't have one.

She is only eight months old.' 'Oh, ' replies the nanny, looking at me as if I've just admitted to child abuse and non-organic food, which let's face it are one and the same these days. 'You're never too young to start, ' she declares. 'You're never too young to learn.'

I have to say I am a little horrified. I sit on the bed and look at my much-loved daughter who is merrily bashing two wooden blocks together and wonder, am I doing her a disservice? Is she at the tender age of eight months already falling behind? Am I a bad mother?

Having a child these days is like walking through a minefield. The world depicted in Karen novel The Ivy Chronicles about New York mothers fighting for nursery places has definitely crossed the Pond. It is no longer enough for your bundle of joy to sit around dribbling and staring at the wall. You're not allowed to plonk your children in front of a few toys and let them get on with it. They have to be entertained, socialised, motivated, stimulated and encouraged to achieve. They've got to be packed into the 4x4 and ferried from Gymboree to Monkey Music, to yoga to massage, to French, to Japanese, to Crechendo, to Muszika and back again.

Their days, as I learn from supernanny while she flaps out her sturdy bras, must be full.

, she informs me, the last boy she looked after, had Gymboree on Mondays, Monkey Music on Tuesdays, Crechendo on Wednesdays.

He did Aqua Babies on Thursdays and some sort of music lesson on Friday. And every afternoon he had a 'play date'. A play date?

'You know, ' she says, 'when another child comes over to play.' It seems that poor ninemonth-old was so busy being stimulated that he needed to make an appointment to play.

And is not the only one at it. In between the ballet, the tap, the French, the judo and the swimming, slightly older children go to the aptly named Busy Kids where they listen to stories read by famous people.

Or they attend Margie's Studio where they learn about Turner and Van Gogh, paint pictures themselves and take part in an exhibition where the parents bid to buy back their children's work. This apparently helps the children to understand the 'value of work' - which must be very useful if you're three.

The thing about competitive parenting is that it has got nothing to do with the children and everything to do with their alpha mothers. It is like all the energy that was once used to break balls in the boardroom and tap away at the glass ceiling with elegant Jimmy has come home to roost. And slackers should beware. Not only do alpha mothers give birth biting a belt with only Lolly Stirk's yogic breathing techniques to get them through, they snap straight back into their size eight skinny jeans before they've left hospital and now their brand new baby has to stand up and be counted as well.

And nothing is off-limits. The correct name (usually a season or a flower). The correct school (the Acorn, Notting Hill).

Call me old-fashioned, but I can't help thinking that paying other people to stimulate your child is a bit of a cop out. We all know that it is much more exhausting to sit at home and talk to your baby than it is to pay someone else to teach it to finger-paint.

It is harder work to make a tent out of the tablecloth and a drum out of a saucepan and wooden spoon than it is to get into the car and drive to a music lesson.

But the successful are so busy that they take their Blackberrys on holiday and they think the same should be true of their children. A busy child is a successful child. A busy child is going places. But in reality busy children are tired and crotchety and don't know how to entertain themselves.

Who are these alpha women kidding?

Since when does throwing money at problems constitute good parenting? Their children may well speak French and Japanese and paint a masterpiece by the age of five.

But so what? We all know that hot-housed tomatoes taste disgusting. Why should children be any different?

Imogen is the author of Fashion Babylon, published by Bantam Press (£12.99).