My approach to motherhood is what is widely known as ‘the crazy approach’. It is based on the following model of brain development: the more I talk to Esme, the bigger (and more complex) her brain will be. With no upper limit. (Of course I know there is an upper limit. I’m not literally crazy. For example, I know that talking to her in her sleep wont help improve her IQ– or at least not much anyway. And I am sure there is a maximum number of hours of chit chat per day, beyond which any more talk does not make any difference to her future chances of Nobel Lauriature. But as I don’t know what the crucial number of hours is - as I don’t know where the limit lies - I hedge my bets by talking to her pretty much all day. Every day.)
Dont get me wrong, the crazy approach to motherhood has its benefits. Well only one really: if Esme never learns to talk - if she never gets past ‘baba, mama’ - I can be sure (and I mean absolutely certain) that I am not to blame. But it has some major drawbacks too. The main one being BOREDOM. For me, for her, for the cat, for the man next to us on the park bench and for pretty much anyone who has anything to do with us. I have of course been stuck with my own internal dialogue my whole life ( or at least since I had an internal dialogue) but it is a beast best kept caged. It is much, much worse out in the open. Believe me. And all day every day? That is too much for anyone to stomach – even me. Just to give you a taster, a normal morning will go something like this ‘let’s go upstairs now, one two three...’ , ‘now Im changing your nappy’, ‘now Im eating my breakfast ,.yumm’ ... and so on. Of course I don’t have any other internal dialogues to compare it to, (If I did I would really be in trouble..) but Im pretty sure that this one is a little on the dull side.
Until recently, I was content in the belief that these unfortunate upshots of the crazy approach were a well kept secret. Known only to me and baby. It turns out I was wrong. It turns out that I am absolutely radiant with loneliness and boredom. So much so, that with no prompting from me (absolutely none), my friend, in an episode of altruism, saw fit to set me up on a blind date with another mother. I already have a whole two mum friends. Nice ones. Yet this morning I found myself shuffling off to a blind date was with my friend’s friend. Otherwise known as Laura. Mum-extraordinaire.
The chances are, that you haven’t been on blind-mum-date yourself. So let me fill you in. They tend to begin with an episode of coo-ing at each other’s respective babies. There is (of course) an element of comparison going on behind the coo-s, but this is well hidden behind exclamations of ‘isnt he cute’, ‘What lovely eyes’ and so on. (A word of caution: If any of you pre-baby readers think yourselves too level headed and well-grounded for coo-ing, think again. So did I. Then I had Esme, and realized that the coo is an integral and unavoidable feature of post-labour life (as if there were any other sort..). Nowadays, I often find it rather hard to contain my coo. I find myself Lambasting unsuspecting babies in the street with an unexpected ‘arent you sweeet’. Coo-ing tourettes – it’s no joke. ) As Coo’s were returned in Esme’s direction, it seemed things were on the right track. But Es had other plans...
The best way to alienate a future mum-friend is with a display of parenting incompetence. And mine was glorious. Spilt milk and a screaming baby were topped off with a wholly unnatural smile as I attempted to continue the chitchat among the mayhem.... (These episodes are not uncommon in my life. Pre-baby I imagined I would be a mother like you see on the pampers adverts, serene,fulfilled, with beaming baby in tow. Like an ad from the 1950’s, my days would be filled with happy hours in the park - playing with a cherub-like baby on a gingham red and white picnic mat. With a bottle of coke. i thought i might even get a dog just to complete the picture. And an old fashioned picnic basket..never happened )
Laura did her best to help me as I gathered my stuff together to make my shame-faced exit. Passing me the bottle she inquired as to the whereabouts of the lid. There was no lid.
That was my third mum-date. Humiliation. Defeat.
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