Being a mum comes with many challenges. There’s the obvious ones like gaining three stone in nine months, pushing a large item out of a very small hole, providing a 24 hour milk dispensing service and trading in a full night’s sleep for brief and sporadic snoozes.
But then to add to that, you have the never-ending pressure of keeping up with the Gina Ford-reading, may never work another day, “what do you mean you don’t sterilise anymore?” Stepford Wives, that to all intent and purposes had never before existed to me.
I assumed that while we are all finding our way reasonably blind in the ever-surprising, complicated and evolving world of parenthood, we stick together. We listen and sympathise with each other’s woes, we turn our heads when each other are having a meltdown, or offer a cup of tea and a helping hand when any of us look a bit frazzled. We don’t compete…do we?
After experiencing what can only be described in their plural form as ‘the others’ I have recently realised how incredibly lucky I am to have supportive friends who do all of the above when I need it.
Now to ‘the others’. Being a parent, you quite unsurprisingly come across other parents frequently. Whether it be in baby clinic, Kiddicare, a swimming class or in the drop-off at nursery, often without meaning to be, you are surrounded.
I am perhaps my own worst enemy, openly engaging with these people, but it is my natural reaction when I see another baby or child, to say hello, perhaps make a funny face (all jokes about that being my normal face will be duly ignored) or even perhaps enquire after their age or name.
Faced with my gesticulating features, I have identified three types of reaction:
- There’s the woman who greets you with a tight lipped, screwed up eyes smile that says “I don’t know you, how dare you talk to my child, I’m only smiling because I should”. This is easy to interpret and understand, as rude as it may seem. In this situation, you disengage, possibly move out the way, in some cases making an ‘oops’ expression to the nearest bystander as you turn away. Simple.
- Then there’s my favourite - the mother who sees this as a chance to talk. A chance to unload their burdens and tell you way too much information about their personal life, ask if you’re also struggling with sleep (while looking like they are carrying an entire Tesco shop under their eyes) and opening up an entire five minute chat on the colour and consistency of their child’s poo. I am happy with this mother. On a tired day, this mother is possibly me, and I at least appreciate the honesty and vulnerability that we all sometimes feel while tackling such a minefield of new experiences.
And then there’s the Super Mother. The woman who doesn’t really want you to be talking to her child, but at the same time it is a perfect opportunity to show you how wonderful and advanced said child is, while looking at your own little bundle and questioning their stage in Darwin’s theory of evolution.
I came across a Super Mother just a few months ago, who actually came in man form - a role reversal, borne out of necessity rather than choice I might add. This paid-up member of ‘the others’ it turns out has built his child’s life around a book, written by some awful American woman, who will remain nameless (but it sounds like Nina Lord).
At the hands of this ‘man mother’ I was subjected to an endless barrage of information on his daughter’s above-average progress, her pronounced vocabulary (even though I can’t understand a word she says) and how much further advanced she was when she was my daughter’s age.
I don’t know why, but rather than doing the natural thing and exaggerating all the things Erin actually does to try and match up to this idyllic child, I find myself highlighting things that haven’t happened yet. Why I hear you ask? Still asking myself that question, it’s like offering up an open goal.
“Yeah we’re not sure why she hasn’t got teeth yet, but she manages to gum all her food so I suppose she’s no different from most of the folks in my grandad’s home!” Poor attempts at bad jokes just seem to come naturally when I don’t know what to say, but essentially I just rolled over and let this imbecile have his proverbial field day.
And then of course comes the sympathetic head tilt, and - I tell you no word of a lie - ‘back pat’ followed by a, “You mustn’t worry, she’ll get there in the end”.
At no point during our conversation did I express any concern about my little girl. At no point did I ask for this delightful character’s advice or sympathy. As far as I’m concerned she is progressing at her own pace, and not in any way struggling – but after an hour in the company of ‘Dad of the Year’ I did walk away wondering if I needed to be worried.
Luckily, my logical mind tells me to ignore comments, looks and advice from ‘the others’ and trust my instincts and the great people around me. And to our resident ‘Dad of the Year’ I say, put down the books and remember, we taught the Americans how to look after children didn’t we? As our friends across the pond would say: “Erm…Mary Poppins, hello?!” (delivered in a raw Texan accent for effect).
Let us all refrain from competition and embrace our own vulnerabilities in this insane world that is parenthood. Otherwise we may all find ourselves in five years sat at the side of a badly erected catwalk in a community centre, watching our little darlings parade around in sequins and lycra competing for the title of Little Miss Nottingham. Let this never be so!
