by Poppy Dolan
‘That new post was spot-on, Steve,’ he says quietly, out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper back, enjoying even more this covert conversation and how it must be sending the watching mums absolutely wild with intrigue. Ha!
‘And the views are going through the roof. Have you checked them? When I read it yesterday morning, it was at 6,000.’
I don’t want to say that it’s now more like 11,000 because it’s just nuts to say out loud. Plus, it exposes me for the obsessive egomaniac blogging has apparently made me. I check my stats constantly, like I’ve just won the lottery and the millions have been transferred over to my account. Somehow, if I don’t keep checking, all those precious pounds will drop out and roll away. Twitter Follows, Facebook Likes, blog reads: it’s all racking up and I feel made of mental energy. Like I could tackle anything! I mean, my washing basket is still fit to bursting but I could write you 300 words on the five easiest ways to pass off pyjamas as outdoor clothes right now before breaking a sweat. I’ve got many other half-written blogs that have come to my hyped-up brain and my fingers itch to get back to them. I haven’t even really noticed that Ted has been away for the last few nights with work again, this time in Denmark. It doesn’t seem to drain me at the moment. Our level of conversation hasn’t really picked up again after Cheesegate: I ask him about work and he grunts a response. Occasionally he asks if Cherry has turned over yet and I get huffy and defensive as if he’s implying that she’s taking her sweet time about it. I’d much rather be in my blogging world, thanks very much.
In fact, I was so pumped up last night that I replied to Mum’s latest passive-aggressive email to say pretty clearly that a flight to the States with a six month old was not on the cards, but here was a whole month’s worth of snaps for her to enjoy. End of. And I invited Sarah over for Sunday lunch in a few weeks’ time – it has been far too long since I saw her and maybe she can be trusted with my secret identity and even give me a few pointers from her professional point of view. I have missed her wicked sense of humour so much and I’ve been rubbish at letting her emails remain unanswered for so long. I didn’t make any reference to taking on Fierce Beauty and coming back to work. I don’t want to ruin our reunion by admitting I might never be back in that office, that the old Stevie is now just a person in photos and this is the new me, part-Stevie, part-First-Time Mum, and it’s going to be a career, if I can make a go of it. Right now, I feel like I could make a go of anything. Even getting Cherry to eat spinach purée.
Speaking of impressive feats…
‘Hey, Nelle and I have been meaning to run something past you. A new idea for the party planners.’
I hand him my phone, open to the draft for the ParentFest press release I’ve worked up. I finessed the Father’s Day keepsake party one first, before I let myself loose on this. But the idea just makes so much sense to me that I keep thinking of it – at the sink, unpacking groceries, hunting out clean knickers in the morning. I want to be at the festival but, more than that, I want us to run it. It’s what the legion of fellow frustrated parents out there want. No – they need it.
PARENTFEST – COMING TO YOU FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME IN 2018!
When was the last time your idea of fun came before your kids? If you are thinking of something that happened before the invention of the iPhone then you need ParentFest. And we need you!
ParentFest is not a family-friendly event. Don’t get us wrong – it’s great for kids and all their needs will be catered for: food without ‘bits’ in, changing facilities that don’t give you the shivers, a large screen for Peppa and Blaze and Paw Patrol marathons. Plus live music and games – sports, clown skills, dance, bouncy castles. All that energy-draining activity will be included in the ticket price per child.
But this is where it gets seriously parent-friendly. The children’s area will be entirely separate from the adult’s festival space. The children will be looked after by qualified childcare specialists and the adults will be looked after by craft beers and New Zealand wines. We’ll supply you with a beeper so that if your child is distressed you’ll be immediately alerted. Music in the parents’ section will not be something you’ve heard before on a Disney movie. The food on offer will be served hot, sometimes spicy and is not designed to be shared. There will be deckchairs, picnic blankets and bean-bag sofas. Sitting still is very much encouraged.
Our festival will kick off at 10am because, let’s face it, you’ve been awake since 5am so why not make a head start? It will close at 8pm because the kids need to get to bed and you’ll be awake again at 5am the next day, so you can get a head start on that hangover.
We’ll set up a taxi rank to take you home or back to the train station. There’ll be a secure pram and car-seat shed. Contactless payments for everything. Proper recycling facilities so you can eat too much and drink too much guilt-free.
But, BEST of all: parents go free. You just need to pay per child, per beer and per henna tattoo.
See you at ParentFest!
And if there’s anything that would make your day easier, or more enjoyable, you let us know: [email protected]
(There must be one adult per child. Over 18s only in the adult section.)
‘Wow,’ Will breathes. ‘Can we really do this? I mean, all these clever ideas – are they even possible?’
I slip the phone back into my bag. ‘I think so. In theory. With my old PR experience and the fact that Nelle has a whole team of people trained in supplying food, booze and music at her disposal, we have a good shot. Plus a certain former Selfridges buyer who knows how to make things fly and have people positively throwing their credit cards into the air in glee. If we want to try and squeeze it in at the end of September this year, we’re going to need all hands on deck plus a whole lot of luck.’
Will squints as he does the calculations. ‘That’s about eighteen weeks. Blimey. Well, nothing ventured and all that.’
The Scottish health visitor with the white bob clears her throat and calls, ‘Twenty-three!’
‘That’s us, girls.’ Will nudges the girls up from the chairs next to him, where they’ve been deeply absorbed in Peppa Pig Top Trumps. Not that they can read any of the stats, but they’re making a good show of pretending to.
There’s a minor disturbance as Olive and Esme insist on only getting on the scales together. I see Will pinch the bridge of his nose.
‘Well, now.’ The Scottish lady looks over the top of her blue-framed glasses. ‘Do you share most things at home, girls?’ They nod dutifully. ‘Then why don’t we weigh you together and split the result down the middle, share it out between you? No harm, no foul, eh, Dad?’
‘That is a great idea, thank you.’
Will waves us a goodbye as they head off for their toddler French lesson. In many ways he is so much classier than I will ever be. And that’s mostly OK.
Before I have long to contemplate whether a second language is really that much of an advantage in a Google Translate world, my number is called and I lift the heft of Cherry out of her pram. I used to panic week to week when she was a newborn that she would lose weight, that I wasn’t feeding her properly and that if she was wasting away Social Services would swoop in one night and take her away. I never told Ted this, because I could already hear in my head how mad it sounded. But now, with the benefit of time, I can see it was all hormones, tiredness and the first flush of proper ‘Mama Bear’ maternal love.
Now those hormones have died down a bit and I’ve adjusted (as adjusted as anyone can be) to the broken nights, it is clear to see even without the help of digital scales that this chunk is healthy and hearty. No doubt. She’s a beautiful butter ball of rude health. I have fed her well.
This thought makes me pull my shoulders back and stand that bit taller while she’s lying naked on the disposable paper sheeting. I may not be finding it easy, I may well be a rookie still, but I am doing a good job as Cherry’s mum.
Just then an almost comically per
fect poo emerges from Cherry’s plump bot, like someone squeezing brown toothpaste from a tube.
‘Whoah there!’ I laugh and lunge forward, grabbing the anti-bac wipes from the desk.
The health visitor laughs. ‘Oh, my! Haven’t had one of those in a while. Straight into the offensive waste bag under the table, thanks, dear.’
I somehow manage to whip the paper out from under Cherry without ripping it, like a restaurant magician, ball it up and get it in the waste bag pronto. I check my hands, wrists and T-shirt for any transfer that could cause problems (this ain’t my first poo rodeo, after all) and then check the baby all over for the same.
‘We’d better try that again, hadn’t we? You might have lost an ounce or two.’ She smiles down at Cherry. ‘And everything OK with Mum?’ she asks. ‘We haven’t seen you in a while. Everything all right?’
The bubbling ParentFest ideas flash through my brain, as do those recent Likes and Follows. I think of Nelle group-hugging Will and me in her bathroom, while I still had glue in my hair. I think of Olive and Esme’s sushi factory and how my sweet, inquisitive Cherry could watch them silently for hours at a time. I have a brief thought of Ted and how I’ll have to try and patch things up with him – again – when he gets back from Denmark tonight – well, not every single thing can be coming up Stevie, I suppose.
‘Everything is good. Really good. Thanks.’
The Scottish lady jots down the figures in Cherry’s weight chart. ‘She’s still doing wonderfully – ninety-fifth percentile for weight! So, unless you have any problems, I wouldn’t say you need to visit us again for another few months. Or just at her one-year review? I’d say, all in all, you’re doing nicely.’
For all the warmth that flooded my heart, she might as well have said I’d been granted an honorary Oxbridge degree in Motherhood and simultaneously crowned Ass-kicker of the Year by the Feminists’ Association.
We are doing nicely. Not perfectly, but I think nicely is a much better measuring stick.
* * *
All the messages about ParentFest pinging back and forth between Will, Nelle and me have really made me wonder about parent fun and why it seems so taboo to our generation of baby-makers. I don’t think our parents felt any guilt at enjoying the rare chances they had to go out, get sloshed and live it up once a decade. And on their precious weekends, they didn’t want to sit in a cheesy gymnasium watching us do rhythmically challenged gymnastics – they wanted to be in a beer garden, half-watching us play giant Jenga and half-listening to their own friends’ chatter. Did they have a smarter sense of parent—life balance? Have we become so obsessed with giving our offspring the best of everything that it’s been to our own detriment in some way?
Dinner tonight is two posh pies from the supermarket, warming in the oven, with the readymade mashed potato and buttered greens waiting for their time in microwave heaven. It’s not freshly prepared but it’s not beans on toast, so that’s something. And while I’m waiting for Ted, I can do some more flexible working and crack on with this latest post. It’s a treat to get my actual laptop out and not be reducing my thumbs to tired nubs by typing on the phone.
WHAT’S IN IT FOR US AGAIN?
We all know parenting takes a lot out of us. Read through my list below and nod if any of these apply to you
Physically: knees creak from so much lifting and carrying. Back aches from swaying and jiggling to sleep. Teeth rotting because you keep forgetting the normal human times to brush your teeth e.g. not at 3am and then again 10.30am. And DON’T even get me started on the horror show that is birth injury. That is for another post when I’ve had two whiskies for courage.
Financially: the Bugaboo. The Snuzepod. The Baby Björn. I might not be able to spell them all but I am surely paying for them. Sorry, Visa people. It’s going to be a long time before my balance sees anything like the colour black again.
Emotionally: how balanced can you feel when within the space of one hour you’ve gone from, ‘This sleeping baby is the single most beautiful thing on Earth and I think I believe in God now’ to ‘Forty-five minutes of crying! Why does this demon child hate us so much?! Why won’t it just CHILL OUT? FML!’
Romantically: look at the three reasons above, combine them, times them by ten and then imagine how sexy you feel.
Socially: either you can’t finish a conversation with a mate because you have to keep stopping to fish bogies out of noses, put a nipple into a mouth or snake charm a burp, or you change the subject on them so you can discuss how you have the most advanced baby in the world because they can get their foot in their mouth on the first try. You might move to Cambodia? Oh, cool, yeah, but Big Baby can almost roll over! Let me show you seven different video clips.
Sore neck, right? Me, too. Parenting takes a lot out of us. And what do we get in return? That’s what I’m wondering tonight.
Now, before you sharpen your pitchforks and call for my head, let me just put the big old caveat out there: we get to keep the children. That’s what we get. And we are f*cking lucky to have them, we’re f*cking lucky that we got the golden ticket of biology to create ourselves in miniature and then watch them turn into mind-blowingly unique characters. I’ll never not be bowled over with love and gratitude for Big Baby.
But even if your job was to guard and restore and occasionally dust the ‘Mona Lisa’, every now and then you’d think, ‘Oh, to put my feet up all day in front of a blank wall. That would be a holiday.’ Parents are locked in, round the clock, to their domestic, emotional and financial responsibilities. And even though you have been blessed with a beaut of a child, a day off would not be such a bad thing.
But the minute we so much as catch a whiff of a break, a decent hair-down session, here comes the guilt. Because you shouldn’t be thinking of yourself: you should be focusing on little Billy’s fine motor skills or scouring every high street store for the one perfect party dress that Jemima will love but one that also doesn’t give her damaging gender role messages for the rest of her life.
Did our parents worry about this as they played darts down the pub? When they shipped us off to grandparents for the summer so they could just go to work, cook dinner and – brace yourself – have sex that was both noisy and enjoyable? I think that kjshftyww
‘Hello there.’ Ted’s voice suddenly sails into my ear from over my shoulder. ‘What are you up to?’
I slam the lid of my laptop closed and he winces.
‘Uh. Not much.’
‘Looked like you were going ten to the dozen on a press release. Is that a work thing?’
‘Y-yes. Yes, Sarah sent me something she was struggling with. For an old client of mine. Said I’d take a fresh swipe at it.’
Ted dislodges his bag, coat and shoes into one heaped mess on the floor. ‘Huh. Well, I hope they pay you for it. Could do with a shot of life for the credit card, if I’m honest. What’s cooking?’
A few weeks ago I would have silently rankled at this response: no interest in the work itself, just the revenue. Not valuing my own professional skills, just wondering what he can shove in his gob. But since I am so shitty at covering my tracks, tonight I’m glad of the instant subject switch.
‘Pie. Mash. Standard.’
‘Don’t apologise. Sounds great.’
I wasn’t apologising, actually…
‘Do you mind calling me when it’s ready? Just a few work things to sort. And then I might head up again after eating, for an hour or so. It’s full-on mental at the moment. How’s the chunk today?’
I slip the laptop under a cushion, convinced it might open and scream out my secrets, like the tell-tale HP. ‘Good. We went to the weigh-in. Cherry’s still way up there on the ninety-fifth. Health visitors say she’s all tickety-boo.’
‘Good, good.’ Ted puts his hands on his hips and rocks back and forth a little on his heels, like he’s got something to say. ‘So…’ His eyes drop away from mine. ‘I’d better get on.’
Ted leaps quietly up the stairs – t
hank god – and then I’m alone with my rants once again. Bliss.
* * *
‘Coffee, you sexy bastard,’ Nelle says throatily, taking a big gulps of her latte. We’re at one of the family cafes and have magically got Cherry and Joe to nap in sync, next to each other in their prams.
‘Long night?’
She nods. ‘Boy, oh boy. I felt like my life was one of those long-winded Russian novels they turn into BBC dramas. It took me, I don’t know, two months to fold some laundry yesterday afternoon. And then the night stretched out into several decades with Joe deciding the Moses basket was suddenly not as comfy as my chest. With the first two we were so strict about this kind of stuff, but now I just need the whole household to get some rest, so I found myself – having lowered him ever so gently into his bed, already asleep – with my hand caught behind his neck and I’m too damn scared to remove it but I’m so damn tired I might just pass out right there on the bedroom rug. Which needs hoovering.’ A waitress with stripes of green dye in her hair brings over two big wedges of carrot cake. ‘Oh, Bea, you are a love.’ Nelle smiles at her like she’s been sent from above. ‘With this and the caffeine and the three-hour nap Darren arranged for me this morning, taking Joe to see his folks, I think I may be a real, live person again. And he pitched ParentFest to them – they love it!’ Nelle tings her cake fork against mine in a toast. ‘We’ll make a great mark-up from the booze and there’s the perfect field we’ve used for a big marquee wedding in the past – a bored farmer who doesn’t really mind if you tear up his ground because he’s only going to put potatoes in, anyway. Saves him a job. You know what, I haven’t felt this worked up about an event in ages! Such a genius move of yours!’ The smile reaches all the way up to her eyes, knocking any tired shadows out of place.