Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (29 page)

‘Did your…’ he begins, not knowing how to word the enquiry properly. ‘Did your daughter just call me the c-word?’

I give him full marks for not swearing back at us. He might have attended the people skills course after all.

‘No! Oh good grief no!’ I assure him, shaking my head like a dog with a rag in its mouth.

‘She’s just at that age!’ Laura adds.

Just at what age, darling? The difficult age between first word and first steps, commonly known as the ‘get daddy arrested for public disorder’ age?

‘Meefle! Hee beeble munna dadda CUUUN TA!’
Point, point, point.

It appears I’m carrying a future career criminal on my back.

‘I’m really very sorry,’ I tell my new policeman friend. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying of course.’

The suspicion in his eyes suggests he doesn’t believe a word of it. He probably thinks I spend hours at home with a copy of The Bill on DVD, my daughter strapped to a chair and a flipchart covered with obscenities.

‘You might want to get her to stop, sir,’ he says, eyebrow raised.

‘Cuunnn ta!’

‘Certainly officer.’

Laura is rapidly un-velcroing Poppy from the backpack.

‘Baddle! Maaggle! Meeee munna dadda cuuunnnnn da!’

He’s going to throw us all in handcuffs any minute…

I start backing away, pulling Laura with me. ‘Thank you for your help officer!’ I squeal.

Poppy wriggles in Laura’s arms like she’s not finished and wants to go back to call the policeman a fascist pig-fucker as well.

Thankfully the officer takes no steps to follow us. With one hand resting on his utility belt and a slight look of disgust on his face, he watches us with a beady eye until we’ve disappeared around a conveniently placed hedge.

That was a week ago.

Poppy has not repeated the c-word again as far as I can tell.

She literally picked it up for a minute in front of one of Her Majesty’s finest, and dropped it again the moment we were out of sight.

It is the most inexplicable thing to happen in nearly two years of inexplicable things.

My daughter has kept me awake all night, worried me to tears with illness, forced me to drink coffee with a Chinese lunatic and made me fork out for a new Sky box.

But all those pale into insignificance alongside the fact she’s barely out of the womb and is already a card carrying member of the National Front.

Laura’s Diary

Monday, November 10th

Dear Mum,

I have entered a world I am ill prepared to deal with. The world of the competitive mother.

It’s a cut-throat world Mum, where otherwise sane and rational women become deranged maniacs, capable of such hate and bile-filled behaviour it’s a wonder they’re not arrested and sectioned on sight.

It all comes down to who’s baby is better…

Better looking, better behaved, more advanced, happier, brighter, more alert, better dressed, better equipped, taller, hairier, cleaner, prettier, stronger, livelier and cuter.

The list goes on. And on.

…and on.

I’ve done my level best to avoid these women, but they smell you coming, and before you know it you’re being accosted in the middle of the park when you’re trying to enjoy a nice walk.

‘Hello there!’ a voice hails me as I sit moving Pops back and forth in her pushchair, while idly checking out the arses on the blokes playing football across the park.

Into my field of vision – and interrupting a particularly peachy bottom as it’s about to take a penalty – is a tall, skinny brunette, with an expression usually found on the face of one of those clipboard carrying charity folk who ambush you on the way out of Primark.

‘Morning,’ I say warily. She’s pushing what looks like a vastly over-priced pushchair along.

I know what’s coming and roll my internal eyes.

‘Lovely day for taking them to the park, isn’t it?

Actually, I’m the one enjoying the park, sweetheart. Pops doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

‘Yes.’

She sits down next to me, pulling her baby alongside mine. She leans over to look at Pops, who gives her a blank stare. ‘How old is your little one?’

‘Nearly a year.’

‘Oh! Lovely. Mine’s eleven months and already talking properly!’

‘That’s nice for you.’

The brunette leans over her own baby and gives the poor bastard a bug-eyed stare. ‘Izn’t that wight ickle Philpot?’

Philpot? The kid’s name is fucking ‘Philpot’?

‘That’s an unusual name,’ I say, trying hard not to laugh.

‘My late grandmother’s maiden name. She was deputy mayor. We wanted to honour her appropriately.’

And make your son the target of every bully on God’s green Earth, no doubt.

Philpot, as if trained to do so in some Pavlovian style experiment, looks up at me and speaks. ‘’Ello!’ he says in a clear, crisp voice.

The brunette’s eyes light up.

Shit.

Now I have to get Pops to perform for me, otherwise she’s going to look more backward than the west country in front of this brown-haired monster and her experiment in parenting.

‘Say hello Poppy!’ I tell my daughter, with no appreciable response. ‘Say hello!’ This elicits no more than a dribble and a lop-sided smile. The brunette gives me one of those smiles people aim at the homeless. ‘Say hello to the lady Poppy!’ This time Poppy lets out a sonorous, heavy fart that indicates I’ll be finding the nearest baby changing room in a few minutes.

The brunette, whose name I’m pleased to say I never discovered, sits back and puts her hands in her lap. ‘Well, all babies develop at different rates, don’t they?’

What an insufferable bitch.

Here I was, quite happily perving over some football bottom and she comes along, interrupting my happy mood with her stupid talking Philpot.

What makes women think this is okay behaviour? You wouldn’t walk up to another woman at random and start comparing handbags or shoes, would you? No, you’d carry out the comparison covertly from afar with a sneer on your face, as is right and proper. Why is it different with children?

I stand up. ‘I have to go and change her. It was nice to meet you.’ I look down at Pops. ‘Say goodbye to the lady Poppy,’ I say, hoping she’ll mistake this bitch for a policeman and come out with her favourite word.

No joy though, I just get another fart and a slight look of desperation.

‘It was nice to meet you too. Say goodbye Philpot.’

‘’oodbye ‘hilpot.’

What a little twat.

This is why I maintain only one close relationship with another mother, the one I have with Melina. We’ve been friends far too long to let competitiveness get in the way.

The fact that Poppy is developing at the same rate as Hayley did a few years ago is the saving grace. If Mel’s kid could have recited Shakespeare and tied a reef knot one handed at one year old we may have had more of a problem.

‘I got that too,’ Mel tells me when I recite the tale of Philpot and his mother. ‘Still do. Your kid becomes such an all-encompassing part of your life, it’s difficult not to treat the whole thing as a contest. Hayley’s the biggest contribution I’ve made to the world, so of course I want her to be better than the other kids.’

This was disturbing. Mel is normally as level-headed and sensible as me. The idea of her succumbing to this ridiculous game of one-upmanship means I might too.

But I can’t spend the next few years avoiding my fellow mothers, can I? I’ll become a recluse and Pops will grow up weird and socially inept.

Just like her father.

‘Swim classes,’ Mel says.

‘What?’

‘The best thing I did when Hayley was little was take her to swim classes. It’s very popular these days and a good way to get to know other mothers with babies the same age.’

‘I don’t know Mel, it sounds awful.’

‘Put it this way Loz, it’ll give you a chance to wear a swimsuit and show off how well you’ve lost your baby weight.’

…which is all the convincing I need. Mel knows me so well.

All those walks with Pops and sessions on the treadmill have (more or less) returned me to my pre-pregnancy weight. With the added bonus of larger boobs.

Even if Poppy isn’t streets ahead of the other babies, I should be able to outdo the other mothers in the swimsuit department.

This is both hideously egotistical and poor parenting in the extreme, but it takes extreme measures to get me out of the house at eight on a Monday morning and down to the leisure centre.

The class is called ‘Aquababes’ - which sounds like a top shelf DVD full of bikini models to me, but who am I to judge?

It’s certainly well attended. There are a lot of cars parked at the leisure centre at this ungodly hour. Most of them sport a variety of those idiotic ‘Baby On Board’ stickers.

I pull into the car park a good ten minutes late and rush Poppy through to the changing rooms as quickly as possible. I change us both into our swim clothes and head for the pool.

We have come prepared to dazzle.

Poppy is resplendent in a brand new ten quid baby swimsuit, and I am rocking the gorgeous cut-out number with the scalloped edges I bought on honeymoon.

As we head out past the foot bath into the main pool area, I feel a little strut in my step coming on.

Look at me! I have a child and also shapely hips! Look how my stomach is flat – providing I hold my breath in slightly! My hair is golden and flowing! My baby is well nourished and happy! Tremble in my presence!

Yes, I am being utterly ridiculous, but being a mother isn’t all that conducive to feeling sexy and confident most of the time. You’re always knackered, and pretty much consumed with taking care of your child twenty four hours a day. There’s not a lot of time left over for dressing to impress.

A girl likes to feel good about herself and I’m determined not to let this opportunity go by.

‘You’re late!’ an irritated voice snaps, ruining my ego-trip.

I look into the pool to see a trim, tanned black-haired woman standing in front of a group of mothers holding babies. All look at me with a mixture of curiosity, veiled contempt and (hopefully) jealousy.

‘Sorry! I’m new. Where do I go?’