Just returned from a quick excursion to the toilet to find Piglet slumped in his bouncy chair, hanging off the end. Perhaps the time has come to start strapping him in (what’s that sound? The sound of social services being called at the fact that I have so far failed to do this). Either that or I am going to have to start taking him with me to the toilet. Last night he cried when I left him in his cot in the bedroom while I went to clean my teeth, and I had to take him into the bathroom with me and lie him on a towel on the floor to keep him quiet. I may never have a moment to myself again.
Anyway, today we have been to the library, so that Piglet got to have an excursion in the pram so that he could go to sleep; and we went swimming. There was a nap required before the latter as well, and as Piglet did not seem to want to nap in the bouncy chair, or go anywhere near the bouncy chair, crying every time I tried to put him in, and thinks his cot is a receptacle for bicycling his legs around and giggling, we had to leave half an hour early for swimming, and sit in the “London Designer Outlet” (sorry, that still cannot be written without the use of inverted commas) for ages so that we could get a good nap in beforehand. Luckily, it paid off and Piglet was surprisingly cheerful throughout swimming, managing to crack no less than three smiles. As usual he behaved impeccably, which made me feel better about having to sit through the following poolside Competitive Mother conversation that took place beforehand.
“My labour was really quick-just six hours.”
“Really? Mine was three hours.”
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU ALL. Perhaps I should just dive into the very shallow pool head first and kill myself now as I am obviously a failure as a mother and as a woman in general. One of the women even said she gave birth in the birth centre. The BIRTH CENTRE. I thought giving birth in there was banned. Isn’t it just there to make women feel better and make sure that the species doesn’t die out by making us all think that maybe there’s a remote possibility that giving birth is just going to be a matter of bouncing on a beach ball a couple of times, playing some whalesong and sitting in a paddling pool grunting? One of the women from my antenatal class was banned from using the birth centre just because she’d visited the hospital a few times during her pregnancy worried that she wasn’t feeling the baby move enough, even though there was nothing wrong, and even though the birth centre is like, in an actual hospital. WHO IS EVEN ALLOWED TO USE THE BIRTH CENTRE?
Piglet is gazing at me forlornly from his baby gym, sucking his thumb. The look on his face says “yes you are a rubbish mother. You are not even fit to call yourself a woman. Because of that caesarean, I am now traumatised for life like it says in your hypnobirthing book. And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.”
And if that wasn’t bad enough, due to my rubbishness as mothering, he then banged his head on the lockers in the changing rooms, mercifully not enough to do himself an injury, but enough to make him howl for long enough that all the other mothers considered calling social services. And then I accidentally poked him in the eye whilst trying to soothe him. ARGH.
He later did a projectile wee into that very same eye while I was changing his nappy later in the day, which I imagine must sting a bit, but as we were at home and minus an audience, that didn’t even register a whimper.
The Public Badge of Good Motherhood has now been confiscated.