I was walking through town, wearing my baby on my front in his sling, whilst shovelling an iced lemon coconut flapjack into my mouth. (No I’d never tried one before but the novelty appealed - it was very nice, though the layer of icing was as thick as the layer of oats so quite the sugar rush). I couldn’t face sitting through baby story-time at the library on a growling stomach so bought it on impulse to devour on route. The baby rather impeded the journey of the flapjack from hand to mouth, as I clumsily broke off chunks at a time to circle over the baby’s head and gobble up. Being a crumbly flapjack, many of the oats fell onto his head or, worse, into my cleavage where I could feel them collecting, mingling with sweat and suncream in the heat, under the sling. I pondered whether I should pick the crumbs out as I walked along the high street or when I reached the library. The desperation. The indignity.
Whilst lamenting my self-inflicted predicament, I remembered the recurring fear I have about how I will die. I worry that I will die in a car accident whilst reaching for a sweet on the front passenger seat at the moment of impact. It’s a terrible habit that I sometimes buy a little treat for myself as a reward for the chore of supermarket shopping and enjoy it on my drive home. Even whilst doing it I envision an inquest piecing together the chain of events. I imagine my embarrassed family hearing the judgement, laughing through tears at this tragi-comic demise, and making polite conversation afterwards. ‘Yes, she always had a sweet tooth’. ‘She said she was dying for a jelly baby’. I mean can you imagine? I do, frequently.
Motherhood has not changed me - I hoped that I might renounce all sugar by way of shining example to my offspring, whereas in fact breastfeeding has enabled me to eat more of the naughty things than ever before, whilst miraculously losing weight. My Dad has called the baby my ‘fat dialysis machine’. I’m lighter now than I was aged eighteen. Yet the power of the boob is waning as the baby eats more solids, so it’s time to start reigning in my appetite.
But enough about me, how is the baby? An old lady with shiny eyes mischievously addressed him in the library, poking at his chest with her finger, “You want to look around every corner and in every cupboard and behind every door and open every drawer”. That’s exactly the stage we’re at now, one of boundless curiosity.
Most days follow a routine. I set my alarm early so that I can read the news whilst enjoying breakfast alone. If baby wakes early, I feel cheated and irritable. If I’ve finished my hot tea, I’m ready to play Mum and bound up the stairs to scoop up my stirring boy. He immediately reaches up to touch a wooden parrot that hangs above his bed. I lift him towards it. He prods the parrot in wonder, with a look that says, ‘good isn’t it?’ I give him wide-eyed confirmation that it is indeed very special. This is the exact same parrot that swung above my childhood cot and my parents saved it for all these years and the cyclical nature of that makes me smile. I kiss his intoxicatingly soft cheeks. His cuteness makes my heart well.
Then we’re onto breakfast, then I try to get out of the house for a walk or to meet fellow Mum friends, then lunch, then afternoon nap (on a good day), then dinner, bath and bed. Amongst all this I’m breastfeeding, changing nappies, laundering nappies, reading him books, singing him songs, babbling nonsense noises, crawling around on the floor, animating toys, and stopping him from harming himself. The last task requires constant vigilance, especially now he is pulling himself up on all the furniture and trying to walk. Occasionally there is a breakthrough moment; first wave, first clap. All is sparkly and new.
Recently I was at my local farm shop, loading my vegetables onto the til whilst trying to dodge my baby’s tiny arms from intercepting all my goodies. He wants to grab everything at the moment, including my hair. This was hindering my loading speed and so I found myself apologising, “I’m so sorry, this used to be so easy and now it’s an absolute nightmare because he’s grabbing everything”.
The lady at the till flashed me a sympathetic smile and said “He’s grown quick. I remember when you first came in here with him”. “Oh yes, it was my first solo trip out the house”, I responded, amazed that she recognised me, “I was terrified”. I recalled how momentous it had felt to carry this tiny fragile person around a public place and attempt to do normal pre-baby chores in my post-baby state. I remember everyone, including the lady at the till, being so kind to me and congratulating me on passing that first milestone.
Now in many ways things are easier. I’m confident operating in Mum mode. I have a can-do attitude to navigating life’s chores and challenges with a baby. But in another way, it was so easy at the start. The baby was largely still in his sling and I could pretty much do anything. Now he’s active and wriggly and has a will of his own. Everyone tells you it gets easier and in a sense it does, but it also gets harder. One set of problems replaces another. Incidentally, this is how BFG has long described life.
There is another thread to unpick from that tale - one of the kindness of strangers. Babies are goodwill magnets. Wherever we go, my baby cranes his neck to connect with people, locking eyes with them and then widening his face into an ecstatic smile. Passers-by compliment him and coo over him. On train journeys, other passengers have often touched my arm and said things like ‘Well done, you’re doing a great job’. I’ve been really moved by receiving constant reassurance, encouragement and quiet understanding from strangers. BFG says, “I needed people to be this nice to me before I had a baby”.