Is It Just Me? (26 page)

OK, I give in. Here this chapter endeth.

Lots of Love, Miranda and Peggy xxx

Big Miranda? This mad dog-bond –?

Oh, so you were listening.

I didn’t go to debating society in the end. Bella thought I should bleach my moustache beforehand – everyone’s doing it these days, whether we have hair there or not – but I accidentally used her Henna hair dye instead of the moustache bleach, and created a full-on moustache for myself.

^*
blows water out like a whale for laughing
^*
Can you not tell me things like that when I am drinking? I have spewed water all over my laptop.

It is NOT FUNNY. I don’t know how long it is going to take to wash out. It was black Henna dye.

What did I tell you about using Beauty Products?

I just wanted to try and get a boyfriend after the dismal dog news. And now everyone’s calling me Hitler Hart.

Start doing John Cleese goose-steps and turn the joke on you – that way you’ve got the upper hand.

OK, brilliant, will do. Thanks. So, this dog thing? Do you not have any humans to love?

Well, yes. Lots. I love Mum and Dad, and my friends, and –

What about your children? I’m imagining you have children, yes?

Right, let’s just hold our metaphorical horses – or possibly literal ones, if you’re reading this in a stable. It’s time for a more robust exploration of the world of . . . Mothers and Children. Settle down, Hitler Hart, and listen up.

MDRC, I don’t know if you have children, are considering having children, or are about to give birth (in which case, please put this book down immediately, listen to the midwives and for goodness’ sake
push
when they tell you to). Or perhaps you consider yourself still to be a child, literally or metaphorically, so having a brood of your own isn’t currently an option. Perhaps you’re like a thirty-eight-year-old ‘man-child’ from a Nick Hornby book, pursuing a monk-like, responsibility-free existence of computer games, beer and curry. In which case: grow up! Or perhaps you’re of a more spiritual bent, and have recently completed a week-long workshop on ‘unleashing your inner child’, in which case, I hope said child is now unleashed and wreaking havoc on the Lego mat. (I nearly went to an ‘unleashing your inner child’ workshop so that I could do the exercise then go over to the others, push them over, spit on them, draw on their faces, draw on the walls, wee myself and sit in a corner eating Haribo. ‘What?’ I’d say, innocently, ‘you said release your inner child. Consider her released. Wave your joss sticks at
that
.’)

Alternatively, perhaps you’re someone who’s terribly modern and brave, someone who can lean confidently back in their Philippe Starck office chair, buzz their PA for a chai latte (which I always think sounds like a terrifying martial art), tighten the belt of their size six jeans, kick aside their yoga mat and intone, ‘Yeah, I simply don’t
want
children. Just not something I ever imagined for myself. I’m totally cool with it.’

Whichever category you fall into, I say well done. It takes all sorts to make a world.

But I would like, for one chapter only, to focus on the confusing issue of mothers. Because, is it just me, or are we currently suffering an epidemic of what I call ‘extreme motherhood’? Here’s the thing: it seems that some mothers today have forgotten that human beings have been breeding, simply and successfully, for an awfully long time now. They’ve forgotten that children were raised by
cave people.
Fine humans have grown up with the minimum of hassle and the minimum of fuss, yet this fact is ignored. The How To Bring Up Your Baby/Toddler/Teenager section of the bookshop is growing by the day, while the list of things you’re supposed to buy for your child and the things they’re supposed to have achieved by certain ages is getting longer and longer and more and more demanding, it seems, with every new baby that pops into the world. New mothers today are on a fear-based treadmill for bringing up their little ones.

Whilst recently spending time with Clare-Bear and her four-strong brood, I arrived during the ghastly sounding phrase that becomes common usage amongst mothers of toddlers: the Play Date. And, indeed, it was ghastly. I could have sworn I heard the following phrase. Brace yourselves.

I hear these kind of things, and think, ‘Can we all just calm down, please?’

Occasionally I like to drive past primary schools and make my views known. I wind down my window and merrily bellow: ‘They’re all going to be fine, you know. It doesn’t matter if they haven’t been on a cathedral tour of Northern Europe by the time they do their SATs. I mean, I was just given a tin of beans and a big stick to play with, and I’ve turned out all right.’

I am not entirely sure about that. But Mum couldn’t have done much more, could she?

Not then. But the Modern World has thrown up all sorts of ways for mothers to be extreme. It’s all organic vegetables and super foods and after-school clubs and ‘development’ and naughty steps and no smacking and ‘give them a choice’.

Mum just dropped us off at school, or at the shops in the holidays, and the rest was homework or playing on our own, with the odd slap if we didn’t stick within the rules – or an extra sweet if we did. Job done.

No sweets now as, if nothing else, they might contain nuts. Anyone who is anyone has a child with an allergy. Lots of high-maintenance children who can’t eat nuts or wheat or gluten (whatever that is) running around playgrounds with épée pens.

What’s wrong with fish fingers for lunch, flapjacks for tea and lashings of Arctic Roll at weekends? Yum.

Arctic Roll is definitely a no-no these days.

WHAAAAATTTTTT? No Arctic Roll? Now, that IS extreme.

Fasten your seatbelt, because it’s about to get much worse. Ladies, gentlemen, and my eighteen-year-old self, my scientifically vigorous research into parenthood has revealed four distinct varieties of ‘Extreme Mother’ currently active. Please may I draw your attention to:

Extreme Mother Type Ones are terminally superior. The fact that they have successfully furthered their line gives them, they believe, superiority over all other human beings, especially over single, childless women. However, they reserve an extra-special bit of scorn for any of their fellow mothers who may not be getting it ‘quite right’.

Type One mothers generally end up with three to four children who will be given names like Bruschetta, Vinaigrette and Focaccia (girls) or Marmaduke, Frappuccino and Aspinal (boys). These names will be abbreviated to Chetta, Gretty, Cacci, and Marm, Frappers and Asp, which will make the Type One mothers sound, when they’re calling to their children, a bit like someone marshalling an Italian football team.

Type One mothers may have husbands who present a united front, and appear to enjoy dressing their sons up in matching Boden shirts of a weekend. Or they
may
have husbands who are absolutely shocked and mortified at what their lives and wives have become, and who spend their time bent over in an apologetic stoop, muttering, ‘Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry’ as their wives maraud around the school sports day like little floral-clad dictators.

Extreme Mothers Type One take pride and joy in two things. First, the fact that they own the largest 4x4 on the market, which was made missile-safe in Afghanistan and can hold fourteen Bugaboos and a Waitrose picnic, no probs. Secondly, the fact that they lost the baby weight (and a little something extra, to boot) via an extreme, military style ‘Mams and Prams’ exercise class within six weeks of each child’s birth.

Extreme Mother Type One is by far the extremest type of Extreme Mother.

Extreme Mother Type Two is marginally less extreme than her Type One counterpart. She takes motherhood a fraction less seriously but is, nonetheless, determined to maintain the illusion of absolute togetherness and control. No, the baby will not get the better of Extreme Mother Type Two, at least not in public. The pram is top-notch Maclaren. The baby changing mat is Cath Kidston, the canvas sack with all the neatly labelled tupperwares full of nutritionally balanced food is Cath Kidston, the clips to keep the packets of organic rice cake snacks fresh are Cath Kidston. This woman is Cath Kidston-ed beyond reproach. She can also be identified by the fact that, despite having three children, her car is oddly clean. This is one of the ways in which she silently competes with other mothers. The other way is via the OTT nurturing of her child’s embryonic gifts and talents: ‘He clapped! At Monkey Music. He clapped! Darling, eBay us a Xylophone; he’s the new Mozart!’

When safely ensconced in her own home, Extreme Mother Type Two then falls into one of two categories. In the spirit of being mathematically precise, let’s call them ‘2A’ and ‘2B’.

Category 2A will keep up the beautifully controlled façade by breezing through the front door, forcing through her tiredness with a song, and maybe treating herself to a little homemade something from the Cath Kidston cookie jar for a modest, non-waistline-damaging sugar rush.

Category 2B, on the other hand, will crash through the door, give in to the tears that she’s been holding back all day, weep and wail and bellow as she chars the fish fingers, then stagger to the drinks cabinet (kicking over a stray Jenga tower), to crack open a bottle of wine and shop for more Cath Kidston on her iPad. However, if ‘company’ were to appear at the front door, 2B would be able to sober up, spritz on some Jo Malone and have an aubergine parmigiana from the oven in three minutes flat. And she’ll serve it up whilst telling tender stories of how ‘Motherhood’s really offered me a chance to give something back, you know?’

I warn you, 2B is a very sneaky beast.

Extreme Mother Type Three is extreme in a rather different fashion. Some would call her slovenly. Some would say that she simply ‘says it like it is’. Type Three mother will confidently approach a Type One mother in the park and say, ‘Oh, yeah, sorry about the sick on the shirt. No point changing it, I thought. It’ll only get sicked on again. Ha!’ Type One mother will respond to this by nervously peeling her child away from the sick-smeared Type Three, saying pointedly, ‘Focaccia, please come here, I am taking you to ballet now, and then we shall be learning how to make moussaka for dinner.’ Type Three won’t care about this – she’ll have found a stray Tangfastic in the front pocket of her coat and will be eating it hungrily (the Type Three mother cares little for dieting). Type Two mothers are absolutely thrilled that Type Three mothers exist, as they present no threat to them whatsoever. The Type Three mother’s car is a stew-pot of wet biscuits, toy trucks, chocolate wrappers and two-year-old juice cartons. She’ll be able to comfortably socialise with friends who don’t have children, as she doesn’t subscribe to the theory that her kids watching an hour of telly while she has a natter with her mates is going to ruin them for life. Type Three mother will also occasionally find herself of an evening in front of the telly saying, ‘Oh my goodness, I haven’t had a bath for three days.’

Our final type of Extreme Mother is a one of a very special breed. She is the ‘Too Much Information’ mother. Every morning, she’ll arrive at the nursery gates and tell the other mothers how sore her breasts are, how hard the little one bit last night, how often the toddler woke up, when she last had sex and what that was like for the first time, post-birth. ‘Urh, urh, urh, urh, stop, please!’ is what you really want to shout loudly in her face, but you maintain a fixed, middle-class smile. You took to avoiding her while she was pregnant, as she used to grab your hand and place it on her tummy, failing to notice that you winced in horror at the feel of her popped-out belly button. Is it just me, or am I the only one not interested in feeling a baby kick from outside a womb? I will go as far as to say this: IT FREAKS ME RIGHT OUT.
I
will decide when to show an interest in your child – probably at three, when they are potty-trained and can say funny things. But Type Four won’t notice your displeasure, and will later tell you all the details of the birth, ignoring my cardinal life rule that the only context in which the word ‘stirrups’ should be used is when talking about stables.