Baby Talk
I don't like babies. I blame this on the fact that I helped raise my little sister from babyhood and by the time she was a toddler I had decided that I had just consumed the last remaining dregs of maternal instinct in those final few hundred nappy changes. So when I agreed to attend the birthday party of her one year old son I prepared myself. This was going to be a room full of her baby's baby friends along with the baby friends' parents. In sum, there was going to be a helluva lot of one thing and one thing only...
Baby talk.
And nothing to drink but orange cordial.
But, I do believe my friend's baby is exceptionally intelligent, gorgeous and worthy of all the love and admiration that I could spare for something that had stopped my friend from going out on weekends. And he must be pretty special for me to like him because as I mentioned earlier...
Anyway, I walked in the room and was overwhelmed by the number of parents taking turns at doting over each others little ones. Hey, this kid is popular. Good going. Everyone looks at me with a look of slight surprise. I'm holding Oliver's gift - a toothbrush which flashes and has a toy duck suspended in glitter within the handle. I instantly felt like announcing, "Hi. I don't have a baby and I apologise in advance for not wanting anything to do with yours." Instead, I give a quick wave-and-smile then wriggle past into the kitchen where my friend's husband is furiously stirring twenty litres of soup.
I tell my friend she looks even more hot than before she had a child and ask if she misses going out.
She says she does.
She tells me she's organising a regular babysitter.
I almost cry with relief.
Then I see her. Its my old nemesis from Grade 8. A so-called best friend that turned on me, poured contempt on our friendship and left me shivering and alone in the coldest and loneliest of places - high school.
"Hey! Its been years!" I say with an artificial smile.
She pretends to have trouble remembering my name.
Cow.
I politely find someone else to talk to for the next hour and then feel a pinch of shame. Its been a long time since she carved out my heart, poured petrol over it then tossed it on a BBQ. Maybe bygones are bygones. Maybe we are both mature, sensible adults now who have moved beyond such petty things.
Then, she sidles up to me.
She asks me what I've done with myself.
I say I've travelled.
Overseas? She asks as if she can barely believe it.
Yes, three continents and over a dozen countries I say with a small sense of satisfaction building.
She digs for more.
I say I've done a uni degree and that I currently work in a library.
"Oh, that doesn't surprise me." she says with more acid in her tone than a bottle of Drain-O, "I think when I first saw you, you were reading a book."
At first I feel the same sting that I felt back in school when I saw all my classmates trooping off with sleeping bags and pillows to her house for a slumber party...a party that I had not been invited to. Then I feel annoyed that she can still get to me. That I ever cared.
She wants to know what else I've done.
It wouldn't matter if I told her that I'd found the cure for cancer or sailed solo across the world so I simply shrug and say, "Yeah, that's about it."
"So...same old, same old." she says smugly and I have a sudden urge to set her hair on fire.
Then I looked at her and reminded myself of three things:
1. I am about ten kilos lighter.
2. I don't have a husband with all the vitality and personality of boiled cabbage.
3. And this weekend, while I am swaying into a sensual, salsa groove...you will be changing pooey nappies.
I'm beginning to enjoy the orange cordial the way I enjoy gin and tonic.
Viva la freedom.
Baby talk.
And nothing to drink but orange cordial.
But, I do believe my friend's baby is exceptionally intelligent, gorgeous and worthy of all the love and admiration that I could spare for something that had stopped my friend from going out on weekends. And he must be pretty special for me to like him because as I mentioned earlier...
Anyway, I walked in the room and was overwhelmed by the number of parents taking turns at doting over each others little ones. Hey, this kid is popular. Good going. Everyone looks at me with a look of slight surprise. I'm holding Oliver's gift - a toothbrush which flashes and has a toy duck suspended in glitter within the handle. I instantly felt like announcing, "Hi. I don't have a baby and I apologise in advance for not wanting anything to do with yours." Instead, I give a quick wave-and-smile then wriggle past into the kitchen where my friend's husband is furiously stirring twenty litres of soup.
I tell my friend she looks even more hot than before she had a child and ask if she misses going out.
She says she does.
She tells me she's organising a regular babysitter.
I almost cry with relief.
Then I see her. Its my old nemesis from Grade 8. A so-called best friend that turned on me, poured contempt on our friendship and left me shivering and alone in the coldest and loneliest of places - high school.
"Hey! Its been years!" I say with an artificial smile.
She pretends to have trouble remembering my name.
Cow.
I politely find someone else to talk to for the next hour and then feel a pinch of shame. Its been a long time since she carved out my heart, poured petrol over it then tossed it on a BBQ. Maybe bygones are bygones. Maybe we are both mature, sensible adults now who have moved beyond such petty things.
Then, she sidles up to me.
She asks me what I've done with myself.
I say I've travelled.
Overseas? She asks as if she can barely believe it.
Yes, three continents and over a dozen countries I say with a small sense of satisfaction building.
She digs for more.
I say I've done a uni degree and that I currently work in a library.
"Oh, that doesn't surprise me." she says with more acid in her tone than a bottle of Drain-O, "I think when I first saw you, you were reading a book."
At first I feel the same sting that I felt back in school when I saw all my classmates trooping off with sleeping bags and pillows to her house for a slumber party...a party that I had not been invited to. Then I feel annoyed that she can still get to me. That I ever cared.
She wants to know what else I've done.
It wouldn't matter if I told her that I'd found the cure for cancer or sailed solo across the world so I simply shrug and say, "Yeah, that's about it."
"So...same old, same old." she says smugly and I have a sudden urge to set her hair on fire.
Then I looked at her and reminded myself of three things:
1. I am about ten kilos lighter.
2. I don't have a husband with all the vitality and personality of boiled cabbage.
3. And this weekend, while I am swaying into a sensual, salsa groove...you will be changing pooey nappies.
I'm beginning to enjoy the orange cordial the way I enjoy gin and tonic.
Viva la freedom.
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