‘Baby on Board’ car stickers
Before having a baby I used to get irrational irritated by these. I perceived them as a self-righteous indulgence by parents who want to tell the world that they made a baby (all by themselves) and are currently on their way to the park to make daisy chains, whilst the rest of us are running late for another shit day at the office. I thought they gave overly cautious parent drivers an unnecessary excuse to be even more cautious, and shame on you if you get too close – don’t you know there’s a BABY in the car??
Yet since becoming mum, I now totally ‘get’ these.
On my first outing out with Taylor, I had this overwhelming sense of responsibility. Overnight my most precious possession went from being my engagement ring to a little human being. What if I lost her, or forgot I had her, or took my hand off the pram and she rolled in to oncoming traffic? What if someone stole her, or she stopped breathing and I didn’t notice??? The thoughts were endless. So being in the car was no different. I went from being a relatively impatient driver to being one of those in the inside lane dutifully sticking to the speed limit. “How dare you get up my ass – I have a bloody baby in the car and I don’t give a shit if you’re running late for work…arsehole.”
Saturday pushchair shoppers
I admit it. I used to judge parents who went shopping on Saturdays, charging their pushchairs through crowds of people whilst looking harassed and pissed off. Why bother? I thought. Doesn’t she have the whole week to get out? OUCH – that’s my bloody ankle! Bitch.
Now, let me enlighten those without child. That mum did intend to get this shopping trip done and dusted before Saturday, but things just didn’t go to plan this week. So that’s why she’s here. She’s had to time the trip perfectly so that she’s back home or sat having a coffee in Costa in two hours as her baby will need feeding. So she’s in a bit of a rush. She had three hours’ sleep last night and the British public haven’t done much to help her mood so far, watching from the sidelines as she struggles to get the pushchair through various doors and up flights of steps. As she gets to the till to pay for her purchases she remembers that the basket in her pram is minuscule so she’s having to carry all of her bags on one hand, which is cutting off the circulation in her fingers. She now only has 30 minutes until the feed is due. Sod the coffee, she wants to get home. She’s ramming into you because you’re dawdling and you didn’t hear her say ‘excuse me’ because you’re having too much fun. Move out the way! Bitch.
You groan every time you see another baby picture that your friend’s uploaded onto Facebook. You really don’t need to know that she was up again all night, that she’s managed to change the bed today, or that her baby was sick all over the sofa. You don’t care. You have better things to do with your day.
So spare a thought for her. Whilst you’re instagramming your gourmet brunch, sharing your night on the town or tweeting your thoughts about that commentary you read in The Times today, your friend is changing nappies, watching CBeebies and speaking gaga language to a six week old. Any spare time she has is spent sterilizing bottles and folding laundry. She’s bloody proud of those clean sheets. Indulge her, it won’t be forever.
Parent/child parking bays
I was pretty ignorant before Taylor. I didn’t really see what the big deal was about parking with a child and why this gave parents the special privilege of having a space close to the entrance. They have buggies to transport the children after all. There always seemed to be too many of these spaces and not enough for everyone else.
I found out the hard way why these bays are absolutely necessary when I embarked on my first trip to our local shopping centre. I felt pretty smug at first, privately gloating about the fact that I would finally be able to park in one of these spaces for the privileged people with children. The smugness was short-lived however when I entered the multi-storey car park and found that throughout the first six floors, not a single one of these bays was free. After 20 minutes of driving around, I accepted that I would just have to use one of the non-privileged spaces so drove into one only to find a concrete post within inches of my door. Before Taylor I would’ve simply climbed over to the passenger side and got out of the car that way. But ah, there’s not enough room to get the bloody car seat out anyway. It’s not like I could tell her to hop out whilst I straightened up. I drove into and reversed out of another five spaces before finally taking up two spaces on the TWELFTH FLOOR.
So much for privileged treatment.