In many of my trials I have often lamented about what a hard time us girls have. I apoligise for my somewhat biased view but not being a man, and as far as I know never having lived as one, I can't really write from that perspective as I always draw on my own experiences of life. Becoming a mother for the first time is an exciting but also a daunting prospect, and any mother will tell you that no matter how favourable your situation is your never truely prepared for the onslaught that lies ahead.
My baptism of fire begins with buying the buggy. It's the first time you've shopped for anything like this in your life and your immediately bamboozled by the sales talk of three in ones, four in ones, Giovannis, Portifinos and leave the shop with a glazed expression on your face and a catalogue. Browsing in the privacy of your own home, you notice the considerate manufacturers have convieniently ommited all the prices, and you have no idea how much the travel system you've set your heart on for your already much loved little miracle will cost, which brings me to another discovery I made about baby shops. They strategically placed chairs are not there out of consideration so as pregnant mums can rest their weary feet, it's there because you may feel faint when they tell you the sum total of your babies needs. Finally, you manage to struggle to your feet muttering excuses like "I haven"t really decided yet' because you can't commit the cardinal sin of asking for something cheaper for such a precious little bundle and vacate the shop before the condescending expression on the sales assistants face bores too deeply into your soul, which is rapidly becoming more fragile by the moment, along with your bank balance.
After I found my way through the maze of what are now called travel systems and selected my preferred option, I had to source a "let"s get the arm in but not totally take the piss' supplier. But my quest had not yet come to an end as the frame to which the perhaps non-essential items called wheels are attached, come as an extra. (What do you mean you don't sell skateboards with a rope?) I now had to battle my way through ranges of pneumatic tyres with or without chrome centres before the sale was finally complete, and good news folks my selected travel system was on offer. But there's a down side to everything. It was in last years colours! BAD MOMMY! My husband remarked on this when a day or two later, he noticed a baby crying in it's "carrytot" and said to me, "you know why that childs crying, don"t you?' When I looked at him questioningly he said, "it"s in last years colours.'
I've never been a great advocate for traditional gender role stereotyping, but those who manufacture baby clothes and baby products think differently. From baby grows to blankets, dummies and bottle tops everything is blue or pink. The odd lemon item is thrown in as a token gesture of political correctness, but there's only so much lemon you can buy. There was much speculation as to what sex my offspring would be as I wanted to keep it a surprise, but try shopping for a surprise. I did at one point think it wouldn't really matter as the baby would hardly notice, but even I couldn't rebel against the traditions of society by dressing a boy in pink. You could add to your range of embarressing baby photos in years to come ( "and here he is leaving the hospital dressed in pink") but the child could grow up with a complex you'd rather he didn't have.
So you leave the hospital snuggling babe in arms blissfully aware of what lies ahead. The coming home with baby backpack also contains your complementry 0 -5 years book, which will guide you through the coming years and can be turned to in your hour of need. Sadly, baby can't read and doesn't know how it's supposed to beheave so it improvises, springing enthusiastically into action with it's own little agenda that no one knows save itself. I gave up reading the book after about a fortnight and decided that the real purpose of supplying you with one, is to beat yourself over the head with in an attempt to relieve your frustrations. Alternatively, you could ceremoniously burn it in the back garden, in this part of the world it would save on buses. Amongst all the mayhem are the highly trained professionals who descend on you under the guise of "care in the community" but are more akin to an infantile SS outfit. Those of you who have had children are well aware of what sleepless nights are all about, so why do these range of professionals always call first thing in the morning and form a continuous human chain until lunch time, each leaving with the parting words "make sure you get some sleep!" Councilling became a popular choice of career during the 90's and you can receive councilling in just about anything these days including breast feeding. Attempting this method of feeding, I concluded that the only way to manage it was to permanently strap your offspring to your body, which would be all very well if you didn't have to drive or go to "Tesco"s'. Might cause a bit of a stir. That's an ironic thing about our society. Not that I had any desire to do either, but how come if you pose topless on page three you can become a wealthy national heroine, but discretely breast feed in a public place your liable to get arrested. I also found that I didn't need a counciller so much as a lorry load of cows to pull along behind me.
