The Conspiracy

These days there are only two ways to enjoy a glass of wine. You can slowly sip a nice Pinot Grigiot over a delicious meal, or you can quickly throw a large glass of the nearest plonk down your throat whilst ignoring the background chorus of babies working up to a full volume. Just lately I’ve been doing far more of the latter, having decided that wine must be the best stress relief available, and quite frankly the only thing that keeps me going all day…. *that’s the thought of it readers, not actually drinking it all day*

Four months ago I gave birth to two healthy baby girls via the sun roof (“too posh to push?” asked a friend, who somewhat missed the point that I was just not daft enough to want to push). My repeated requests for morphine meant that I managed to keep my rose-tinted specs on for at least a couple of days. Because quite firmly on they were - I so believed I could easily do this! How could I not, having previously been a midwife and now a primary school teacher, well I practically had degrees in the subject and after all, how hard can a baby be? Even two? Erh...

It was then I found out about the conspiracy. The one that all parents buy into, never to tell non parents just how impossible it is. Oh yes, they all sit back and watch you witter with excitement during your first pregnancy, buying all the outfits and expensive equipment, all the while being smug and thinking ‘you just wait’. Because they KNOW that baby won’t be impressed by the swing that cost a hundred pounds and, that whilst your beige mobile is obviously the most tasteful you could find and exactly matches the decor, it’s not going to make him happy in the way that the hideous bright plastic one will. And of course they know that newborn dungarees or tights or dresses or socks or jeans, while exceptionally cute in the shops, should actually remain there – for in the newborn daze (no, not a typo) babygro’s are actually the easiest thing to put on them - all day every day. In fact mine are still in them now, at 4 months old. All day, every day.

So, back to the conspiracy. I am just not being a part of it. I’ve never been good at holding my tongue (go on, ask my husband), so I have to speak out. So far I have done really well in controlling the urge to run up to pregnant women on the street and grab them, ranting like a madwoman. Because obviously they just might think I really am mental. But I want to tell them to go home immediately and sleep for at least 4 weeks and bank enough sleep while you can. And make sure you go out and socialize now as if your life depended on it, for life as you know it is over for a good long while. But mostly I want to say brace yourselves for the roller-coaster ride of your life. Just hold on tight!

Silly, silly me though. You can’t do that can you? Of course you can’t. Why would they listen to me? Instead I’m doing the sensible thing by writing it all down and putting it in a blog. Now, did anyone see that bottle of vino?