Rhyme Time

Today is a Friday, despite there being no discernible difference between weekdays and weekends I still get that Friday feeling.

We’re off to my parents for the weekend which I always look forward to as it means good food, wine and company. It also means we leave 2 stone heavier and with a slight feeling of shame, commonly known as beer fear. 

This morning is the last school run of the week and the kids are really excited about their impending sleepover so everyone is very happy. I leave The Baby with The Bearded One to avoid the Car Seat Kickoff and head off to school to the sound of Agadoo. 

The M1 is clear both ways so I’ve done the whole journey in just over an hour. I’m practically dancing as I walk through the door at 9.30am especially as I blindly agreed to go to Rhyme Time at the local library with one of my “New Mum Friends” at 10.15am.

I actually manage to scoff 2 slices of toast having discovered that that crumpets I’ve been lusting after have gone off. I refuse to let it ruin my mood, I can always buy more crumpets. Travel chai tea made, a kiss for The Bearded One and we’re off to attempt the 10 minute walk to the library.

It is like a fucking army assault course. I can see the library but I have to battle 82 zebra crossings, 49 potholes and one windy pointless “pram friendly” slope. The 10 minute walk turns into 25 minutes. Gone are the days of skipping across the road, now it is “brake on” and wait for that lazy bastard green man to usher you across the road in 15 seconds. I know the drivers can see me approaching the zebra crossing “don’t push the button, DON’T PUSH THAT BUTTON”. I push it and find myself flailing around gesturing that “I’m sorry, I had to” before walking head down across the road waiting to be stoned. 

Arriving at the library I’ve managed to maintain my good mood until I see the sea of parked prams and “uber mums” sitting in a circle singing (and dancing to) Incy Wincy Spider.

Oh. Fuck. No.

My New Mum Friend arrives just as I’m texting The Bearded One to say this is our idea of hell so I quickly shove my phone into my pocket and slap a smile on my face. 

As she “parks” her pram another Mum approaches me rambling something about her sister in law ordering the same pram as me and what is it like to handle? 

I’ve never been good at small talk in a non professional capacity so I always try to avoid getting into conversations with random people. The Bearded One (my aloof husband) loves this about me. Unless I’m drunk. When I’m drunk I will talk to ANYONE. He fucking hates this about me. 

I very much have a “winging it” attitude to parenting so sitting and talking about babies in depth is a nightmare for me. I really don’t care about your bugaboo rise and shine cup holder doubling up as a spit tray. I’m not miserable I’m just not one of Those Mothers.

So back to rhyme time… having shaken off the super mum with the boner for my pram, The Baby and I find a seat in the Pen (yes pen, we are fenced in) and begin the session.

The man running it looks like Moby and definitely has an actor complex. I like to keep things real, let’s call it what it is, 30 mins of utter bollocks – Moby however obviously feels like this is his opportunity to shine. Lots of encouragement and (in my opinion) far too much eye contact with the babies whilst telling “us mums” the next “activity” is an exercise one.

I’m looking around the room wondering if Ive accidentally stumbled into a group for the deaf because EVERYTHING has a gesture or a sign. Also everything has gone PC, no more baa baa black sheep! Madness.

But it’s not about me, it’s about The Baby. He is loving it, I like to think he’s laughing ironically but I’m not sure. 

After being given an unhygienic silk scarf to lay over his face (not a fucking chance) and playing peek a boo the session is over.

I start packing my bag when I realise my New Mum Friend wants to stay to interact with other mums.

Again… oh, fuck, no!

Luckily The Baby senses my horror and wakes up demanding a feed. Actually he wakes up in a great mood but I put him straight in his pram knowing he’ll kick off.

“Oh no we better leave”. 

My New Mum Friend has offered to come with me inviting one of the mums from the pen to come for a coffee. Panic.

I decide to give Moby a run for his money and bust out my best acting. “But soft, what phone in yonder pocket rings”? It is The Bearded One and he hath locked himself out”. 

As I’m hurrying out of the library ready to tackle the assault course to come home I am told that The Baby will receive a certificate if he attends all the sessions. 

With a heavy heart the competitive mother inside me says “see you next week”. God I really hate her. 


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