Today I read that personal blogs were over. They remain only for right-wingers and smug yummy mummies, the blogger behind Belle de Jour told The Sunday Times.
I'm neither of the above. I may even be the opposite, or can be characterised by the distinction.
I'm certainly not a yummy mummy.
In that fact I suppose I am a little smug. What a bore it must be to be one of those. I take some kind of self-satisfaction in overindulging in alcohol, cigarettes, swearing, sarcasm and non-organic food.
More than just a stubborn self-centred twenty-something, I put a finer point on it during a recent identity crisis. I'm actually a non-mummy.
I became a non-mummy at the end of last year when my boyfriend's ex-girlfriend gave birth to a little baby girl. But it was only a few weeks ago I realised that that's what I was...
It's Saturday morning and I suggest a children's play centre I've heard of through work.
“This place looks good baby. You know what? You should write a blog about places that are good to take children.”
Why the f*ck would I want to do that?
“Why? Because we have managed to leave the house with her a total of four times now?”
Isobel's ten months old and we have her every weekend. Between the two of us we have finally mastered, with teamwork, to get her (and ourselves) up, fed, bathed and dressed, napped, fed and napped again before 2pm, leaving us a couple of hours to do something with the weekend before she goes home.
“It would be good experience, wouldn't it?”
I glower at him. I'm a journalist on a daily newspaper. It's hardly like I'm a work experience girl after bylines.
“Just a suggestion, baby.”
The insensitive and frankly bad suggestion stays with me, however. Why would I write a blog about child-friendly activities? I don't even have my own children. Talk about unqualified.
I avoid the instinct to scrape my hair into a ponytail and I put on some make up. We appear to be thinking similar thoughts, although with a key difference.
“Maybe we'll meet some new friends, for us and Isobel,” he says chirpily.
In my head I picture three thirty-somethings exchanging stories about the safest car seats, the healthiest foods and the most educational toys. I add something vanilla to try to fit in, which is met with an awkward silence. She'll understand one day, they think.
In the car, Isobel and I chat, in an improvised language we both understand.
“Nga.”
“Babababa.”
“Uhhhhhhhhhh.”
“Lalalalalala.”
“Don't worry she's fine,” he says. I know.
Two minutes into the five minute journey she's asleep. She's soon rudely awakened as I delicately unlock the car seat, secure my hands around her little chest and scoop her out, step on my own foot, wobble backwards and bump her head on the door.
“Be careful of my baby!”
She cries as we cross the car park. So do I.
I like your style Imposter! Welcome to the blogosphere...and to the world of parenting. What was it I head on TV the other night? 'I always wanted three children...and now I have two I only want one'. Be thankful you only have her every other weekend! Sounds like a good deal! Look forward to reading more...x
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