Baby steps

I'm not one of those people who frequently gets asked to babysit. I'm not particularly maternal. I'm not entirely sure if this is because the thought of squeezing something melon-sized out my foo-foo seems desperately unnatural, or because I view children as small versions of stupid adults. Either way, I don't get asked to babysit often*.

I'm getting to the age where probably about 50% of my friends have children. This is OK. I heartily approve of the repopulation of the UK - so long as they don't have to come out of my foo-foo, as previously mentioned. This weekend saw the chance to go over to Bristol to meet up with my old university friends - and my friend Jo's two children.

The children are very, very cute, in a kind of Anne Geddes' way (http://www.annegeddes.com/Default.aspx). You almost expect them to be routinely peeking out of a tulip or balancing a flower pot on their heads, cutely.

It is known amongst my friends that until their child can laugh at my jokes, discuss literature or do my laundry, I find it difficult to make conversation with said child. However, determined to make an effort with the exceedingly cute children, when offered a cuddle with the youngest adorable baby, I agreed.

I took little Ben without dropping him (I actually awarded myself Maternal Points for this, but didn't tell Jo). I made him giggle by waving a teddy bear towards him. All was going splendidly. Until suddenly, for seemingly no reason, little Ben let out a howling scream. After more teddy bear wiggling he seemed OK again, but Jo's comment, "I haven't heard him cry like that since he needed codeine at the hospital" meant I ruefully subtracted my recently-awarded Maternal Points.

Still, the child was still sitting on my lap, cutely, wasn't crying. I was doing pretty well. With every two minutes that passed, I awarded myself more Maternal Points. I was feeling smug. And perhaps a bit over-confident. I attempted some knee-jiggling. This was a storming success and produced some more giggles.

Until cute little Ben leaned forward and (I'm going to say "brushed", others might say "bumped") his head on the table. It definitely wasn't a hard bump - and I think it barely made contact. I wondered for a second if we'd got away with it, but after considering this for a few seconds, Ben decided to dob me in and cry again. Loudly.

At which point I had no choice but to deduct all my Maternal Points and hand the baby back to his rightful owner.

So, sorry Jo. And thank you for having me - it was lovely to see everyone. I hope we can do it again soon, and that it was merely my imagination when I thought I overheard a muttered, "restraining order".

* However, when I was fifteen I regularly babysat five girls called Debbie, Dawn, Donna, Della and Delise. You can't make this shit up.