Something I’d always worried about pre-baby. Before baby D, I interacted with adults on a daily basis, whether it be at work, going out, or whatever. We had common ground. Now I find myself in my own little bubble of baby, that no matter how hard I try, I cannot get out of. By this, I certainly don’t mean I’m trying to escape my baby. Far from it. Simply that my mind struggles to stretch any further than it’s giggling, dribbling, sleep deprived limits.
My day currently consists of my baby, and nothing else. I might venture to the shops if I’m feeling brave, but even that’s rare. When it comes to it, it’s far far easier to stay inside, where I don’t need to get my baby and I ready. Getting ready myself takes longer than it used to, despite making about 50% of the effort I did before. Because let’s face it, who has the time anymore? My baby couldn’t give a crap what I look like. However, I now have to contend with spit up and dribble all over my clothes, poop over my hands, and a little boy who likes to stay within the boundaries of my arms, rendering me fairly useless.
Nowadays, nothing joys me more than a night in with a movie, a bowl of popcorn (this is imperative) and a hot chocolate. So when I see my friends, apart from talking about who left X-Factor last week, I have little to bring to the table other than my baby. I’ll search my mind frantically, trying to think of something else, something interesting to say.
I used to find it aggravating when I’d see mums gravitating towards other mums, when I knew it was solely because they were both parents. Now, I totally get it. If all you have to talk about is dirty nappies, night feeds, and getting your baby to stop crying, who better to befriend? They can relate to the fact you haven’t washed your hair in days. They understand why you can barely muster a sentence together. They don’t judge you for the spit up stain, you haven’t quite gotten round to removing. They get you.
I’m not saying for one second that other people don’t. But I am saying that you feel boring when speaking to them. Those nagging thoughts infiltrate my mind, “am I speaking about my baby too much?”, “are they just feigning interest when I talk about the new cuddly toy I bought?”.
Not long ago, I got excited about a new kitchen spray. S’all I’m saying.
I actually went to a comedy club last weekend. A good night out, I thought? Then I realised it was inside a nightclub. The acts finished just before 10pm (at which point I was shattered. It was bedtime, after all), and then turns into a nightclub. My 10 o’clock (going home, and going to bed), and other peoples 10 o’clock (getting into town to start/continue drinking, and eventually hitting the clubs) were worlds apart. The realisation hit me. I’m getting old. Old and boring.
But then when I got home, and I saw that gorgeous, dribbling little face, I realised that I don’t care. Not anymore. I love my boring life, poop en’ all.