Juggling university applications and baby mats
‘I’ve just taken my eldest to university – why am I buying babychanging mats again?’
Elephants, or stripes. Or… rainbows. Rainbows?! Who wants rainbows on a baby’s changing mat when it’s going to be smeared in poo?
I can’t even believe I’m buying a changing mat. The last time I was in a shop selling nursery items, England had just lost to Argentina in the 2002 World Cup, velour tracksuits were big on the red carpet and my eldest child was five years old. She’s now 19.
But right now, in week 11 of the worst first trimester of pregnancy I’ve ever had, I’ve had enough of the grim nausea and misery. I want something to make me feel
nice about this baby. So, a trip to Mothercare it is.
Walking into the visual firework of baby grows, prams and nappies, is an identity-crisis dialled up to 11. I’ve just taken my eldest to university for her second year… why am I buying changing mats?
The ring of my phone brings me back to confused reality. It’s my middle child. (Though, it occurs to me only now that she will soon not be Middle Child, but… anyway. She sounds distressed.)
“Mum! I’ve never been to Bristol!” “Sorry…?”
“I’ve never been to Bristol! Or Durham!”
My mind whirrs. “What do you mean, sweetie?”
“For my Ucas form. I’m applying to all these places, and I’ve never been to any of them. I don’t even know if I’ll like them. Why haven’t I BEEN?!”
This is where I’m supposed to say something calming, to reassure her that I hadn’t been to any of the places I applied to university in either, but things turned out OK for me. Well, except for the whole “midlife meltdown, divorce, failed career, morning sickness” situation in which I currently find myself.
But I don’t think a day-trip to Bristol in 1992 would have made much difference, to be honest.
“That’s OK, honey. Just apply for courses you like. Hopefully, you’ll get into your first choice anyway.”
“But what if I hate them? What if I’m really unhappy there?”
“Ooh, how about stars?” “What?!”
“Stars, for the… oh, sorry, ignore that.”
Focus on university campuses, not bottom-wiping aesthetics, Fraser.
“Yes. Right. So, Durham and Bristol.”
“And St Andrews. And UCL. Is that in London?”
“It is. It’s very good. And near Virginia Woolf ’s house, which is gorgeous.”
Why are changing mats so expensive anyway? £15 to wipe a baby’s bum on?
“Look, I’ve been to Durham twice; once to talk at the Book Festival and once to talk at the Union. It’s nice. And it has a bridge. I think. There was free drink, so…” “You’re NOT HELPING!” The stars are nice. Not too in-yer-face – and the silver is a lot less offensive than rainbows. I think I’ll take it. Now then, bibs… “Mum?”
“Sorry, honey, I’m still here. Bad reception.”
“Oh, what’s the point? You’re not even listening. I’ll just go to university anywhere. It doesn’t matter. Maybe if you or Dad had actually BOTHERED TO TAKE me to some of these places, I’d know.”
And… BOOM. The Guillotine of Guilt.
Delivered with a firm hand and fatal blow, by a child whose life has altered beyond all recognition in the last two years, and is spinning off in directions she can’t possibly get her anxious, beautiful little head around. A child who knows, as only children of separated parents know, that the Guilt Card beats everything. That her parents know how much they have let her down. I went with the stars. And wished that one day, my daughter would understand it all, and forgive me.
Next time: Will I pass my stress on to my baby?