PAT McDERMOTT:
A communication meltdown
Who was waiting at the door the day you brought your first baby home from hospital? My mum was there once. At other times my mother-in-law, Clare, herself the mother of seven, stepped up to the plate. But most of the time it was the MOTH (The Man of the House) and me, muddling along. Once you’ve had two or three children it’s hard to get people excited. They find you annoying.
Luckily, Meghan Markle’s mum, Doria Raglan, flew in quietly to be at her side. Doria, with her gentle smile, quiet manner and fractious ‘blended’ family, had already endeared herself to the world at Meghan and Harry’s wedding. She knew exactly what her royal grandson needed on his first day
at Frogmore House. A clean nappy, a good feed and a long sleep.
I imagine her asking politely if the traditional 21-gun salute outside the nursery window could wait till another day. I thought back to the MOTH and I bringing our first baby home. The MOTH arrived at the hospital at 11am. He was only an hour late. He brought two nappies and nothing else.
“Where’s the special bag?” I asked. “The one with the beautiful nightie, the booties and the little knitted cardigan from my mum and the pretty pink blanket from your mum. The baby is going to freeze without them!”
“It’s 32 degrees outside. You said ‘bring two nappies’ so that’s what I did.”
“I wanted two nappies but I wanted the bag labelled ‘Baby’s ‘going home’ clothes too,” I sniffed tearfully. Everything was going wrong already.
The MOTH also forgot my shoes so he had to carry baby Reagan to the car while I clomped clumsily down the hospital steps in an elderly, oversized pair of the MOTH’s sneakers he found in the boot of the car.
Lucky for us there wasn’t a mob of out-of-control royal photographers and cameramen watching me. I walked with the “I’ve just given birth” shuffle, never actually lifting my feet from the pavement. I hoped no one noticed how gingerly I edged onto the front seat. In my experience there’s nothing quite like an episiotomy to make you think twice about sitting down.
“Cheer up, dear, it can only get better,” said the nurse who handed me a tissue and waved us goodbye.
But it didn’t. At home, I paced about with a wailing baby while the MOTH tried to assemble our new cot. The hardware store was closed and we were two screws short.
This sort of thing would never happen to Meghan and Harry. A red-coated footman would contact the manufacturer and two screws would arrive in a chopper flown by Prince William and escorted by 18 RAF F-35 fighter jets. They’d all stay for tea.
But most families don’t live in palaces. We’re the people you see pushing loaded trollies and screaming toddlers down supermarket ramps or struggling to fold giant strollers into car boots in the rain. We put our names on the tuck shop roster, listen to slow readers and hand out 3rd place ribbons at swimming carnivals.
Cake stalls, indestructible head lice, birthday parties and children who vomit on doonas at midnight can wear you down. So let’s have a round of applause for Meghan Markle, Prince Harry and mums and dads everywhere.
All of us are looking forward to the day when no one hammers on the toilet door to ask, “When are you coming out?”