Cries from a changeroom
Early in my life with a baby with reflux, I realised I would never again clean the house unencumbered. I would not read book under an open window, garden quietly beside an unfenced road, spend time in a changeroom alone. Trips to Ikea were done with a small weight strapped to my front. Dream-like visits to the supermarket involved adjusting harness straps and giving in to the fact the Squid would never lie there gurgling happily at passersby like other babies.
Instead, mine was the one you saw crying as if her heart would break and making wild pleas for better parenting. I was the parent sitting on the kitchen floor crying next to an upturned cake left by a kind friend and a howling baby in her lap.
When a desperate plea to the paediatrician resulted in a rapid visit, the Squid and I were both nodding off when he arrived late from a delivery.
“Who’s been crying?” he asked.
“Both of us,” I said, and he gravely nodded.
My poor little girl. Within days of securing and administering the complicated medication, she was a different baby - until the plague of childcare illnesses began.
During this time, I did not attempt to buy any clothes. Still hampered by leakages from childbirth, the more lazy layers the better. But when the time came to go back to work, something other than tracksuit pants were required.
Attempt number one involved a baby in a pram. I couldn’t fit her in the changeroom. I couldn’t leave her outside. I gave up and went home.
Attempt number two involved a crawling baby. Two of us in a changeroom, one big mirror. No worries. One narcissistic and happy child. One happy mother with a variety of hastily chosen clothes.
Attempt number three. No mirror and a dirty floor. A quick return home.
Attempt number four. A talking child in a stroller.
“What you doing, Mummy?”
“Trying on clothes.”
“I wanta get out.”
“No.”
“I wanta get out.”
“Soon.”
“Mummy, look at your boobs!” This last one yelled so loudly the whole of Big W could share in the fun. Perhaps Big W wasn’t the best selection for swimwear. Anway, another rapid return home.
While the Squid is now well and truly a happy, chock-full-of-mischief kid, I now shop online.
