Goodbye Dolly

Now Nic, if you're reading, please be assured that I think you are absolutely amazing and I loved every moment of the weekend. But flipping heck, how do these people do it? Nicole is my flatmate from university, who now lives on a farm in the middle of almost nowhere, with her husband, her three dogs and three daughters aged approx. 3.5, 2.25 and 8 months. Her life is fully content and almost incessantly wonderful, and she is mostly a pretty happy bunny, but it is absolutely certain that, were I in her position, I would be locked up. Firstly, I simply cannot imagine living in the countryside and not going insane - although I reserve the right to reverse my position on that statement for any of a variety of reasons at some unspecified point in the future. But secondly, I am clearly, categorically, not ready for motherhood.

I suppose no one is really ready until it happens (and often not until some time the event), but my goodness, the relentlessness of it never fails to shock me. I think I'm going to be prepared, but every single time I spend even a couple of hours in the company of kids, I am stunned anew at the patience and resilience of all these people who manage to parent them, full time, for decades. It is just staggeringly tiring. Rewarding, I'm sure, but oh! The exhaustion. I truly don't know if I would ever be able to cope. And then, when you're at your most tired, they don't let up - they get louder. It is really quite extraordinary. Nic's eldest, Alice, is absolutely gorgeous but let down by the fact that she is obsessed with her doll, Dolly, and, when it suits her, treats it like a real baby. It's the inconsistency that would drive me to distraction - if she's going to bathe it, request real nappies and real baby food for it, request its face to be washed, request real muslins, request it to be swaddled before she'll sleep etc., then I'll do my best to take it seriously - but not when she also leaves it face down on the floor by the fire and doesn't flinch when the dog starts licking the encrusted food off its face. I know, I know, it's tough to expect a three and a half year old to exhibit tenacious parenting skills when I'm nearly ten times her age and still doubt my own capacities in that field, but hey, it's a tough world out there - if you can't do the time, don't do the crime.

The other eye-opener for the weekend was that the family's euphemism for the girls' rude bits is 'storecupboard'. I've heard other families call them fuffies, noonies and lalas but storecupboard is a new one on me, and lends a new, rather sad and unpleasant meaning to my mother's lovingly labelled 'Cary's Storecupboard Chutney'. I'm not sure what route I'd take if I had a daughter, but I suppose the important thing is to make sure a word is found that's not too embarrassing to be said in public, because sure as eggs is eggs, I'm pretty sure it's something you'll get sick of hearing over the years if you get it wrong.

On an unrelated note, I watched this home video by Russell Brand last night and got really sad. I've linked to it to spare you the irritation of not being able to watch it yourselves, but please, if you aren't inclined to click on the link, then don't. It's really very depressing. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, and I am not about to do some sort of rabid character assassination, but really, I don't want the film to get any more views than is absolutely necessary. About a minute into the footage, Russell decides to ask his mother a question, and goes out in the garden where she is making a phonecall on a mobile. He smilingly takes the phone out of her hand, assures the caller that it's Russell speaking, asks if his mother can ring her back in a few minutes and, hardly pausing for breath, snaps the phone shut, ending the call. Throughout this episode, Russell's mother giggles adoringly and unquestioningly: ultimate priority is given to his desire to film an entirely pointless exchange. Beneath the widget showing the film are comments from adoring fans squealing about how cute Ma Brand is and how lovely the mother-son relationship seems to be. But for goodness' sake, how rude! I simply cannot imagine a situation where someone is filming me for a BBC documentary, let alone some entirely random blog posting, and I walk out into the garden where my mum is chatting to a friend, extract her phone and end the call. I am a boisterous, sometimes tricky only child, and even I wouldn't dream of that. Clearly Russell's own mother, her friends and his fans are all in awe of his celebrity, and I think this is a sad thing. That said, I've just been rabbiting on about it myself for the past few hundred words, so I don't have a leg to stand on. Ah, hypocrisy. What would I do without you?