My own post-partum humiliation was visited upon me as I
stood in a queue in Boots buying nipple cream or something just as
ghastly. Husband stood to one side with
5-day-old Son in the pram as I suffered the indignity of the woman at the till
asking me when my due date was. I just
remember blurting out “I had it, it’s over there” and pointing numbly at the
pushchair. I don’t really recall much
else of that episode but I quite possibly burst into tears. Up until that point I’d probably been feeling
that I was holding it all together remarkably well, having managed to get up,
shower, dress and make it out of the house, but that one misguided comment
pierced my fragile sense of self like an arrow, such was the overwhelming
feeling of failure at my early attempts at motherhood.
Any fears about how Kate might be coping were safely laid to
rest when she stepped out for her first royal engagement the other night. ‘My flippin’ God’ I breathed as I took in her
silver, shimmering column dress, high sparkling heels, relatively normal sized
boobs and TOTALLY FLAT STOMACH. She
looked, to be frank, like the perfect MILF (look it up) and behaved like a
normal, smiley, contented person, not someone who had given birth just 6 weeks
previously. There’s no way on earth that
someone would mistakenly offer up their seat on the tube for that!
Which brings me nicely to my second post-partum moment of
humiliation (yes you’ve probably guessed that I was on such good terms with my
baby-weight that we couldn’t bear to be parted for quite some time), which took
place some months after the birth of Daughter.
Son was safely at nursery so I succumbed to requests from my work
colleagues to bring the new baby into the office so they could all have a
cuddle.
I duly arrived at Television Centre and found my car parking
space that a kind friend had organised.
Bundling up Daughter in her pushchair I wound my way down the familiar
corridors, past the beloved but grotty tea-bars, feeling the slight apprehension
that comes when you haven’t been somewhere for a long time. I did a quick tour of the vast, open plan BBC
newsroom while the going was good, but when feeding time approached I retreated
to my old office of the world affairs unit where if she started yelling I knew
there was a sound-proof radio booth into which I could scurry.
Daughter was delightedly passed around the world affairs correspondents
and producers who all cooed and fussed in the appropriate manner, and to my
relief, she managed not to be sick on any of them. I wondered what I had been so worried about. I was just getting ready to leave when
another, esteemed correspondent who despite being a household name shall, for
the purposes of this post, remain anonymous, swept in, fresh from the set of
the One o’clock news. After a quick ‘how
are things’ chat, they gestured towards my stomach and coyly (but loudly) asked
“so is that baby number 3 in there then?”
Reader, the silence was deafening. Never have so many computer screens and
documents been examined so forensically by so many people, all of whom longing
to snigger, all of whom admirably managing not to. But did I crumble? Did I burst into tears? Did I heck.
By this time I was quite resigned to the fact that yes, to some I
probably did still look a bit pregnant, but with a baby and a toddler to look
after, quite frankly it was the least of my worries. I finished tucking Daughter in and turned to
face my accuser. “What, this?” I asked, staring them coolly straight in the
eyes “no, I’m just a bit fat”. And with
that I swept out, wearing my dignity like a (maternity sized) cloak. Reader, even though I say it myself, I was
magnificent.
I love you . You are fab. xx
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