LESBIANS WITH LARGE HANDS, FREUD & HOMEMADE SOUP

On Friday I had a casting for the role of an ambulance officer in an upcoming feature film. I had to resuscitate a pillow and say ‘who reported the accident.’

Then the casting director said, ‘listen I know this isn’t very fair and we haven’t given you any time to prepare, but do you think we could have you read for the part of the lesbian with large hands?’

To celebrate such an audition, my mum, Miss Q and I went to her dad’s work, (she very quickly made her way to the hip of one of the waitresses, helping her and trying to eat all the napkins) then we did a spot of shopping (I needed to boost my supply of maternity singlets so my tummy doesn’t freeze while feeding Q in this chilly weather) and then I dropped my mum and Miss Q off while I paid a visit to the Westmead Children’s Hospital because my friend’s son had just had brain surgery, and if Miss Q had just had a hole drilled into the side of her head, (she and Master W are the same age) I wouldn’t mind seeing a familiar face armed with a cup of coffee and some chocolate biscuits.

It took me a while to get there, I had a bit of a fight with the GPS - it was directing me one way and the road signs were directing me another, which happens quite often and generally means I follow a combination of both and take an as yet undiscovered route to my destination. 


Which meant that by the time I arrived, I had eaten into precious time between feeds for Miss Q (who I had left with her completely competent, I raised 4 of my own, grandmother) but was still stressing about anyway.

Apparently Freud will tell me this is because I don’t trust anyone to look after Q but myself. I’ll tell you it’s because I’m a worrier with a massive propensity to succumb to unwarranted guilt. It’s entirely my own problem and I intend to work on it one day.

I met W and his mum at that very scary manufactured event called mother’s group. 
I gravitated towards W’s mum immediately because she’s funny and calls a spade, well a shovel really.

For her part, W’s mum gravitated towards me she says, because when Miss Q and I walked into that first meeting a few minutes late (deliberately, so as to avoid that awkward who-am-I-going-to-sit-next-to competition, that a bunch of hormone charged, sleep deprived new mothers could host with indelicate aplomb) Q let out a big, long, your-father-would-be-proud-of-you, seat-tearing fart right in the middle of the silent room.

W’s mum decided that anyone who could parent a kid with such highly developed social skills at such a young age was worth knowing indeed.

Before they went into hospital, I enlisted a professional’s help and took her and her husband some chef-made, homemade soup and choc chip biscuits. I’m going to take some more around now that they’re home, not because I don’t think they can cook, but because it’s all I can think of to do, to show W’s mum that I think she’s brilliant and brave, fabulously witty and because I know that as a mum, there, but for the grace of God go I.

Guarantees? 
There aren’t any. 
There never were. 
I know that. All parents do. 
But bloody hell, do I count my lucky stars every day Miss Q is a healthy, growing girl.

Cheers, W’s mum. You rock.