(*Image sourced from and credited to weheartit.com*)
Some people are naturally maternal. Some people are great with babies. Some people can look at a newborn and turn into a squealing, cooing, quivering wreck. I am not one of those people. Take for example, the recent birth of our future King. Whilst the entire inhabitancy of my office (you can read more about those crazy folk right here) crowded around a photo of him to a synchronised chorus of 'AWWWWWWWWWWWW' and 'ooooooooh' and 'gosh, I am just soooooo broody looking at his ickle-pickle-smoochy-woochy-itty-bitty-teeny-tiny cute little face', I stood there awkwardly, waiting for my heart strings to start pulling; waiting to at least feel something, but nope, the best I could do was 'yeah, he's a little baby. He's nice, isn't he?....Has anyone else noticed that Prince William is looking bloody sexy in that shirt?'
Those crazy office folk didn't look at Prince William's torso. They looked at me. They looked at me like I had the plague.
Whilst I of course appreciate that for parents, their newborn is the most beautiful thing in the entirety of the universe (I mean woah... they created an actual human being; I can imagine that's quite marvellous), are babies of just a day or two old really actually cute? Is it so criminal to think that they're just a bit, well...red and awkward looking?
And whilst everybody rejoiced following the announcement of baby George's very British, very traditional name, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that Wills and Kate didn't go for 'Barney' or 'Ghengis'; you know, as if this innocent, helpless heir to the throne should be named purely to satisfy my own juvenile sense of amusement. What is wrong with me? Why do I still have the sense of humour of a 12 year old? Answer me that parentkind.
I wish I could say that my general indifference to teeny-tiny folk is the only problem. It isn't. It's my general uselessness. If a child isn't old enough to tell me what's wrong, I've got more hope of solving a Rubik's cube in four seconds flat (whilst upside down, and drunk) then ever working out what's wrong. They look up at me with their sad, gawping, needy faces, and I look back in absolute genuine terror and confusion. 'Oh gosh; please no, it's not your nappy is it? Even the thought of it is filling me with nauseating dread. Why are you torturing me like this? How do I hold you? Why are you wriggling so much? Are you hungry? Why isn't my enthusiastic horse impression stopping you from crying?! Please stop crying. What's the matter with you? Are you tired? If you're tired, why don't you just sleep instead of cry? You are so confusing!'
Anyway, I'm probably not doing myself many favours here. It isn't all bad news. I should tell you that once a child gets past the age of two, I'm practically Mary Poppins with a battered satchel. If they can communicate to me what's wrong, I can sort it. I can rustle up jam sandwiches and pom-bears no problemo. I'll add that to my list of epic life skills. I'm happy to crawl around the floor pretending to be some kind of unruly farm animal, and I'm telling you; my enthusiastic horse impression really is quite something. I can paint deliberately crap pictures so that their peculiar squiggles look like the Mona Lisa in comparison. I can tell a cracking story. On a particularly good day, I can even find myself getting 12% broody.
Those toddler folk seem to like me, and I like them. They're properly cute, what with their little waddles and babbling chit chat and bizarre ability to make an insane mess out of nothing. They look and feel a bit more human to me, and they do/say funny things.
And so I guess the moral of this blog post is that until science allows me to give birth to a two year old (good luck with that one, vagina), or a giant purple dinosaur (just look at that jolly little face), or until I grow up for at least another decade (or five), I will remain completely offspringless, responsible only for my mischievous self. Huzzah!
I shall leave you with one of life's greatest mysteries. Is it kinder to eat the legs or the head of the pom-bear first? And did anyone else notice how bloody sexy Prince William and his torso looked in that shirt?!