I pride myself on being a fairly fearless member of the female species. I’m the woman who spent several years standing at the doors of Glasgow nightclubs, knocking back anyone who had drooled on their outerwear or had the temerity to wear white socks with black shoes. I’ve flown EasyJet and survived the scrum of death between the boarding gate and the aeroplane. I’ve even had a Brazilian wax. Once.
But I’m about to be subjected to the one event that terrifies me to the extent that my hands start to vibrate like an Ann Summers’ party bag at the very thought of it: playgroup duty.
Two-year-old Brad is about to join the same playgroup that his older brother once terrorised. It’s a wonderful environment where they focus on the positive interaction between the children and on developing their creative skills. The session is managed by two lovely and ever-patient playgroup teachers, supplemented every week by at least three mothers.
And woe, oh woe, it’ll be another exercise in proof that when God gave out ‘coping with kiddie’ genes, I was down the pub with the over-eighteens clutching a Bacardi Breezer and a ciggie.
The irony is that it’s one of my girlfriends who does the duty rota. You’d think that she would cut me a bit of slack. I’ve offered her everything from my left kidney to the entire contents of my bank account (enough to buy her, oh, at least a curry and a DVD for a wild, wanton Saturday night), and still she won’t let me off the hook. She says she’s doing it for my own good. I reckon it’s for the entertainment value of seeing me fraught, harassed and begging for mercy, surrounded by people who come up to my knees. If this were Roman times, they’d sack the gladiators, free the lions and just put me in an arena with a bunch of three-year-olds instead.
Apparently, most of the other mothers view their monthly shift as an absolute joy, a treat that allows them to share in the playgroup experience with their offspring.
So why do I feel more out of my depth than a Premier League footballer at a monogamy convention?
I think what causes the overwhelming anxiety is the sheer responsibility of it; the intense pressure to be on my very best behaviour for a whole three hours, in the presence of the most hypercritical, brutally honest and super-observant members of our race. Give me a room full of souped-up ravers or a boardroom of city-slicker executives any day of the week. At least they don’t burst into tears when I dole out plain digestives instead of Jammy Dodgers.
It’s just a whole different stratosphere from handling your own children. When my two have an altercation rivalling the last Tyson/Lennox bout, it’s easy to prise them apart, put them in separate corners and warn them not to come out until they can shake hands without it turning into a sumo bout.
The joy of parenting is that I am at all times free to resort to threats, bribery or negotiation in the name of discipline. It’s amazing what a warning of withholding Jaffa Cakes can achieve.
But when it’s someone else’s children, they have to be treated with a sunny disposition and kid gloves at all times.
I have a recurring nightmare that one of the little darlings goes home after I’ve been looking after him and informs his mother that, ‘Brad’s mummy taught me a new word today: arse!’
So, tomorrow I’ll spend three hours smiling (if a little dementedly), acting like the epitome of serenity and doing my damndest to be pure of mouth. I’ll join in the singing, even though I don’t know the words to ‘Miss Molly Had a Dolly’ (most of our songs are ones we made up ourselves, consisting almost entirely of inappropriate references to bodily functions, which my two Neanderthals find hilarious).
I’ll referee when Child A coshes Child B with Bob the Builder’s hammer. I’ll clean up the mess when a receptacle of milk is hurled at speed because the cup is ‘the wrong colour’. I’ll valiantly manage to conceal the fact that I’m counting the minutes until I can return to adult civilisation. And I’ll try my bloody best not to swear once. Not even under my breath.
It’ll be my biggest achievement since childbirth.
And a month later I’ll get to do it all over again. Although, I think I might be busy that morning. Flying EasyJet to Brazil for a spot of waxing.