I was wandering about with a jar of dead caterpillars when the thought struck me. Nature has arranged things admirably for butterflies. They start life in a limited way – very limited if they take part in one of my daughter’s nature study projects. But if they survive the early stages they at least end their lives in an intoxicating whirl of freedom.
With us it is different. We start adult life all free and fluttery, creep into the marital cocoon and emerge to find that life has become a rather cabbagey affair.
Motherhood does have its shining moments but there are stretches when it seems to be one long search for the other Wellington boot. The trouble with captivity is that it is insidious.
When our first baby arrived I used to turn up at dinner-parties, beaded purse in one hand and carry-cot in the other. With luck I even managed to sparkle for an hour or two, before sidling of into the room full of coats and whipping out a feeding bottle.
‘Me – a housebound mum?’ I would say looking coolly amused, ‘Never! It’s all in the mind.’
Then our second baby arrived and discovered that being sick over people was fun. And our firstborn didn’t want to have a nap under a pile of coats. She wanted to come downstairs and do unspeakably coy party tricks.
At this stage I stopped being amused. The obvious answer was a baby-sitter, and I suppose there are people to whom this is not a problem. But usually, by the time I have fed, bathed and lectured the children, heaved myself into something glittery. scooped up several dozen toys, tweaked – no, tugged – the living-room back into shape and set out a modest repast for the baby-minder, I am too tired to go out anyway.
We captive wives often lurch into each other in the High Street and swop symptoms. You can safely assume you are one of us if you get a lot of mysterious, booming headaches, keep on wearing the same old trews and sweater, find yourself babytalking to the milkman, discover that you don’t like your husband and or children much, cry easily at things on television or feel nostalgic about rush-hour travel.
One friend of mine is always dashing brightly about. How does she do it?
‘My dear,’ she sighed, ‘If I get out annually to a dinner dance I’m lucky. All this whizzing about I do is connected with the children. No sooner have I delivered one to the Brownies, than I must collect another from choir practice and arrange swimming lessons for the third. I am too busy to feel bleak about it but my husband gets rather edgey at times.’
The other day I visited a friend with an exuberant family of four.
‘Come in,’ said a resigned voice, if you can get in.’ I squeezed through a gap in the hedge of children, moved a half-finished bowl of cornflakes from a chair and sat down. The room had started life graciously but now the fruit bowl was piled high with medium-sized toys, the floor was strewn with large toys and the ash-trays were full of small toys. In the course of conversation I asked her about her social life. She stared at me with a cold glint in her eye.
In an effort to bring cheer I said: ‘Never mind – nothing is permanent. They are lively children but eventually they will grow up and ….’
‘Yes and the thought of all those lively grandchildren really finishes me off.’
It occurred to me that a generation ago most families came in dozens.
‘Oh, yes,’ said an elderly relative. ‘I came from a family of ten. But then the older children coped with the new arrivals. Mother had quite a gay social life in between confinements. My eldest sister was the bossy one. She had us all lined up at bathtime and the ones with chickenpox went to the back of the queue!’
Today is one of my very shut-in days. Anna’s room looks as if it has been hit by whirling dervishes. Daniel has done a rather progressive drawing on the living room wall. My husband has just hammered two four-inch nails through a hot-water pipe and our television set appears to have been invaded by French-speaking shadow boxers.
Never mind, I have made arrangements to escape one day next week. I shan‘t actually be throwing a rope ladder over the fence but the preliminary negotiations have been nearly as complicated.
Let me see now. Hand Daniel to baby-minder A. Sprint to catch 9.10. A passes D to baby-minder B at midday. Anna goes from school to neighbour T. Husband leaves work early and gathers up D from B and A from T. It may work.
Anyway, I intend to enjoy my day in London. I shall squeeze blissfully into tube trains, take big, diesely breaths and feast my eyes on Liberty prints and Heal’s furniture. But I shall probably end up buying Wellingtons for the children.