By HGW
I walk in to the packed room with caution and am the only guy. Surprise. Immediately half the heads present spin in my direction, whilst the remaining heads continue sucking thumbs, fingers, breasts. I am greeted with a friendly ‘hello’ but the undertone whispers ‘enemy’. A proportion of the eyes say ‘snake, there’s a snake in the nest’. The same eyes didn’t expect me to be here. I should be out earning a living, panning for gold, drilling for oil, or at the very least drilling my secretary. What they do expect is for me to be out of my depth, unable to cope. They’re just waiting for me to drop the baby at any minute, like looking after him is a task too far. This is my first Postpartum Education for Parents (PEP) meeting, it’s a weekly gathering for new parents. This group is in its third week. I’m an outsider before we even get to my genitalia.
I take a seat, at the back, on the edge of the group. Each person is taking a turn to discuss their highs and lows of the week. I feel like an observer rather than a participant and it gives me a novel perspective of proceedings. “Hi my name is Karen and my high of the week is that Jessica smiled for the first time, which was just fabulous. And my low of the week is…” a 10 minute monologue follows, detailing the banal “low”. This pattern continues for the majority of the participants. A brief high lasting 5 seconds before an extensive low that never strays from the ordinary. How can they moan and whine so much? I look around the room as others talk to read faces. Some listen intently and pander to the speakers lust for attention, knowing it’ll be their turn soon, their turn to whimper, to be dramatically indulged.
I realize that these are the women that make up the majority of facebook traffic. The buzzfeed and upworthy sharers, the I’m feeling sad today updates, the clamor for attention please talk to me comments, the I knew somebody who died and I need people to think I’m caring and not an attention seeker statuses. NB: There’s no need to address the deceased in the message. They can’t read it. There’s no facebook after death. Whether you believe in Heaven, purgatory or nothingness, facebook being present would disprove the statement. However, they do have facebook in hell, I’m certain. The lord of death, leader of the underworld, Mark Beelzeburg, wouldn’t miss that opportunity. And to be honest I can think of no greater punishment than an eternity logged into facebook. Given the option I’d snatch your hand off for fire, torture and perpetual, satanical sodomy.
Back to the meeting. Another lady finishes a cursory high before moving on to an everlasting low. She hasn’t slept much this week, her baby has been crying every few hours. What was she expecting? It’s a new born baby for fuck’s sake. Other people delight in the fact they aren’t the only sufferers. Listening to other people’s problems and stresses makes them feel better about their own. Humans are great.
A few jokes are mechanically delivered by the volunteer hosts. ‘There’s no point crying over spilt milk, unless it’s breast milk!’ ‘Whoever thought of the phrase “sleep like a baby” can’t have had children or must’ve been a man’ they get a laugh Eddie Murphy would have been proud of in his prime. I’m bemused once again. I feel like I’m getting my first peek behind the curtain, the first glimpse of the Martians in their natural habitat, and it’s not as fantastical as I was expecting. It’s like finding out how a magic trick works, smoke and mirrors hide a simple, underwhelming reality.
I search for the women who look blank, uninterested. The women I relate to. The women who have a similar perspective to mine. The women whose eyes say “Where is the fucking wine?” There’s a few of them here. I think I’ll talk to them at the interval.
I turn my attention to the other 50% of the humans present. The little people. The babies. The potential is endless. Each of them is unburdened by preconceptions, stigmas, dogmas. Yet to have self doubt, yet to lose hope or feel sorrow. Everything is wondrous to them, everything treated equally. It dawns on me what a responsibility it is not to just care for a child but to nurture it, let it develop into an individual. It’s my first real responsibility of my life.
I emerge from my thoughts to realize all eyes are on me. I’m prompted for my highs and lows. This should be easy. “Hello everybody. I guess my high of the week is anytime I get to spend with my son because how could it not be? And, honestly, I don’t really have a low, it’s just all part of the package.” A small white lie. I couldn’t tell them my low was this meeting. They all smile at my response. Some of the smiles are forced, almost a sneer. But only some of them.
