Saturday, 11 June 2011
What Not to Say
Late on Friday evening, after a testing week, on a day when John refused to nap, whined and clung to my legs as I manically attempted to make the house less mortifying before my friends arrived, tried his hardest to bash three babies over the head as they played happily on our floor, used his sturdy wooden hammer to hit my friend hard on the bridge of her nose, bit me incessantly as I tried to make him a snack and then lay on the floor and screamed in a fierce and furious frenzy, we made our way to the supermarket.
And as we shuffled along the meat aisle, trying to find something quick to make for dinner we met the mother who asks me every time we meet whether I've returned to work, and who I tell every time we meet that I haven't.
And once we'd exchanged pleasantries and compared babies, and she'd told me, just as she always does, how incredibly lucky I am not to work, she turned and pushed her baby away on its pristine pink tricycle and called over her shoulder: "Enjoy your life of leisure!"