Hi I’m Sophie, and I’m a baby bore.
Feels kinda good to get it off my chest. Admission is the first step to getting help, after all.
I didn’t used to be a baby-photo uploading, faecal-colour obsessed wearer of bras with clippy bits. No, no. Once upon-a-time I was fun and semi-interesting. I had a career, social life and had even backpacked my way around the world complete with a solid abdominal wall, GHDs and a pair of high-heels.
But times changed and in a scene somewhat similar to Gremlins, my husband and I multiplied…
Below is a cautionary tale about judging others, because at some point it’s going to come back and bite you on your legging-clad ass.
A former normal, now completely obsessed with the greatness and cuteness of their baby. Insistent on spamming the time lines and news feeds of all social media platforms with every minute detail of said child’s life.
Whether you have a child, or are thinking about it in the future, you, at some point, will have uttered words similar to ‘shoot me if I ever turn into a baby bore’.
No doubt you will have sneered at facebook acquaintances who used to be fun, outgoing and the ‘life and soul’ but are now posting grainy butter bean baby scans or, even worse, snaps of snot-encrusted toddlers taking a shit on the floor.
You will have rolled your eyes, drained the last of your gin and tonic and cackled at these poor women who were now on the fast and slippery slope to becoming the most despised form of social media user next to trolls, the proud mummy.
I know this because I frequently committed facebook homicide of these types, culling anyone who dare congest my newsfeeds with teething, breastfeeding and feacal hardness nonsense. But then, the unthinkable happened…
In May 2012, my husband and I jetted off on a romantic trip to Portugal, it was just the two of us, or so we thought…We had a stowaway on board and unknowingly, I had started my transformation from a lover of the dance floor to an outright baby bore.
I’d often envisaged how I’d react on finding out I was pregnant, would it be like in the movies? Would I cry tears of happiness and joy? I suspected not, based on my deep-rooted fear of un-rectifiable damage to my nether regions, along with thoughts of my husband bearing witness to me pushing something out other than a baby.
On this occasion, I’d had a monstrous argument with said husband over an incident involving the hire car and a wall and we were not on speaking terms. So not exactly like it happens in the movies…
Heartburn and an absent period led to a trip to a judgmental pharmacist in the town of Lagos and after some classic tourist hand gestures and English for the hard of hearing we returned to the hotel, still in silence, so that I could pee on a stick.
Word to the wise, it’s always worth purchasing medical equipment / medication with English translations, makes life much easier. So after being told by Pablo, the hotel receptionist, I was ‘having the baby’ and receiving a high-five along with a congratulatory bottle of champagne (that I could no longer drink), my fate was sealed.
We returned to England wondering how much damage two litres of port could really do to a developing foetus, I mean the prawns and pâtè would have soaked most of it up surely? Most of all, I vowed, like every expectant mother before me, that I would never, ever, become the dreaded baby bore…
Eight weeks, one Facebook post (complete with grainy picture) later…
“We have some news!!! Introducing our little butterbean!”
Hypocrisy is going to get you in the end – probably best to just embrace it. Besides, your baby will be the cutest, snot-encrusted floor shitter on the block – so go nuts and get posting.