I’m starting to think that Motherhood has had a profoundly negative affect on my writing skills. Not only do I struggle to find the time to get the thoughts continuously swimming around my hilariously neurotic head (I wish that was sarcasm) down on (virtual) paper, but I also now struggle to find the bloody words, too. It’s as though attempting (and failing, remember?) to squeeze a human being out of my special places has left both my, once toned and feminine, figure AND my IQ in tatters of immense proportions. This could be an issue. Considering I’m studying to become a professional script writer.
So, after I posted my last entry – “who’s asking for the vote?” – I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t get much attention or much of a public vote!
However… For the 5 people that did, indeed, take the time to tell me what they wanted to hear (thank you, 5 people) this is the story of how I registered my daughter’s birth this week and managed to make myself look like a cretinous, blubbering mess:
Due to the undeniable fact that I have social skills similar to those seen by a glass of flat coke, all I really had to do was step out the house and dare to merely open my mouth to answer the Registrar (yes, I’m afraid the story is that simple, but I’ll make an effort to pad it out a bit).
It didn’t help that, after waking up late (hey, baby likes her sleep, if she lies-in, I will too!), I had 45 minutes to get both baby and I ready to go to the Registry Offices. Now, you’re probably thinking (all you established and experienced parents out there who can do a thousand things at once) that this is more than enough time. You’re probably thinking about how you manage to get yourself, your 5 children and your 3 cats ready for school every morning in half the time, so why am I making a big deal out of it, eh!? Truth is… I’m horrendously useless at everything and it takes me 45 minutes just to get in and out the shower in the morning (!).
Ok, yeah, 45 minutes. Ooh, it was tight (because I’m useless)! So tight that I had to play one of those really annoying people you see in the school-run traffic jam of a Monday morning, brushing their hair in the rear-view mirror whilst trying to check if all their kids are actually piled successful into the car all together. You know, the kind of person you sigh and shake your head at as you think, frustrated and amazed, “just get up 10 minutes earlier every morning if you can’t cope”! I hate those people.
Anyway, hair hardly brushed, no time for make up and hiding behind a pair of out-of-date prescription glasses, my Mum pulls us up to the Office and the adventure begins…
The Registrar was a nice bloke. A funny bloke. The kind of bloke you’d want as a distant Uncle, who you would rely on at occasional family gatherings (like weddings and monumental birthdays) to give you a fiver and cheer up the kids with cheesy magic-tricks that went out with Flared Trousers in the 1970’s. But, in his efforts to be nice and make the process even more lovely than it already was (I was excited, I’ll admit it) he kept calling me “Mummy”. I’ve only been a “Mummy” for just over 2 weeks… “Mummy” to me is my Mummy (I’m 24 and do still sometimes call my Mum “Mummy”, I’m afraid. You have permission to lose all respect for me, now)! So, every time he said the word “Mummy” I automatically looked to my Mother for an answer… In modest social circles I believe this would be known as an ‘Epic Fail’, I just call it “looking like a completely twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge”. And that’s being generous.
I make no secret of the fact that I’m not only incredibly socially inept but I’m also very repressed, emotionally. This means that when I cry, I get so inherently embarrassed that, no matter what the situation, I instinctively try and hold the tears back and, as a result, ALWAYS end up making a weird snorting noise as I fail and the first tears fall down my, probably tomato-red, face and it makes me sound like a dying pig. Needless to say, as the Registrar printed out baby’s birth certificate and declared her a legal person, through happy tears and much to everyone’s horror, I inevitably showed myself to be – not only a complete twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge – but a dying pig, too…
And, as I tripped over the door to leave the Office with snot pouring down my reddened nose and a pocket-full of damp tissues, I left the registrar with the wonderful knowledge that he had just signed a legal document declaring this beautiful, innocent, baby girl the daughter of a complete twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge who sounds like a dying pig and can’t even control her own legs, let alone bodily functions.
I’m never leaving the house again…