If I told you I nearly launched a Jumperoo at my mother-in-law today would you hold it against me? Of course not – and that’s because you have one* too.
*Mother-in-law, not Jumperoo.
It’s the funniest thing this mama bear instinct. Pre-motherhood, I wouldn’t have said boo to a gooseberry (certainly not a mother-in-law shaped gooseberry), but these days – should anyone have the audacity to look at, speak to, or sneeze within a ten mile radius of my son, in a manner which displeases me – I go all Bruce Banner (purple shorts, crazy hair, parakeet complexion) “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry” on them.
But that’s normal, right?
I don’t generally condone violence, but for the following people, I am willing to make an exception. (Nothing too serious. Just a high five in the face – with a Jumperoo):
The Joker: “How old is he? 3 days you say?” [Looks down at post-pregnancy bump] “So, it’s twins then?”
I hope a bird poops on your head on the way home.
Preferably an ostrich.
The Dirty Old Man who thinks crudely miming breastfeeding is more appropriate than saying the word “breastfeeding”.
Ooh, ooh, I know a mime too! Hang on – let me just extend my middle finger…
The Complete Stranger who hasn’t raised kids in the last forty years, but thinks she is Super Nanny: “Not sleeping through? Have you tried just leaving him?”
Ooh, total abandonment. I must have overlooked that chapter in my Good Parenting Guide. Is that before or after the section on bringing back corporal punishment?
The Pensioner at the Supermarket who chastises my baby boy for crying/ sucking his fingers / being follically challenged / scowling back at the unfamiliar person holding a kumquat, telling him to take his fingers out of his mouth.
I’m sorry my son offended you with his tears / self-soothing / baldness / fear.
There’s a defenceless puppy just outside – it’d probably be best to steer clear of him too, in case his wagging tail antagonises you.
The Distant Relative who assumes I am going to stop breastfeeding now that my son is six days / weeks / months old.
I apologise great-auntie Val. I am clearly making you feel uncomfortable, so I shall stop immediately. How selfish of me not to factor you into my nursing equation.
See you again in another thirteen years?
The Pointer Out of the Downright Obvious: “Oh, he’s crawling now? You’ll have to watch him on those stairs…”
Do you mean to tell me he won’t bounce?
The Mother-in-Law Wordsmith:
Loose translation: “I’ve ironed your knickers you mucky mare”.
Who has time to iron under-crackers?! And WHY?
The Snooty Diner in the restaurant who expects me to have the decency to nurse my son in the disabled toilet.
As soon as you’re willing to eat your soup in a room that reeks of poop, then so shall he.
The Silly Bint at the Park: “You’ll spoil him with all those cuddles”.
Your four year old just lobbed her iPhone into the pond.
But you’re right. Cuddling – eugh, I’ll ruin him.
The Omniscient Mother-in-Law: “Formula is better for the baby dear. It says so on the packet”.
It was good of you to conduct such thorough research on my behalf dearest mummy-in-law. I feel kind of silly now for reading all those books about breastfeeding. And for the many hours I spent massaging my searing, rock hard mammaries under a scorching hot shower to get my milk to flow after a twenty-three hour labour. Chances are I’d have avoided mastitis too. My left areola looked like a dinner plate for about a week – would you like to see a photo?
And did I tell you about the time your grandson practically chewed my right nipple clean off? That was fun…
But formula’s better you say…?