The Diary of Fiona J McNally

When you’re a single person – foot loose and fancy free, you are blissfully unaware of the fact that out there in never before encountered pockets of society, dwells an alien landscape of babies and mother’s groups. At certain times you may have heard vague mentions about playgroups and weekly meetings of mothers, but at the time you pay it all scant attention, dismissing it as something that certainly doesn’t apply to you or that you could care less about.

Never a team player, never one for ‘groups’ of any kind, Ophelia used to regard these coming togethers as suspect, belonging somehow to the 1950’s. Even after she had brought forth her own child, it was with great reluctance that she became a part of a mother’s group that would meet each week at people’s houses. In fact, it was hard for her to recall how she had been roped into attending in the first place. The company of other mothers was not something she craved.

The concept of a group dynamic was one thing. What Ophelia was looking for, was a dynamic group. A mixture of people who wanted to soar above the everyday humdrum conversation of nappy changing, and feeding times. Ophelia hungered for intellectual stimulation. Yearned for it in fact. It became apparent in the early stages that the group was somehow not tapping into this desire. It was not satisfying her appetite for the arts or politics or anything that didn’t revolve around Oliver.

Little Olly, as she fondly referred to him, was a darling child. A raven headed little angel with a cheeky smile and an engaging disposition. And although slightly younger than the others, he was bigger, taller, stronger. He walked first, laughed the loudest and talked, talked talked. Ophelia sensed that this was a slight irritation to some of the others. Especially those with competitive streaks whose children were still eating slush and not mastering early language skills.

Something was dead in each of us,And what was dead was Hope.

At its conception, the group tended to concern itself with issues such as breast-feeding, sleeping patterns and nappy rash. This soon progressed to discussions regarding the transition from milk to solids and whose child could sit up unassisted. Was Ophelia fooling herself when the boredom would strike her? Surely at a mother’s group these topics would be given great importance? If she wanted Rachmaninov or Coetzee then maybe she was in the wrong place.

I am perhaps an intellectual snob she decided. She wasn’t perturbed by this self-realization, however. Secretly, she was proud of it. I would rather be a snob than be obsessed with brands of washing powder and teething gels, she thought, quite happily.

As the weeks past she began to suspect that with the other mothers there really was nothing more to them than the children they had produced. The effort it would take to delve deeper into these people’s psyches seemed futile to her. What lies beneath, she decided was well…not much, really.

What’s the good of a home if you are never in it?

She looked at them as they sank their house-wifey teeth into packets of biscuits and downed cups of tea, and felt that it wasn’t too far-fetched to label them as robots. Robotic women performing robotic functions for their husbands and children. The rest of the world had ceased to exist, especially those childless members of the rest of the world. They were not spoken of by these women. One was to wear their Motherhood as if it were some gold star entry into a very exclusive club.

Do you know what breakfast cereal is made of? It’s made of all those little curly wooden shavings you find in pencil sharpeners!

In some of her more uncharitable fantasies, Ophelia imagined these women stopping off at labour wards to pick up their newborns. Hello, they would say, to the matronly nurse dishing out the screaming infants, I’ve come to collect a child and be a mother. I’ll swap you the baby for my personality and will to live. Thank you.
Since little Olly had arrived on her scene, Ophelia’s will to live had been greater than ever. He spurred her on. She imagined in years to come, taking him to concerts, museums, art galleries. Discussing world events with him. She wondered then, if the other mothers imagined doing the washing up or teaching their offspring to boil an egg.

There is no finer investment for any community than putting milk into babies.

You secretly despise these other mothers because you’re married to such an intellectual giant, her husband laughed. I’m a hard act to follow. Such lack of modesty was amusing and sexy to Ophelia. She smiled fondly at her husband, who undoubtedly was a font of intellectual stimulation. He was probably the most intelligent man she had ever met. She felt a pang of sympathy for the mothers whose husbands were less gifted.
Who are these people, anyway? he asked her. Describe them to me. Ophelia, mindful of her husband’s love of lists, compiled one.

Gina ~ Mother of Calypso

Hapless, concerned with the trivialities of child rearing, obsessed with op-shops and bargain basement discounts. Devoid of all taste in names of children. Destined to argue with her husband for the rest of the marriage. Keen to produce more off-spring in order to dress them in more discount clothing. Will probably be separated or divorced and seeking Legal Aid representation by the child’s second birthday. Particularly fond of glitter nail art and blow waves.

Caroline ~ Mother of Bentley.

Job before Motherhood~ Artist

Old before her time. Unable to converse or name any great artist or their works despite her previous occupation. Has had no desire to paint anything since the birth of Bentley. Still breast-feeding despite the fact that Bentley is almost toilet trained and gnashes at her nipples. Horribly depressed by her husband who contributes little and is past his prime. Another example of people who should apply to an agency when seeking to name their child. Someone who has confused her child with a type of car.

Erica ~ Mother of Jonathan.

Over-protective, possessive type. Quickly shaping up to be the mother- in-law-from-hell if Jonathan ever manages to escape the nest. Ultra competitive, opinionated. Swept away by reality TV, day-time soaps and kids television. Determined to be super mum – aiming to buy the kid his first pony by the age of four. Doesn’t want to give him up to day care but needs to work to provide all the necessary luxuries for little Johnny. Lives for weekly group meeting and shopping trips. Mentions the name Jonathan in every sentence. Unaware that the US have invaded Iraq.

Tracey ~ Mother of Sarah.

Slovenly, lackadaisical. Happy to converse about Sarah ad nauseum, but not too keen to feed or wash her. Brash, sleeping with the father of the child but not living with him full time – seeing “how it goes”. More interested in the Tim Tams than Sarah careering off someone’s back steps.

Abigail ~ Mother of Bethany

[Ophelia pauses. She has actually warmed to Abigail. She doesn’t approve of her life philosophy which involves constantly abandoning Bethany to babysitters in order to cope with her social calendar - but feels a spark of comradeship emerging]. Tall, independent, chatty. Likeable child. Never at home. Fun loving. [Ophelia feels a rare pang of guilt. She should leave Abigail off the list of condemnation. She decides to be more generous with her description]. Keen to discuss matters other than child bearing, child rearing and mastitis Likes a drink.

Gabriella~ Mother of Braidyn

Alternates between Manager of Large Unknown Company to Budding Psychologist. Quite possibly unhinged. Never stops talking, bossy, pushy, overbearing. Dresses her child in designer clothing but pays him little attention. Fancies herself as a doctor or some other health care professional. Competes voraciously with the other mothers over anything, especially illnesses. Concerned with how she and Braidyn are perceived by others. Tells tall tales about her exploits and achievements. Is totally unbelievable. Thinks she is an oracle on every aspect of Motherhood.

What a witch I have become, Ophelia decides! A wicked, critical witch. She is however quietly delighted with her list and what she perceives as its insightfulness.

I am not conceited. It is just that I have a fondness for the good things in life and I happen to be one of them.

She has noticed with a touch of glee that Abigail has started dropping the occasional hint in relation to some of Gabriella’s stories. It would appear that Abigail thinks that most of them are a lot of guff. This appeals to Ophelia. She has started to think that Gabriella might be a little disturbed. She has told three different stories about her age since the group started. Her husband is earning mega-bucks as a retail sales person. He’s taking them to Japan, right after they’ve been to Disneyland for the 2nd time this year. He’s buying them a new car – we replace them every six months she says- he’s taking her to the Sheraton for the weekend where they never drink bottles of wine under $150.-

Gabriella recklessly claims to have been in a shark cage, sky diving, dolphin swimming, whale watching (at which time she rode on the whale’s back), appeared in the national newspapers for various indeterminate achievements, has met at least 4 celebrities, knows at least two on a personal level. I think she should run for Prime Minister, Abigail recently remarked.

It has become apparent to Ophelia that Gabriella is prone to letting her mouth run away on her. She thinks Gabriella’s husband must be the best salesman Harvey Norman has ever seen, if he is really fulfilling the role of Mr Money Bags. On the other hand, it occurs to her that Gabriella is in need of some therapy. She wonders if the others actually believe her stories. It certainly seems as if Gabriella is the group’s ring leader, leading them through the perils of Napi san and Bon Jela with a fearless conviction. If she’s at the helm, we may be in trouble, Ophelia thinks.

A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

Next week it will be Ophelia’s turn to host the group. She is sick of the sight of chocolate biscuits and lamingtons. She determines to show them how it’s done. She lays on exotic cheeses, smoked salmon, alcoholic punch. As a fall back position she buys a jam roll. She feels safe that the jam roll will be overlooked. She is wrong. Her efforts are rebuffed and the jam roll prevails while the cheese hardens. Ophelia is perplexed. Abigail swigs from the punch bowl and encourages Ophelia that all is not lost. Abigail avoids the jam roll and hoes into the Gouda. Abigail goes up ten points in Ophelia’s estimation.

After the last mother has left Ophelia receives a phone call from Abigail. Abigail sounds quite merry. The punch was great she confirms. But weren’t they all a lot of bores? Ophelia laughs heartily. Thank God for Abigail she thinks.

The week after, it’s Gabriella’s turn to host. Gabriella has supplied them all with a list of instructions prior to arrival. Bring at least one favourite toy, wear oldish clothes, bring a favorite food. We’ll be having a treasure hunt and games, etc. Ophelia imagines Abigail rolling her eyes at this. Personally, she resents being told to bring anything along, let alone what sort of clothes to wear. Is Gabriella in the real world? Probably not.

I’ve made it a rule never to drink by daylight and never to refuse a drink after dark

Fearing an afternoon wading through more trivial conversation, Ophelia stops off at Liquorland and buys herself a bottle of wine. Stuff the tea, she thinks, and hopes that Abigail will join her. Abigail is only too pleased to oblige. The two are ostracised for the rest of the afternoon. Sidelong glances are cast, embarrassing silences prevail. The words – alcoholic and ‘this is a Mother’s group’ – are bandied about. The wine numbs Ophelia and she gazes at the others through a dull haze. They take on the look of carnival characters, jeering with wide mouths and snarly teeth. They turn the utterance of ‘mother’ into something to be feared. She has a cup of coffee to sober up.

You have behaved quite outlandishly in their eyes she thinks. This is pleasing to her. Abigail seems to have slunk to her knees at the bottom of the garden with Bethany. There has been some insinuation by Erica, that Bethany is quite used to this sort of carry on by her mother. Ophelia wonders if this is true and if so, she finds herself admiring Abigail. When Bethany is a woman, she will quite possibly feel great respect for her mother, for not running with the pack. For shirking the offer of tea and taking up the offer of a Chardonnay.

On the way to their cars, Abigail pulls her aside and says that the stifling atmosphere made her feel like dancing on a table or flashing her tattoo. Ophelia imagines that the tattoo must be in an indiscreet location. Never one for tattoos, she nevertheless finds herself entertained by Abigail and forgives her for her body art. She envisages scenes at future gatherings where Abigail does something dramatic and socially suspect. It makes her chuckle.

Why do we bother turning up? Abigail asks her.

The right answer, the morally correct answer would be that it’s important social interaction for their children. The truth of the matter however, is that the afternoons provide an audience for the two of them in which to push the boundaries. To apply shock value. The cheeses were alarming but the Chardonnay was positively taboo. What will the two of them get up to next week? If nothing else, the possibility of putting the cat amongst suburban pigeons in the most appalling of ways, is luring them back.