(Diary entry 14th June) A visit from nearby neighbours, one child, another on the way, in full-blown competitive mode. Isobella, it would seem by their reckoning, at six days old, is way, WAY behind their own daughter at that stage. Sharp intakes of breath through teeth and raised eyebrows as they brighten with each revelation.
“Not sleeping through the night yet? Our little Georgie slept from the moment she got home!”
“She sleeps in the same room as you? No, no, no, you need to show her who’s boss from the word go. Our little Georgie is very obedient!”
“She’s very small. We didn’t breastfeed little Georgie and she thrived, simply thrived!”
Karen remains serene, a satirical smirk dancing the edges of her mouth. I, however, rise to the bait.
“Well Isobella just finished reading À la recherche du temps perdu in the original French. And you know what? She didn’t rate it.”
Did I really say this? No, of course not. But what’s the point of a blog if you can’t make yourself Stephen Fryishly wise after the event?
They leave us a copy of The Contended Little Baby and I reflect that it is the first book recommendation they have ever given us. Feel like suggesting that all the parenting advice they’ll ever need is in the first line of Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Germane, I feel, as I reflect that I’ve never seen the prodigy Little Georgie smile even once in two years of life.
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