Diary: Rose-Tinted Spectacles

(Diary entry 12th June 2007) Our friend Kate arrives, laden down with lovely presents for Bella. Conversation turns, inevitably, to the size of Isobella’s feet (see earlier posts), and once more I smugly congratulate myself on my ability to see my own child without rose-tinted spectacles. It is already clear that I am not going to be one of those nightmare parents who think the sun shines out of their feral child’s fundament. How impressive am I?

Kate joins in with our observations on Isobella’s titanic tootsies, agreeing that they are, indeed, on the large side of big. We make jokes. It is fun. We each embroider upon the last remark, laying exaggeration upon exaggeration. Until Kate cracks: “It’s not her feet I’d worry about. It’s her ears.”

It is an impeccably timed joke, delivered with vaudeville aplomb. Karen laughs on cue. I, on the other hand, merely shoot her a cold stare – after a checking glance at Isobella’s PRISTINE, PERFECT, BEAUTIFUL, EXEMPLARY, COVETABLE, PROBABLY-SOON-TO-BE-AWARD-WINNING AND REALLY VERY PETITE THANKS-FOR-ASKING ears. All this from behind my newly acquired eyewear: a pair of solid gold Ray-Ban Aviator Rose-Tinted Shades.

Disappointment at my new-found inability to laugh at a joke at my child’s expense will come later. In the meantime I find myself editing Kate’s name out of the Christmas card list, compiling a list of reasons why she can never come to our home again and wondering if assassins advertise in Yellow Pages.

That night, while Isobella sleeps, I peer over the Moses basket to check on those ears again. They are fine. The feet, however, remain the same. I reflect that the number of feet – two of them – is infinitely more important than their size. Count my blessings and marvel at the explosion of another myth:

Not ALL babies, it would seem, look like Winston Churchill after all.

Only OTHER PEOPLE’S babies.