The bubble floats gently down before the entranced eyes of my ten month old granddaughter. It lands on the floor beside her and, delighted, she reaches out a tiny hand towards it.....just as it bursts. I bend my head and whisper in her perfect little ear, 'That's a lesson in the transient nature of happiness, my love.'
Bit cynical? Yeah, but it's never too early to learn the harsh facts of life, and I'm not entirely sure what it is we're here to learn anyway. We are at a Baby Sensory Class. We didn't have these when my children were tiny. The nearest I ever came to it was finding a 'Mother and Toddler' group, which you wouldn't have now anyway as it's sexist, but they were unenlightened times. So, believing I should be socialising my toddler, off we went and fetched up in a chilly old hall with a pile of grubby toys in the middle of the floor and chairs round the walls. And there we sat, watching our kids fight over the toys whilst we mothers sipped stewed tea and kept well out of it, and then we went home. It didn't feel like fun. I reckoned we could skip socialising sessions and just muddle through on seeing family, visiting friends, playing in the park and that sort of stuff. At home I did activities with them, played games and we sang jolly songs. It seemed to work ok so that's what I did with my subsequent children too.
But it's all different now. Now there are 'sessions' for everything. Thus, on the appropriate days each week, baby and I turn up at a variety of venues for all manner of activities.
I do not do this entirely reluctantly. I am thrilled to be so involved with her development and feel privileged to play such an active part in her life. Indeed, any time spent in her company is time well spent by my reckoning. I'm just not clear about what it's all for. There we all are, mums, dads and grandparents, and it's a joy to see so many lovely young men present, the involved and proud fathers but, it has to be said, it's still mostly mums. I think that should be noted. And then there'll be the sparse sprinkling of us tired looking women with grey hair. The grandmothers. The providers of free childcare. We make eye contact across the rubberised, jigsaw flooring. And the look says it all. 'What the fuck is going on here?'
In my experience, these sessions are usually led by enthusiastic young women, deeply committed to their cause, and I feel myself swept along on their conviction. But on the walk home, emotionally wrung out and exhausted by sensory overload, I sometimes find myself questioning the wisdom of it all and wishing that, like my over stimulated grandaughter, I could just lie down and go to sleep...preferably after I've consumed a large amount of calming gin.
Each week there's a theme but, it seems to me, they're all a mish-mash of the same ingredients. Bursts of deafening music, things that flash, stuff that has to be waved, the aforementioned bubbles, occasional puppet shows that are either downright weird or just plain scary in their frenetic enthusiasm and the songs, the endless, bloody songs. And don't get me started on 'baby signing.' I studied linguistics at university and language development in particular, and know for a fact that children under a year old can't associate a hand sign with, for example, the sun because they don't have language yet, so they can't make the connection between the thing in the sky and you waving your hand about. But we all sit there, obediently doing it. The babies, meanwhile, eschew the whole charade and go about their business, being babies, thumping each other or having a bit of a cry, whilst the more mobile ones crawl for the exit.
'Wave your light sticks,' cries our leader,'to stimulate your baby's sense of colour and movement!' I wave enthusiastically. There's nothing tardy about my waving. The baby inspects her right foot.
I can't help but think that, if you're a sleep deprived new parent, sitting on a floor, wielding a chiffon scarf in one hand, wind chimes in the other and singing about rainbows whilst your baby just looks embarrassed and ignores you it might not be the ideal moment to question your life choices.
We also go to a music class, which I quite like as I'm only required to sing along to the guitar accompaniment of the earnest woman who leads it. 'C'mon,' I urge the baby, 'let's clap to the music.' The glance she gives me shouts, 'I'm not a performing monkey. Give it a rest old woman.' And quite right too.
So, do I ever find anything enjoyable or beneficial in these groups I'm so sarky about? Hell, yes!
In an area where I'm a stranger I have been warmly welcomed by so many of these wonderful young parents and made to feel very much part of their community. And that's no small thing for an elderly woman, who's child rearing days were a long time ago and who's having to learn about the way things are done now.
I can see what a valuable, social resource these classes are, bringing together all those new parents, to befriend and support each other. I'd have loved to have had that when my daughters were tiny. It must be so reassuring to be able to exchange tips on weaning, or to find that everybody's baby has sleep issues and it doesn't mean they've got pneumonia every time they sneeze.
And because their mums and dads have become friends those babies will benefit from their own little friendship circles too, and that's lovely.
When it comes down to it, nothing really changes. We're all just trying to find the best ways of raising our beloved children.
A friend of my daughter once described these sessions as 'batshit crazy' and I don't think I could possibly improve on that, but it's a good crazy. And definitely a step up on stewed tea in a dismal hall.
Thanks so much for reading.
