Word to your Mummy

At the frontline of middle class parenting


We are spending an incredibly treaty, relaxing and, dare I say, adult few days at Babington House. I realise how this makes me sound; rich, hipster, thin.

I am six months pregnant and am getting close to the “Mr Greedy in profile” stage. I am red in the face a lot. I bob to the loo every ten minutes and the extra vitamins I take ensure I sprout hair with exuberance so that keeping my upper lip under control has become a something of a commitment. My leggings are spot welded on.

I also spend immense amounts of time with acid reflux; belching, rubbing my breast plate in a most alluring way and wincing every time I eat or drink anything.

Despite it all, I am doing my best to give the hipsters at Babington House a run for their money. My husband and I recline on the Babington leather Chesterfield sofas resplendent in double denim (both of us!), iPads in hands. I am talking about Pinterest and wearing a Poncho that would make a Navaho Indian weep.

I am so cool, I am basically Emily Blunt right now.

Faith from the front desk comes over. I like Faith. Not only is she so pretty she could be in Glee, she also said she really liked my coat when I arrived!

“Your husband asked us to get you these,” she says. She is holding a brown paper bag.

I glow. This offering makes me look part demanding diva and part indulged trophy wife.

What could be in the bag? I’m imagining maybe a hip novella, gift from the spa or even perhaps a piece of jewellery in ironic down beat brown paper bag presented to me, not by my modest husband, but by the cute girl from the front desk. Faith smiles and shakes the paper bag encouragingly at me. I suddenly realise Faith and I will become friends and we will recall this moment years later – do you remember? It was awesome. I like gave you the bag and you were like so surprised, that was so rad man! – in my fantasy, Faith’s Bristol lilt has been replaced by a sun kissed californian accent for reasons that are not totally clear to me.

I look over and smile intriguingly at my husband with the mock angry “What have you gone and got me THIS time?!” Faith can’t believe what a cute couple we make.

I open the brown paper bag. I pull out a bumper pack of Chewable Gaviscon, cool mint flavour. The word “cool” (that’s a delicious bloody irony) is written in what look like icicles. The words ACID REFLUX are printed boldly across the front, though they may as well say “feed me, I burp smelly bubbles.” There is a picture of a man on the front with his arms outstretched like da Vinci’s Vitruvian man . He has a little ball of fire in his sternum.

Gaviscon. Literally and actually Gaviscon.

Sod it. I crack into the tablets regardless. I pop out two, then another two and chew. My cover is blown but my acid becalmed.

Categories: Uncategorized

2 replies

  1. I may never be pregnant (though I have been broodily eyeing up dogs on Nightingale Lane), but the combination of things to endure for nine months certainly doesn’t help the sales pitch were it to become scientifically conceivable.

    And don’t forget you might poo yourself on the big day. Why is the wonder of life so icky?

  2. I went to a wedding at Babington House and wouldn’t mind moving in, lovely and relaxing!

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