Fertile and Forty!

“Kerr-risst! Is every woman in Dulwich Village pregnant?!” thought PoshMum sourly, sitting in her silver Volvo at the cross-roads by Dulwich Hamlet School. She glowered at the happy foursome through her dark Tom Ford Marissa’s. The women (bedraggled devotees of that peculiarly English, ‘I’m too intellectual for grooming’ school of thought) were very, very pregnant, and were accompanied by their sensitive, trendy-dad, Converse-sneaker-wearing, bugaboo-gecko-pushing partners. They had obviously been for lunch at Pizza Express followed by an invigorating walk (or waddle ) around Dulwich Park (along with half of South East London). The lights changed and PoshMum swept past them and into the Village with her nose in the air. Fecundity was a bit of an ‘issue’ with her right now – she was more than half inclined to try for a third one but PoshHusband was proving less than enthusiastic – plus the late nights at the office and the frequent business trips to Kazakhstan, Dubai and Moscow did not help at all. Most of her friends had at least three, some four and two even had five! Everyone knows that it is terribly lower middle class to have two kids; so sensible, so safe, so financially prudent. All the best people were breeding like rabbits these days – if one wants to appear wealthy one must be densely populated – in the words of Evelyn Waugh ‘Birth control is flagrantly middle class.’!

PoshMum turned into Allyen Road and pulled her Volvo onto the gravelled drive. Yes, it would be nice to have another, despite her ‘elderly multigravida’ status. She would get loads of attention and all the men in her circle would get an active reminder that she was still young and up for it! And just think – at this stage in her life she could afford the ultimate and very best in childcare and accessories! When ChildOne was born he slept in their room in a second hand cot, he wore cheap ‘onesies’ and ‘sleepsuits’ from MotherCare (gasp!) and M&S, and she pushed him all around Notting Hill in a £99 baby buggy. This time around it would all be done properly, with Simon Horne cot, maternity nurse, live-in nanny, and (now that every pregnant woman in Dulwich had bought one) no bugaboo pushchairs! These were cool when Gwyneth Paltrow was seen around town with hers, but the primary colours/matt chrome/minimalist chic did not appeal to PoshMum’s loftiers tastes. And neither did the Stokke Xplory (still as yet off the fashion radar of her safe, conforming posh mother crowd). The Xplory was certainly eye-catching; she would score major ‘cred’ and ‘coolness’ points if she was the first to be seen with one! This (coupled with the fact that they cost £500) might even outweigh its generic ugliness! PoshMum wandered into her Smallbone of Devises kitchen completely caught up in her thoughts on this hypothetical issue. As for the blinging gold stroller Gwen Stefani had been ‘papped’ with (Mamas & Papas Ziko Gold – limited edition) - while she applauded Gwen’s individuality, it was truly a blessing that only ten of those hideous, ‘yardie’ pushchairs were made! Her’s would chic and simple – if only Kate Spade ‘did’ strollers to match her stylish baby bags – very ‘posh New Englander in New York’!

Right! Enough lollygagging (as her mam back in Sheffield would say) – it was half term; she had just three hours in which to do the packing, whiz round the supermarket, load up the car, grab the kids from school and drive to their second home in Walberswick. PoshHusband, having used up his holiday entitlement, was staying in London with Jerzy the manny, so PoshMum had invited school mum Flick (with sprogs, Orlando, Hero and Tarquin) and best friend Lulu (with Theo, Cosmo, Ludo, and baby Amaryllis). It would be a real girlfest, with bracing walks on the beach, simple, healthy meals for the kids, board games, a cosy log fire, and lashings of red wine, chocolate, gossip and fun! Hurrah! They would be three Domestic Goddesses together!

One short week later found PoshMum driving down the A12 back to London as fast as the Volvo could carry her, vowing to keep her Mirena in situ until her ovaries were certifiably defunct. What a nightmare! With Amaryllis still in nappies, Hero was the sole girl among eight boys, the oldest three of whom entertained themselves by waging war against her – throwing handfuls of mud, hiding worms in her bed, invading her toilette and worst of all, chopping off a chunk of her fringe. Flick was incandescent, complaining that Lulu failed to keep her boys under proper control – in return Lulu said that Flick was ‘over-parenting’, smothering and neurotic. Then Lulu’s boy Ludo threw a fit when ChildOne stole a sausage from his plate - he bit him on the arm, and it took both PoshMum and Flick to prise him off. Lulu demanded that ChildOne apologise as he was the provocateur – PoshMum (examining ChildOnes arm for damage – thank heaven Ludo was missing his two front teeth!) roundly disagreed. And thus it went on; the week was a noisy, messy, effortful disaster – it rained constantly, there were no walks on the beach they all had hangovers and there were simply too many kids!

“Three or four kids? Pah! I can barely cope with two – the stress is too aging!” thought PoshMum, flinging the boys in Jerzy’s direction as soon as she got home. “Jerzy! A minute please? About that raise you were asking for . . . . . .”

PS: Happy Valentines Day! xxx