The Baby Underground

They’re all around you, everywhere you go. You hadn’t noticed them before, or perhaps you just blocked them out subconsciously. Parents—and their tiny offspring—are everywhere. But you might have missed them.

Perhaps it’s because you’re a deskbound office worker who doesn’t make a habit of frequenting suburban coffee shops at 11am. Maybe you’ve never gone into the small side room at the chain café you sometimes get lunch from. It’s possible you manoeuvre your shopping trolley automatically around the tired-looking people wrestling with a pushchair when you’re doing the big shop. But suddenly, when you find yourself stumbling half-awake into the murky light of parenthood, you notice them.

If you’re like me (pre-fatherhood, anyway), parents and babies annoy you a bit. Sure, even the grumpiest curmudgeon can find half a smile for a blissed-out couple cradling their little bundle of joy. But admit it: when you get on the bus and you’re forced to sit behind a screaming baby, or when you reach your favourite brunch spot and the place is filled with prams, or you have to scroll through another interminable set of baby photos on Instagram, you’re sick of it. You’ve got a baby: move on.

You’ll be surprised to hear that I see it all differently now.

Before parenthood I thought I’d be one of those people who keeps their kid off the internet, for example. No photos, no social media presence, no liveblog documenting their every nappy change. As this blog no doubt confirms: I didn’t manage this.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to start livestreaming Ted’s initial attempts to crawl, or start a Twitter account where I imaginatively “interpret” what his babbles might mean. But the truth is that being a parent is really hard and very unglamorous (keep reading this blog for other exclusive revelations!).

Maddy pointed out early on that the influx of cute baby photos we find ourselves posting are often for our own benefit: to remind us that our kid can sometimes keep still long enough to do something cute, before returning to their default position of puking on themselves and soiling their third outfit of the morning. Likewise, in those early days especially you look so beaten down and sloppy yourself that a photo of your baby in a social-media-friendly outfit at least implies that you’ve achieved something today (even if it wasn’t putting on a clean t-shirt for yourself).

I used to wonder why people with cats got so obsessed about their tiny furbabies and sharing their every moment. Now I get that, too – it’s the same reasons as above. You spend half your life cleaning up their shit, panicking about whether they’ve fallen off something or buying them increasingly expensive toys they’ll almost certainly ignore. You post the cute cat photo to reassure yourself that it’s all worth it, probably. And at least babies eventually grow up and master the power of speech! And learn to use toilets. The cat’s just going to look quizzically at you.

What about the other annoyances? Parents in your favourite coffee shop, messing up the aesthetic with their changing bags and rattles? Forgive us, I beseech thee. We’re just trying to cling on to the remnants of our former lives. Yes, we’re in denial about our new station in society and we’re trying to pretend that we can still drink flat whites and check out that new pizza place that’s just opened. We’ll catch other parents’ eyes warily. Hello, we’ll acknowledge, but also conscious that each new baby that enters this particular shop will weaken our collective defence. One baby is cute, a curiosity. Two is quirky, maybe it’s a reunion or something. Three or more? People will walk in, clock the pushchairs, and walk back out again with dark looks. This shop’s taken, mate. Take your kid to Starbucks.

Or those supermarket visits: yes, I know I’m blocking you from reaching the shampoo aisle with my ridiculous trolley-with-baby-seat-attachment, but this trip is the most exciting thing in my calendar today. Let me drink this in: give me just this moment to savour being (mildly) in control of my choices and to snag a few bottles of white wine for the evening, because when I get home it’s straight back to Burglar Bill and having my head bashed with a wooden tambourine.

So maybe you haven’t seen us, because you don’t move in these timeframes or you don’t know your local gathering point for sleepy parents and irritable babies. But we move among you, silent but watchful. We’re there, with milk stained clothes and unkempt beards. We hail one another with our secret sign: a shy/knowing smile with minimal eye contact. It’s the Baby Underground.