Like all parents I find my children amusing. They are funny boys. They know all the words to Rehab (not sure if that's ideal) and adopt moose like tones to join in with Amy Winehouse on the "No No No" bit. This is especially entertaining coming from the two and a half year old. I also think them clever. The four year old already understands the concept of gravity. This is more impressive when you consider that his Mother has only just got her head around it.
However, when I go out to a party the last thing I want to talk about is my children. And yet this week I found myself at a reasonably glamorous affair, and the only thing anyone wanted to talk to me about was children. My children. And, horror of horror, theirs.
If you have very young children, the chances are that you don't get out much (unless you are in the enviable position of having a nanny/granny/au pair/zookeeper). So surely it would be nice to talk about something else other than the mind-numbing tedium of routines, school waitlists, toilet training and the after nursery fucking Oboe Playing Club!
I'm not talking about cursory enquiries. That's only good manners. "Hi Anais. How are you? Kids ok?" is fine. Perfect. Enough.
My neighbour (a fellow cynical Mum) stepped up to baby-sit and I went for it. Hair with new Daphne Guinness badger stripes all done up in a mini beehive, feline eyes, Agent Provocateur bra peaking out from a shirt dress, and suitably high heels. Time to blow some steam, shut the door on all things domestic and break out.
The hostess looked amazing in a Dolce & Gabbana satin cocktail dress. The party was catered, the food great and the Prosecco flowing. A hilarious and very charming Austrian gay boy proceeded to explain in great detail how he was plotting the downfall of the yappy dog next door. A dishevelled old school art lecturer waxed lyrical to me about giving students meaningful experiences and I was smoking, drinking, and thinking that the party was just getting warmed up.
Then it happened. Or rather, it didn't. Somehow, whilst rummaging in my clutch bag for a light, I seemed to go down a wormhole to another universe. A universe where it appeared that because I have children, all I am is a Mother. A human being with opinions? Dreams? Bad habits? Surely not!!
"You MUST have the fruity creamy thing," a complete stranger said to me holding up a rather obscene looking pudding.
"I think I must!" I replied, making my way to the buffet. That's when I first got pinned to the wall and talked at by a rather nervous woman who was clearly one of 'them'. The 'Cult of the Motherhood' types. And one of her children did actually attend an after nursery oboe playing club! I nodded, made all the necessary noises of agreement, but inside I was fighting the urge to say, "Do you mind if we talk about something else? Recently I've become really obsessed by Morrissey's nipples. Men's nipples are very under-rated don't you find?" but I shamefully used the disposal of my bowl and spoon as a feeble excuse to make a break from the conversation.
This experience became a trend, and sadly the rest of the night consisted of me trying to escape the Cult of the Motherhood. What a waste of Daphne Guinness hair done up in a mini beehive. On finally leaving the party one such Mother asked me three times for my phone number! (Which I cunningly managed to avoid giving out, not wanting to be assimilated and ending up taking my Amy Winehouse singing kids to Latin for Pre-schoolers or some such horror).
One thing's for sure. Next time I'm at a party, if someone asks me if I've got children I'm going to have to take a leaf out of Amy's book and say "NO, NO, NO!"