The Toddler Group
by
Claire Walker

 

If ever you’ll find a more mismatched group of individuals, it has to be at the toddler group. The common denominator at this group of women is a two stone, snot-dribbling monster that grunts, wails, screams and refuses to share. Never again will you see such an abundance of jogging pants with baggy knees. Although these women share a penchant for velour, and seem only able to talk about one subject (the toddler), similarities to each other end here.

First, you’ll come across Organiser Mum. She’ll be there to greet you with a cheery face, felt pen and laminated sheet to tick off your choice of tea or coffee. Wearing a smile that can only be drug induced, Organiser Mum knows all the toddlers’ names and dietary requirements, and books the Christmas party in June.

Hovering close by, you’ll find Earth Mum. Earth Mum is so right on and politically correct, she probably knits her own sanitary protection. Earth Mum’s children tend to be lonely characters, as they produce so much gas from their organic purees, other kids give them a wide berth. With trendy names such as Anastasia or Summer, Earth Mum prefers her toddler to call her by her first name rather than Mummy. Every interaction with her child is negotiated, discussed and analysed. Earth Mum often clashes with Organiser Mum around the bin area, where a discarded plastic carton will start a rant on global warming.

Competitive Mum does not care about the environment, as she believes her child will go on to devise a method to abolish greenhouse gases, plus remove third world debt. She has a philosophy similar to a two year old’s; she aims to take over the universe. Competitive Mum makes her own play dough from flour, water and food colouring. She prepares each suitably-themed craft activity every week. Her working example could be exhibited in a gallery. Competitive Mum’s toddler will be able to count to ten before they can say Mummy. The same toddler is kitted out in designer clothes, and has all the latest toys before they hit the High Street. She compares her child’s every action against its peers. Whilst she irritates others, no one wants the responsibility of the weekly craft project, so they all agree to her end of term toddler’s exam.

Scatterbrain Mum can be found trapped in the lift. It is a wonder this Mum gets through the day. Duplo bricks stick in her backcombed hair, and her clothes are filled with an array of fingerprint stains of varying colours. She is always late, invariably forgets to pay, spills her tea down her, and leaves wearing someone else’s coat.

Groomed Mum raises her eyebrows at Scatterbrain Mum. With her expensive hair-cut and designer boots, this Mum’s only aim - on the days she isn’t working - is to keep her child alive until bedtime. She is the only one to flinch at the jogging pants. She couldn’t possibly kneel in her skinny jeans. And, as she has no idea how to communicate with her toddler, she feels there is no need to stoop any lower than her 5’ 10” frame. She pops Ibuprofen into her mouth every fifteen minutes to drown out the toddler din, and talks often on her mobile phone. She occasionally throws a nervous smile at all the faces, including that of her own child.

She is eagerly watched by Chatterbox Mum, who are always found in pairs. These are busy women with busy minds. They speak at the rate of a gun shelling bullets. While they seem engrossed with each other’s chatting, they do not miss a trick. They know the cause of stains on Scatterbrain Mum’s t-shirt. They know who Groomed Mum has just spoken to on the mobile, and what time Earth Mum goes to her yoga breathing class. They sit in a cloud of words and gossip, ignoring their toddlers fighting in the corner. Professing to be best friends, as soon as they part, they bitch about each other to anyone who will listen.

Finally, there will be Grandma, who floats around the room with not a care in the world. She spits on her hanky to wipe the toddler’s face. She laughs when the lyrics to nursery rhymes are changed to avoid offense. Refusing to sing Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep, she choruses the original words. The kettle goes on when she fancies a cuppa, and she throws rubbish, unsorted, into the bin.

Drum-sets, cars, trains, cash tills and xylophones produce a cacophony of din. Bright colours dazzle the sleep deprived eyes. The attack on the senses does not bode well with the lack of concentration prevailing. One can only assume these women return each week, not due to some great bond of friendship, but merely to attempt to finish a sentence.

 

 

 

© 2010 - Claire Walker

 

 

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