Guys Just Don’t Get It, Do They?

Now, before I say anything, I want to make it quite clear that I’m not a man-hater – far from it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that some of my favourite people in the whole wide world are men – my husband, my brother, my father, Paul Weller to name a few. I love them and feel an affinity with them all, too – an equality, if you will. But when it comes to pregnancy, birth and parenting, I’m sorry, but I reckon there is anything but equality going down.

It seems to me that a woman’s life changes irreparably, forever, the minute she finds out she’s pregnant. For the bloke involved, life goes on in exactly the same way it always has. The woman stops drinking/smoking/shooting up smack immediately and starts taking vitamin supplements, going for long walks, gazing wistfully at sunsets and avoiding scoffing herself silly on camembert – while the man still carries on going to the pub after work, getting even more obsessed with football/cricket/stamp collecting (whatever his thing is) and daily forgetting to ask how the pregnant lady in his life is feeling and whether she’d like a foot rub to go with her decaf tea and pack of Tim Tams.

Does that sound fair to you?

I know, I know. I know life’s not about fairness and has bugger-all to do with justice – but you’d think that as the human race has evolved so much and come so far, men might be a little more understanding of the woman’s plight in this whole baby-making business than they are. A bit more sympathetic or something. Because a little compassion can go an awfully long way.

Take my experience of yesterday, for example.

I’m 10 weeks pregnant, feeling like sh*t, and after a hard day’s work at the office, glad to be on the bus – despite its violent bumping and jiggling – because in just 30 minutes I’ll be greeting my gorgeous girl at pre-school and taking her home for a lovely evening spent with said daughter and great husband. I’m fantasising like mad on the bus (well, it’s free and doesn’t hurt anybody…the fantasising, that is, not the bus!) about how we’ll look like the perfect family all cosied up oin the couch together watching Mary Poppins or, no, reading kids’ bedtime stories together. Yes! The picture in my mind’s eye is so sweet, so unbearably cute, that when reality bites at the gate to my girl’s pre-school, I almost have to pinch my arm to bring myself back to real life.

‘Mrs X, can I have a quick word before you pick Mini X up?’ says one of the 12-year-old girls who helps look after mine.

‘Ye- why? What’s wrong? Is she all right? My God! What’s happened?!’ I reply, switching from fluffy cotton wool fantasy to full-on panic mode – if you’re a mum yourself, you’ll be expert at this mind-set swap, mainly because it’s happened, ooh, at least five times every day from the minute your baby was born.

‘She’s fine, everything’s fine – um, I just wanted to let you know that Mini X and her friend made another little girl cry today.’

She pauses to let the horror of the situation sink in.

‘They were all standing in line for the toilet when they told another little girl that they didn’t want to play with her and she had to go away. Then they laughed hysterically like it was some sort of fantastic joke to see the poor little thing burst into tears.’

Now instead of fearing the worst, my eyes well up with tears. My daughter? A bully? A mean girl? Surely not.

‘Are you sure it was my daughter who was involved?’ I ask cautiously.

The carer sighs – it’s been a long day for everyone, it seems.

‘Yes, Mrs X, it was definitely her. Now, she has apologised to the other little girl and seemed suitably sorry – but we were wondering whether there was anything else going on – at home, I mean – to be making Mini X act in this way.’ She eyes me suspiciously.

‘What? Do you think I bully her?’ I jump on the defensive.

‘No, no – not at all! No – I just thought – well, it is a bit out of character for Mini X to be like this, she’s usually so nice and friendly -’

‘Maybe the other girl’s the ringleader – yes! That’s it!’

‘Unfortunately not, Mrs X – Mini X appeared to be leading the other girl, I’m afraid.’

And so it is with a heavy heart that I chastise my girl sternly for the 20-minute walk home. I tell her that she’ll have no friends left if she treats them like that – and how would she like it if somebody said that to her and made her cry etc etc. And for the first time ever, she seems to listen to me, actually take it all in.

‘I won’t be nasty. I’m a good girl,’ she says, looking up at me pleadingly – as though it would break her heart if I didn’t believe her.

Just like it nearly broke mine, to think that she was being horrible to other kids.

But here’s the thing that really gets up my goat (as Kath and Kim would say) – the fact that Him Indoors hasn’t got a clue about what all this means – how all this is so totally emotionally draining for both me and Mini X – and how we both deserve a big hug from him. I deserve a night off putting Mini X to bed, brushing her teeth, reading her umpteen bedtime stories – and the little one deserves some quality time with her daddy.

‘What’s the big deal?’ he says through a mouthful of Crown lager when I tell him of our adventure into meanland. ‘Don’t make too big a thing about it – you’ll just be the mean one, then. Come to think of it, maybe that’s where she’s getting it from…’

And it’s then, right there that I burst into tears.

Men simply have no idea how incendiary such a remark is to a mum – a pregnant one at that. Now I know, deep down inside, that he’s trying to keep things light-hearted, but up here on the surface of things, as far as I’m concerned, he’s just called me a bad mum, a crap person and failure as a mum-to-be to boot.

I’m inconsolable. I try to explain how I feel, but for my husband – and many men out there – actions speak louder than words, so he runs away – with Mini X – to the safety and sanctity of her bedroom.

So my husband doesn’t understand me. Maybe he never will. Is that the worst thing in life?

Nope, I’ve decided.

Because, as a result of my scary tears, I do get a hug (eventually) and my night off putting Mini X to bed. I even get to watch a whole episode of The United States of Tara with my feet up, without having to get up several times to soothe an unsettled Mini X.

So maybe this lack of understanding between the sexes is no bad thing in the end. Maybe it’s just as well we don’t get the opposite sex. I mean, if they understood how we felt and truly empathised with us, that would do away with our gang of great, supportive girlfriends and gay best friends. And then there’d be nothing to moan about, it’d all be perfect, if a tad lonely. And what would be the point of that?