Conveyor belt babies
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My wife tells me she wants kids.
Not because she wants us to be proud parents you understand; because they’ll go
really nice with her new handbag. Fashion moves so fast these days I have trouble
keeping up. At this rate we’re soon going to see people literally wearing their
hearts on their sleeves.
‘All my friends have one,’ she says all
whiny and that; and because I’ll do anything to avoid tears I tell her we’ll
get her one.
We bump into her friend Jill
outside who insists on barking on about the three mail order babies she
received this morning in the post. She harps on about the advantages of buying
online. The re-furbished old crow then carries on ranting about her perfect
life with that sodding grin of hers permanently nailed to her face until
there’s no oxygen left to breathe.
‘If I recommend a friend I get fifty percent
of my next purchase,’ she says. I ask her if she really needs another.
‘Oh
def.’ she says. And all I can think is people who abbreviate words should be
shot especially her. But my wife nods with agreement like she’s the fucking
queen mother.
Is it because I have a
conscience? Or does this craze for having babies seem wrong to you.
I’m not saying that Mary doesn’t have a
conscience, wouldn’t dream of it not to her face anyway. She just likes to keep
up with the trends; what woman doesn’t. I’m still stuck in the ‘90’s when
natural childbirth was the thing and plucking a kid from the accessories
section in ‘Top Shop’ was unheard of. Isn’t there something romantic about the idea
of two people creating a baby out of a substance that is usually reserved for
someone’s chest; or a sticky Kleenex crumpled on the bedside table; romantic’s
probably the wrong word thinking about it, astonishing would be more apt. It’s
a pat on the back from your manhood; it’s the positive result from a rare
moment of marital sex. It’s the reward for the years of celibacy that will
inevitably follow. It’s the oops from
that one-night-stand and the severe drain on your bank account. We humans have survived
over the past million or so years because of procreation. I believe Darwin
called it Natural progression. It’s the Female’s job to reproduce and the man’s
job to support. We do it for the
survival of the human race in the hope of one day spawning a younger more
successful version of ourselves so that in our final urine soaked days there is
someone to mop up after us..
We get to ‘Baby Boomers’ at around noon. The place is packed with people who look
like they’re in dire need of an education. A little girl about the age of
twelve clutches a chubby looking baby with a bow in its golden hair, a pink
dummy in its mouth and skin that shines like a toffee apple.
‘Mummy please can I get one, please.’ Whines
the little girl. The mother grabs the baby by the arm and flings it into a
basket.
‘If it’ll shut you up.’ whispers the woman
under her breath.
The little girl smiles and says ‘I’ll call
her Cheryl.’ Thought you might, I think. She then skips off down a busy aisle
marked ‘Asian’
Mary now grabs my arm and pulls me down an
aisle marked ‘British’ it’s the only
aisle with no one in it. Even the one marked ‘Other’ has more people in it. I ask her if she’s sure about going British
and she nods and tells me that in one of the Sunday supplements last weekend there
was an article about how British are the new African. I don’t say ‘Ok dear,
whatever makes you happy.’ For fear for of reprisal I just smile politely.
Baby
Boomers doesn’t have the greatest selection but it’s known for the high
quality of its merchandise, which is what you want when you’re looking for
something as visually important as a child! Listen to me. ‘Visually important’
is how you might regard a car or a building. Not a child, what’s wrong with me.
I’ve been listening to my wife too much. You should love your child no matter
how god awful it looks which believe me it will, at least for the first year
anyway, and anyone that tells you different is either lying or blind.
Sitting on the shelves are
around a dozen or so chubby babies all of different colours and sizes, each
wearing union jack coloured nappies. If you press their bellies they hum the
national anthem.
I pick up a chubby pale one that looks like
a plucked turkey and hold it uncomfortably in front of me. ‘What about this one?’
Mary looks at me like I’ve just killed her mother
‘too
white’ she groans.
I pick up another, this time from the ‘mixed
race’ shelf. ‘This one?’
She screws her nose up ‘Christine’ (her friend
from aquayogalatte) ‘tells me the hair’s a real nightmare.’
‘How about a darker one?’ I ask, placing the
one I’m holding carefully back. She shushes me away with her hand and tells me
to go play with myself. So I put my hands in my pockets and do exactly that,
and I’ll be honest It doesn’t feel right with all these kids around.
An overenthusiastic staff member homes in on
us with an arse-licking smile on his face.
‘Can I help you at all?’ the guys rubbing his
hands together like he’s trying to start fire.
‘Just looking thanks,’ I say politely. But
apparently my wife needs more information.
‘Which one of these would you recommend for
ease of use? We both work full time and won’t always be home to look after it.’
‘The Tyrone range is great for that busy on
the go family. All you’re going to have to do is tuck it in at night. It’ll
even change its nappy.’
‘I had my heart set on a little girl.’
‘You’re entirely right madam, boys are so
last year. How about a Charlotte then? Very cute and pretty much care free. For
those with little time for caring, she’s in the ‘All American’ section, second aisle along’
‘A friend of mine has just got one of those.
Don’t want to be a copy cat, do you have something a little more unique’
‘If you’re after unique then maybe you
should think about doing it yourself.’ We both stare dumfounded at him, I’ll be
honest its an awkward moment for all of us.
‘Only joking of course. We wouldn’t want the
kid growing up with a nose like his dad.’ Like a mug I chuckle along. What I should
be doing is bludgeoning him to death with a carry cot.
‘They grow up?’ say my wife. ‘I hadn’t
thought about that.’
‘They do indeed, but they’ll be no trouble.
They have a switch on the back.’ He picks one up and flips it over. ‘Right here.’
On its back was a small black switch. ‘You just move this across and that turns
off puberty to make those troubled teenage years a breeze. Cute little thing isn’t
it?’ He pats the baby on the head and puts it back on the shelf. ‘If you
purchase one here today be the envy of all your friends and get its twin half
price.’
‘Right then its settled, we’ll take them’ says
Mary.
‘What, Umm… What. Don’t you think we should
talk about it first darling it’s a big decision?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. Twins. None
of my friends have twins, Jill will be kicking herself when she finds out.’
‘It’s not about getting one over on your
friends dear.’
‘That’s exactly what it’s about.’
‘Now
will it be cash or credit?’ askes the prick of an assistant.
Then the shit really hits the fan ‘I don’t care
how much you want a kid darling’ I bark ‘we’re not getting our child from this
twollop. And that’s the end of that’
Every baby on the shelf is wide eyed and
gorping, shocked at my ferocious outburst. There’s a small pause then
simultaneously a screaming concerto begins.
‘Happy now!’ remarks the shop assistant.
We sit in relative silence over
dinner except for the occasional sigh and the odd huff from the puncture
sitting across the table from me. Over dessert I tell her that I don’t want a
baby. She stands up and storms out of the room slamming the door behind her. I
sleep in the spare room with guilt lying next to me. Why should I feel guilty?
I’m in the right. My morals are spot on its societies that are skewed. Or maybe
the old crow is right, maybe I am old fashioned. Maybe the world has overtaken
me, left me at the starting blocks. So its time to pull up those socks and get
with the program. You may not like the music on the radio but it’s time for you
to stand up and dance old man.
I know I’ll come to regret this
but, I give her back my knackers the next morning when I tell her I’ve changed
my mind. She’s ecstatic as we drive to ‘Baby, sodding, Boomers’. There’s a queue
to get in the place, which immediately makes me want to turn back and get the
hell out. But for Mary’s sake I grit my teeth and drive on in. We park up about
seven and a half miles away in the overflow car park that’s full of overweight
people hunched over waiting for the shuttle bus to take them the rest of the
way and to avoid being crushed in the burger parade we decide to make our way
on foot.
A big banner, flapping in the
wind, reads ‘End of season sale almost
75% off some items, some of the time.’ And standing top heavy like an
advert for the place looking ever so smugly at us is Jill, shouting ‘Mary, oh
Mary’ like the sodding queen. ‘You must tell me what you think of these?’ She
holds up a small underdeveloped baby attached to a thick gold chain that’s
slung around her neck. ‘I couldn’t resist.’ Mary grabs it with one hand and
rubs its belly with her thumb.
‘It’s lovely, African?’
‘Yeah, premature carrot.’
‘Must have cost an arm and a leg?’ says Mary.
‘Fortunately not mine.’ she chuckles.
‘You got any earring to go with that?’ I say
sarcastically. Mary nudges me in the ribs with her elbow.
‘As a matter of fact…’ She plunges one hand
into her handbag and pulls out a small brown box. I don’t Adam and bloody Eve
it. She pulls me close to heaving bosom valley and opens and flicks open the
box. Two gold hoops sit on a maroon velvet show-cushion, attached to each hoop
are what looks like a pair of translucent embryos. Apart from a mammogram I
once saw of myself when I was a kid, this would be the first time I’d been up
close to an embryo. A raw prawn comes to mind.
‘Aren’t they just darling?’ I'm getting that sinking feeling again.
THE END
