I WANTED TO GO OUT

AND

CHANGE THE WORLD

BUT  I COULDN'T FIND A

BABY SITTER!

Reprinted, with permission, from Spare Rib, 27 Clerl<enwell Close, WC 1 London, ENGLAND (subscriptions: £6.50 Britain, £ 8 elsewtiere).

Dear Spare Rib,

I wrote Babylove a while ago and it was printed in the Mersey side Women's Paper. I wrote it immediately after my daughter had gone with her father and I was still really tense . After I'd done it I felt a lot less tense and when I read it I thought it was funny because of being so ever the top ! I imagined that most mothers felt like this towards their kids at times, as well as feeling positive things at other times. I was very surprised by the response of a lot of other mothers (women " in " the women's movement)
to it which was that I obviously had a negative attitude to " mothering " and I " needed help". I think this response reflects, in a small way, a shift within the women's movement towards a reaffirmation of "woman as mother". There are pressures going on because of the political and economic climate, and we should be aware of how these are reflected in ourselves, our views, our attitudes.

To get back to the point, I do love my daughter but because of the response to the story I feel observed and judged as being not a " good " mother, surely what we're trying to get away from. As I see it my negative feeling s are not because I am a " bad " mother but because of the situation of women with children — isolation, a society not geared towards the needs of adults or children.

In expressing these feelings I wanted to share and communicate with other women with children, not be isolated or pitied. I also feel alarmed at a lack of sense of humour... of course I don't seriously think a child of eighteen months can make plans to crush its mother... but that's often how\t feels. I know I often feel  oppressed by my daughter even though I fcnow it isn't her that oppresses me, but a system. Having this knowledge doesn't make me feel any better, it just makes me feel guilty for having
the feelings in the first place. These things should be opened up more. I'd really like to see more in Spare Rib about motherhood (and Motherhood), about
how we feel towards our children, towards other mothers, towards the pressures that are brought to bear on us.

For myself, I don't want to identify as a Mother. I live closely with a two year old girl who needs me to do certain things for her. I love her and hate her and play with her and fight with her because the way society puts me (and later her) in a position where we don't really have much choice about it. I know what a pressure it is to identify as a MOTHER because looking after a child of ten leaves you with no time, money or energy to put into being anything else. Maybe that's why I wanted to write to you !

In nebulous mother-sisterhood, Anne Cunningham

Babylove

by Anne Cunningham

6.30 Crawl even further under the bedclothes to try and escape it but it doesn't stop. Cries from the next room, then my own voice muttering 'Oh no, please not yet'. Five minutes later drag myself to fetch her. She's pissed off at me, howls when I try to persuade her to get into bed with me. 'Come on, we can cuddle, it's nice !', I whine. Then the syrup in my voice dries up and I'm screeching OK OK. We stare at each other with complete hostility and I know the day's started again.

I'm in the kitchen, prattling about cornflakes, she eyes me with suspicion and keeps quiet. She knows I couldn't care less what cereal she wants. She's waiting for me to make another slip, bowl put down just that bit too hard, voice raised. Then she'll scream and enjoy it. I try telling myself she's only a baby, paste a sickly grin on my face and slide the bowl in front of her.

I try making coffee, tune my body, stiffen my shoulders, turn away slightly so I can't quite see she's throwing slops about. We get through this part, now to get her dressed. She stuggles with me, runs away, then shows me pictures, pretending she's really an OK kid, not a tyrant, a monster. I don't fall for it but know the rules of war so point to sheep or dogs. I promise myself I will buy a book all about child-consuming ogres who eat children like peanuts, crunching

Out to the post office. Walking behind her pushchair, can't see her, maybe we can make it. I'm waiting for stamps when the noises start. Creaking then shouts. I know what's coming, think about just walking away and leaving her. I snatch the birthday cards she's ripping, go into the street. Breathe deeply, see us in a shop window. Surprised we look quite normal, you'd think looking at us we were any mother and her kid. She's stopped crying so I wheedle, tell her I'll buy sweets, no an apple. Crap.
Who do I think is listening to me gibbering ? She knows. I go into a fruit shop, buy some grapes for a friend who's just had an abortion. I can see another baby outside the shop. She's chattering and launghing at it. Screaming starts. She looks at me and screams louder. We begin to walk but she won't stop. I feed her the grapes one by one to shut her up. She throws her gloves on the floor. A woman passing tuts about her hands being cold. I fantasise about bombing Granby Street in the hopes of getting back at this know all.

It's only 11 o'clock. It goes on all day long. She varies it sometimes by playing for ten minutes until I begin to let my shoulders relax a little, maybe even read the paper, then she throws a plant on the floor, rips my book. I know she lies awake at night plotting how she'll doit. I imagine kicking her hard in the stomach — I see her double up and stop — stop everything, crying, whining, watching, waiting for me to go wrong.

At 5 o'clock her father comes to get her. She kisses me goodbye. Before she leaves she gets a doll which she carefully places on my knee.