One of the joys of being a writer is going out into public and sitting quietly, hoping to slowly fade into the surroundings and become invisible so that I can eavesdrop on people. I love hearing the way people talk, the small snippets of conversation that give you a glimpse of whole characters, and whole lives. The eavesdropping is not so much for stealing conversation verbatim, but for observing gestures and facial expressions, hearing vocal inflections and speaking rhythms, and seeing how people tell stories with their bodies.
I also like going into public spaces at strange times of the day – like say, 10.00 on a Wednesday morning – and seeing who else is there. The entire class at my child’s school got hand foot and mouth disease last week. This meant that my husband and I had to take time off to hang out with him. My child had two blisters, no fever, and a heap of toddler energy, so we went to our local park on a beautiful winter’s morning. We bought ourselves coffee and a babyccino at the local coffee truck and walked around the park throwing rocks and pieces of plants into the many puddles that had appeared after the rain. The park was PACKED full of adults alone walking around, some with dogs, some without. Unless many people my age have reached early retirement or are independently wealthy I am perplexed as to what everyone does that allows them to be walking around happily at this time of the day, in their activewear, without any obvious cares in the world.
I’ve noticed that going out into the world with a baby or toddler is sort of like going into the world with a pet puppy – in some ways, it’s much more difficult to be invisible and eavesdrop because everyone is staring at the pet puppy and wanting to touch it or talk to it. At the same time, being a mother is to occupy a strange form of invisibility because your life seems to lose all meaning for others outside of the role of parenting your child. Strangers feel completely comfortable commenting on your child without really acknowledging your existence. Or they’ll start conversations with you about your child, rather than actually talking to you about yourself. Stuff like, oh, ‘how old is your baby?’ Or, ‘look at them running. Aren’t they sweet?’ This is true of people who also have their children with them, and of adults who do not. It feels universal that should you have a child in a public park another adult will make a comment about them.
There is a sort of reliable commonality in what people ask about children. It always seems to go in this order of questions: age, gender, sleep, nutrition, nanny or daycare, speech abilities, and, if you’re standing there long enough, whether you’ve thought about primary school. I can admit that I have asked these questions of other parents too when what I really wanted to ask was ‘How are you coping?’ (with concern and empathy, when they look tired), or ‘How are you coping?’ (with confusion and envy, when they don’t look tired), or ‘How are you coping?’ (with awe when they have more than one child or have one child and are pregnant).
I used to think these mundane demographic details about our children were just small talk, but I’ve begun to interpret them differently the more I hear them and the more I’m part of them. Sometimes, I think they’re a way of acknowledging the real human that has begun to exist beyond a parent. They’re a way of saying, ‘Hey, I see you making it through, raising human life while at the same time balancing the extremes of the magnificent joy in the world and the overwhelming strangeness and terror of it all. Good job.’ Or sometimes, they’re a way to say ‘Ooof, it’s hard, I’ve been there. And you will survive.’ And other times they’re a way of saying ‘Isn’t this incredible – this absolute crazy rollercoaster where you’re supposed to pretend that you know what you’re doing so that your child doesn’t feel completely lost in the world, but really you still feel like you’re 20 in terms of decision-making abilities and who made the mistake of giving you all this responsibility.’
So, I’m going to keep going to the park, for the sanity that comes with being outside and letting my child run free for a while. But also for the small talk.
Jen Thorpe 