Why do I feel so guilty? Diana doesn’t

Press, 14 December 1985, Page 15

Why do I feel so guilty? Diana doesn’t

Helen Brown

Our lot belong to the snail species. The nine-year-old leaves a trail of tracksuit pants, sneakers, and underwear everywhere he goes. The baby prefers spattering her food on the walls where she can see it.

And the dog was never good at putting things away. I realised I needed help the night some important people came for dinner. The evening coasted along perfectly until one of the male guests pulled the wingback chair forward from the wall. A few of the visitors pretended not to see the Niagara of unfolded nappies that tumbled out. I found myself warming to the ones who laughed. Soon after, we hired someone to help tidy the place two mornings a week. A few days before her first visit, I realised I couldn’t possibly expose her to our domestic back-drop in the raw.

In a fit of panic and shame, I scrubbed the tan off the kitchen floor, polished the bathroom windows, investigated the damp patches on the ball carpet and dusted every conceivable surface. At last the house was

clean enough to be cleaned. She smiled brightly when she arrived. I apologised for the dog’s smell. She said she didn’t mind. I liked her immensely. My hands were trembling. Not only was Linda going to clean, she was going to look after the baby. It’s okay for women to have nannies these days — specially if they’re continuing a career. Nobody should be forced to endure the 24 hour demands of a baby without a break. Nannies are okay. Why, then, did I feel so guilty? I recalled the television interview with Charles and Diana. She was so used to it, she just sat there looking beautiful when little Harry crawled off her lap. Most mothers would shoot

after him as a reflex action. But she waited, serene and confident, for someone to bring him back. There wasn’t the-slightest hint of guilt. I explained where everything was — the nappies (now folded neatly on a table), the rosehip, the ground-up vegetables in the ice-block trays. Linda nodded, as if I was making sense. I placed an uncertain kiss on the baby’s forehead and hurried down the path. A heady concoction of freedom and terror rose up in me. A tiny voice said mothers should stay home and suffer. So what? I was going out to suffer. First came the what-if syndrome. What if the baby didn’t like Linda? If Linda

didn’t like the baby? If she couldn’t find the plastic pants and the teat hole was too large? I rang. Things were fine. I tried to settle to the typewriter. What if Linda couldn’t find the bibs? She’d be appalled when she found

out there weren’t enough in the house. I rang. They were getting on fine, she said. I found myself in the babywear section of Woolworths, fumbling through bibs and singlets.

Then the if-onlys started up. If only I had bought more bibs in the first place. If only I had spent more time equipping the house for a baby. I bought three bibs with My Darling on the front and a pair of tiny white socks on my way to a phone box. Back at the typewriter, my mind still wouldn’t focus on the keys. The baby was probably missing me. She’d be howling and developing irreversible psychological problems. Linda’s voice began to sound tired of answering the phone. After four long hours, I staggered home, expecting disaster and recriminating looks. Linda and the baby were playing on the couch, apparently delighted with each other. The house was looking great. It was good to be back.