I was that girl. That girl, on the bus, who rolled her eyes at the screaming, purple faced baby. Clicked my tongue as I tripped over a temperamental toddler in a shopping centre. Huffed and puffed when a buggy was blocking the pavement, in my way, just THERE. I would look on with disapproval at the parents of these children, wondering why on earth they couldn?t control them, make them hush, behave. Surely if a baby is crying, you DO something to make it stop ? it?s simple, right? Wrong?So wrong.
Friday 16 March. Exeter to Paddington. 5pm, packed train, buggy space full of luggage, no room. Viola, our cumbersome buggy and I are wedged, standing in a corner ? right next to the toilet. It?s been a stretched, exhausting day. This is the second of two extraordinarily long train journeys in twelve hours. She behaved like Perfect Polly on the first, had the carriage in fits. But she?s shattered, I?m knackered and we are both grumpy. The train is packed with commuters, all equally as tired. Sardines. Tin. Enough said. I try to do all the ?right? things. Fresh nappy, bottle, motion of the train ? she?ll sleep. And I?ll send some e-mails. And the three hours will vanish and I?ll be at Paddington, close to home with Starbucks in sight. How wrong can one woman be?
Ten minutes passes and she begins to wriggle. Twenty minutes in we have a steady whimpering going which is drawing irritable looks from fellow passengers. Thirty minutes down and I am grappling with a furious, red faced little girl, who is screaming at the top of her tiny lungs and showing no sign of stopping. I am asked by a woman with a disapproving face ?Could she be hungry, dear?? ? I want to shout something very rude and extremely loud in her face, but of course I don?t and mumble a wimpy ?Possibly?. Viola screams for a record breaking hour. People move, tut, roll eyes, whisper to each other. Others get up from seats to come and marvel at the baby that won?t stop yelling. I am close to strapping her in her buggy and throwing myself down on the floor for a good old tantrum when suddenly, she stops. I am so relieved that I think I might burst into tears. And then she starts again. Nobody offers to help ? and to be fair what can they do? Unless they are the official ?Baby Whisperer?, I?m up Crap Creek and a crocodile just ate my paddle.
It?s a hideous train journey, but as with everything, it ends. We step off the train, she sees Daddy, and a smile licks across her face. All is well and right again. But this journey has made me feel?.feel bad. Ashamed. Embarrassed. I have become that woman that I used to peer at on public transport, I am that person that I once judged so easily. So it?s a lesson learned, you get the point. The next time I am faced with an irritable infant, I smile at the mother, make eye contact and realise that once again, Viola, unknowingly, has made me a better person.