Getting Out of the Door With a Baby

Clare slung the blue baby bag on the table and looked in it for the umpteenth time. Nappies—three. Wipes–check. Nappy sacks–check. Barrier cream–new tube. Spare dummy. Teething gel. That’s everything for the front pocket…

She stared at the main compartment of the bag. Something was missing. Something important. She had come into the kitchen to get it, but what was it? She frowned at the gaps in the bag, waiting for inspiration to strike her. Nope. It wouldn’t come. Think, now. Formula–got it, all measured out in two pots. Bottles–two, no longer sterilized since Archie six months back in May. One less job to do. Lunch…

A shout of protest came from the living room. She’d been out of sight for a full minute. “Okay, baby! Nearly ready!” The shout came again, louder, more urgently.

Clare abandoned the missing object puzzle and trotted back into the room. Where was he? Then Archie shouted again from halfway behind the sofa where he had just wedged himself, bottom waggling.

“Oh, Archie!” She shoved the sofa forwards an inch or so and grabbed the child before he could explore further, much to the relief of the cat. Socks was backed right up to the wall, tail flicking nervously and eyes gleaming in the rear of sofa gloom. Clare flipped Archie around in her arms to check him for damage. He was red and cross, but unharmed. Hmm. That nappy feels a bit full.

After the necessary nappy change, involving some maneuvers resembling a half-nelson and an octopus hold on the wriggling little one, Clare went back to the bag. What had she left out? Muslin cloth–got it. Several toys–packed. Lunch…

An unnamed sense tingled. She froze. It’s gone quiet. Too quiet. What’s he up to this time?

Back in the living room, the contents of Clare's handbag lay strewn across the carpet–old tissues, creased receipts, lipstick, purse laying open (contents intact, thank God), phone, bits of fluff, four pens, notebook, furry mints–and she fished an old lottery ticket out of the boy’s drooling mouth. Clare wiped the pink slip of paper on her jeans, straightened it out and put it on a high shelf. She really had to get round to checking her numbers. Just imagine. Maybe she'd won. What would she do with it? An au-pair, definitely.

Clare shook herself and got back to that bag in the kitchen. Bottles, cloth, formula, yep. Lunch? There it was. A home-made, serving size pot. Organic vegetable medley with couscous and chicken. A recipe from that posh baby-rearing book, of course. Perfectly balanced nutrition. Shame there was tastier cardboard in the recycling box, but you can’t have everything, she mused. Fruit and yoghurt for dessert–check. But there was something still missing. What on earth was it?

Then she spied the empty cutlery slot. A spoon. Of course. Clare clicked her fingers in triumph and leaned over to the cutlery drawer. No plastic ones. Where do they all go? Nothing on the draining board. None in the sink. Her shoulders slumped. Must be in the living room.

Back there again, Clare found no fewer than three of Archie's spoons: two all crusty in his porridge bowl from breakfast time an hour ago, and a third under the table where he must have lobbed it last night. It looked very clean. Clare suspected. Socks.

She turned to go back to the kitchen and wash, possibly steam clean the spoons. Archie was in the corner. That meant only one thing.

Clare looked at her phone. "Going 2 b late" she texted, then got the changing mat out from under the sofa ready, put the new nappy to hand and opened out a nappy sack. He was still in the corner, eyes bulging, face purple. Best give him a minute, she thought. Let’s finish that bag. She rose to her feet and went into the kitchen. Once there, she stopped and frowned. What was she in here for again?