Jo Usmar locates her mothering instinct… in
a coop in her garden
I have a confession: I don’t ‘get’
children. Now, before you send Mumsnet round to present their case with a flip
chart of pics of adorable kids, hear me out. I like children I think they’re
funny when they’re trying to walk or talk and end up just mumbling and falling
over. I also think they’re cute when they’re so chubby they have no necks, and
little rings around their ankles and wrists. But that’s about as far as it
goes. As soon as they can walk and talk, I have absolutely no idea what I’m
meant to do with them. You might as well stick me in a room with a bunch of
quantum physicists. I’d feel the same: paranoid, embarrassed and totally
convinced they all think I’m an idiot.
I’d
feel the same: paranoid, embarrassed and totally convinced they all think I’m
an idiot.
I’ve managed to hide this terror
successfully for many years. I always make sure I’m not alone with a child who
might expect me to actually do something to entertain it. This has been made
infinitely easier by the fact that my boyfriend Ben is amazing with kids. He
knows exactly what they’ll find funny and what they might want to do. He’s
never patronizing or too adult. He’d never suggest to a two-year-old that they
sit in a corner and read a book on their own, as I did recently. (It was a
picture book. I didn’t know they’d start eating it.)
People we know are starting to have kids
and it’s becoming harder and harder to avoid that, ‘Would you look after
Rosie/Jack for a minute?’ moment. The other day I was left alone with a
four-year-old and Ben returned to the room to find us both just starting
awkwardly at the ceiling in silence. ‘You hate kids, don’t you?’ he ventured.
‘No!’ I cried. ‘I like them. ‘We just… have nothing to say to each other.’
One day (in the far-distant future) I would
actually like children, so I was starting to worry… And then we got chickens.
No, we don’t live on a farm and we’re not
wife-swapping hippies. We live in a flat in north London and are lucky enough
to have a little garden so we stuck chickens in it. It’s like The Good Life,
just without other animals or dungarees. They live in a coop with
colour-coordinated food and water bowls (I’m not ashamed of this) and they lay
eggs every day. I’m obsessed with them. I actually enjoy cleaning them out and
chasing them off fences. And I can turn any conversation around to the
chickens: ‘You just redecorated your bedroom? I just changed the kind of straw
I use in the chickens’ house.’ I’ve become one of those people who never stop
talking about their off spring. I even show people photos. In fact, I’ve
included one in this column. Aren’t they adorable?
so
I was starting to worry… And then we got chickens
They’ve made me feel a little better. If I
can talk to chickens, maybe one day I’ll know what to say to a child. At the
moment, though, I don’t think, ‘Please stop pooing in your water bowl’ will cut
it. Although depending on the kid, it might…
