The Drop-Off

It is late Spring. There is just a breath between blossom and leaf. Between sharp, blue air and sweet, sticky fruit. You are 6-months-old, by turns joyous and furious, beaming and then screaming at the newness of the world.

We both cried this morning. We hadn’t slept. Our bodies are changing so rapidly it makes us itch and ache and squirm all night long.

Now, we pace the pavement. Your head tilted up towards the trees, your face open to the last of the rain-blown petals. My head bowed, my face folded shut.

I am so tired that something else animates my body - something that is not me clanks one leg in front of the other. I am possessed by a volatile energy. My limbs fizz and prick with charge. One obstruction blocking my path, or one discordant horn blast, and I could explode, shocking everyone.

A woman with a pram is no one, going nowhere. A hybrid-cyborg – I am one of the many accessories that is compatible with the Üppa Baby S6, along with the clip-on utility bag, Velcro comfort cushion, and the zip-up rain cover. I rely on this unhuman disguise to avoid interacting with anyone.

A mother and a baby are utterly unfuckable, and therefore invisible to men. To the extent that often when we are out walking together like this, men will bump into us and then blink stupidly, uncomprehendingly, at the great grey contraption suddenly blocking their sunlight. Except, of course, when you’re feeding. Then the hummingbird of their attention slides its needly beak between your face and my breast and sips and sips and sips.

I’m also invisible to the elderly, but for a different reason. The spotlight of their attention shines on you, leaving me waiting like a stagehand in the dark wings. I hover silently – bored and anxious - waiting for my cue to drop the curtain and end your show.

Sometimes other mums will catch my eye and in our exchange of quick, thin grins I momentarily glimpse myself.

But today I can’t tolerate my own reflection. If I had met their eyes, they would have seen me fleeing down the long, black corridors of my pupils, retreating as far back inside myself as I can. Away, away. To a place where I am not unalone. To the place where I am.