People LIke Her(49)
I also have to try to stifle a very faint sensation that feels—in a sort of queasy way—a bit like jealousy.
Sometimes I do wonder what the girls from our school think about where Polly and I are in life. When I am being kind to myself, I think they must be envious, amazed at where I’ve landed—a million followers, the biggest name in parenting. When I’m in a worse mood, I think that most of them probably don’t have a clue who or what Mamabare is. That being Instagram famous is like being a Monopoly millionaire, and it’s Polly and her husband, their pretty cottage in the suburbs and their secure jobs at a prestigious private school, that would impress them more.
The terrible irony, the thing that now stabs at me, is that I have sometimes been envious of what Polly has, or doesn’t have, of how uncomplicated and comfortable her life looks. But doesn’t every mother sometimes imagine what their world would be like without kids? Well, obviously I wouldn’t be walking to a #greydays meetup. But what would I be doing? In a parallel universe, I’m editing Vogue and married to a Booker Prize winner. This—this desolate park, the low sky of unbroken cloud, the wind-scattered litter, a child strapped to my front, these fucking leggings, this slogan T-shirt—is certainly not what I thought my life would look like, but that’s what happens, isn’t it? You make a series of small decisions in your twenties, and they slowly bind you until they become a straitjacket. Whether or not to stay for that third drink. Whether to give that guy your number. Whether or not to answer when he rings. Whether or not you fall in love with him. Whether or not you have his babies and when.
I wouldn’t say any of that to Polly, of course. But, right now, I can’t think of anything to say to her. Because, really, what is there to say? I’ve seen it all on Instagram—all the stupid, ignorant, crass advice that people give to women who can’t make babies. At least you know you can get pregnant . . . Have you thought about adoption? Tried acupuncture? Taken folic acid? Gone vegan? Done yoga? Stuck a rose quartz egg up your hoo-ha and squeezed? I can’t reassure her it will all be okay, because sometimes women’s bodies just don’t play ball with this shit. Things do not always work out for the best.
She’s not a follower expecting an emoji and a platitude—better to send something properly considered and carefully crafted than fire off a hurriedly glib or accidentally callous response. I flag the email and put my phone back in my bag.
It sometimes takes me a minute, out here in the real world, to go from being Emmy Jackson to Mamabare. To dial down the cynicism and amp up the empathy. Very slightly roughen the edges of my public-school accent. Take a deep breath and get ready for showtime. Because it’s no exaggeration to say that to the kind of women I’m meeting today, I am basically a rock star.
These #greydays meetups started soon after I launched the campaign so I could meet my followers in real life, build an even deeper connection with them. I could tell by my low engagement figures that I wasn’t getting it quite right on those particular posts, that they didn’t ring true. Brought up as I was, taught to squash unpleasant, unwanted feelings before they made it to the surface, I found it hard to write about battling with the blues in an authentic way. But I had no choice. Women like me are expected to pick at emotional scabs for popular entertainment; we’re meant to have a rich back catalogue of anxieties, insecurities, and failures that we can draw upon in podcasts and Instagram posts. It was really not until I began engaging with my followers face-to-face—hearing their stories, listening to the words they use to describe their own feelings—that I discovered how to do this in a way that connects with them, that really resonates.
The best approach, I have found, is to keep things as vague as possible, offering a suggestion of stress, a distant whiff of sadness, an oblique hint of loss. I’m careful never to go into specifics, so they can read what they need into my emotional outpourings online. Like a horoscope or a Rorschach test, they interpret the inkblots in the way that best suits them, that most helps them get through their own struggles. And I really think they do help, my posts, these monthly get-togethers, these gentle rambles around the park that have grown into a giant girl gang all sharing their battles with PND and PMT and IVF.
One harassed-looking mother with a toddler being pulled along on a scooter behind his sleeping baby sibling in a pram falls in step with me as I walk through the park gates.
“Emmy! That is you, isn’t it? I’m Laura—we’ve met at a few of these before, when I was on maternity leave with Wolf.” She points to the three-year-old angrily squishing a banana in his fists while screaming for crisps.
“This is the first time I’ve been out solo with him and my little Rosa,” she continues breathlessly. “They say your second is easier. I mean, as you know, I had PTSD after my first birth. I thought this time round I’d be a natural, but I just can’t seem to get on top of everything. I wanted to talk to you about it as I just feel you really get me.” Her eyes are brimming with tears, and I know if I let her go on, they’ll be spilling out in sobs, and then I’ll have to spend the best part of five minutes patting her back.
I touch my shoulder to hers as we walk. “Of course I remember you, Laura. My goodness, little Wolf is so big now! He must be almost exactly the same age as Coco.” I go to ruffle his hair, and he jerks his head away.
“And Rosa and Bear are nearly the same age too. It’s almost like I timed it that way! Sorry to be such a fangirl, but just to know someone else is going through the exact same thing, in the exact same way, is so uplifting,” she says, fiddling with a button that’s about to fall off her cardigan. “It’s like you see into my soul.”