I eat my words.
After waxing lyrical about becoming the best thing since Gary Barlow, it turns out I’ve been upstaged. Before today I was, quite literally, an A lister as far as my baby was concerned. As soon as I broke into song Frog’s face broke into a smile. If I did a dance for her, she positively bounced with excitement.
But now she’s realised I’m not cool. I’m like the Spice Girls after Geri left; deflated and a bit less glittery.
It all started last week. Frog being the lively kind of girl that she is, started attempting to clap. She would wave her hands together and either miss or, better still, clap with clenched fists (sort of defeating the whole purpose of clapping as she didn’t actually make a sound).
So my main aim in life for the past fortnight has been to make her clap. Properly, without clenched fists.
I’ve spent the last two weeks putting on shows that Take That would be proud of. I’ve sung every nursery rhyme under the sun and even tried a bit of Lady Gaga. And I’ve. Got. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The girl is made of stone.
I thought I was getting close last night, after playing “pat-a-cake” (by the way, what is that all about – who actually “pats” cakes?) and Frog began to do her clenched fist claps in unison with mine. But still the palms weren’t flat, so still the claps didn’t count.
And then we went to Baby Sensory.
For those of you not familiar with Baby Sensory, it’s an hour-long session for babies with music, instruments, bubbles, singing, toys and anything else you could possibly think of. I suppose it’s the equivalent of a nightclub for babies, with extra champagne and a very sparkly disco ball.
The woman who runs our Baby Sensory (hello Jane, if you’re reading this) is a baby superstar. Seriously, if you thought Madonna had fans you should see the way these babies look at Jane. So, they sang their little welcome song and, as usual, Frog giggled and lapped it all up, ever the doting fan. But I wasn’t jealous. I mean, Jane’s just the warm-up act, right?
Because it was at that moment, the moment where Frog looked adoringly at Jane singing, that Frog clapped. Properly. With unclenched fists and everything.
Now, call me bitter, but I’ve been trying to make that girl clap me for two weeks. TWO BLOODY WEEKS. I’ve tried singing, dancing, even stand-up comedy, but she hasn’t budged an inch. And then some woman comes along who is not even her mother – NOT EVEN HER MOTHER – and my fickle child applauds her like there’s no tomorrow. If she could shout “encore, encore” I’m pretty sure she would have done that too.
Well, that’s me told then.
Lesson #78 of parenting: lap up the adoration of your baby, because you never know when they’ll withdraw their membership to your fan club.