It's a real thing. A thing which 'Must Not Be Named'.
Ask any Mama and she'll tell you a horror story. Tempting the Baby Voldermort makes Fate seem like a big fat wuss.
It's such an easy thing to do to. You're having a lovely chat with another Mum, feeling full of the joys of energised parenting. '
She's slept through the last 3 nights' you say, gazing down at your sweet baby-choo.
And
kazam! that night you're pacing the room, baby inexplicably wailing in your arms, not happy anywhere but on you, it's 4am and the birds are starting to tweet, your eldest already stirring in the room next door.
Or, still savouring the sweet taste of success you brag to a friend, '
It's amazing, she's eating so well - broccoli and spinach, she ate all her supper last night and even tried our thai green curry!'.
And,
kazam! your mini-foodie shuts it down, refusing anything but Pronutro for the next few days, gradually easing back onto vienna sausages and plain cooked pasta if you're lucky.
Other things too.
'
We've been really lucky, Friday hardly ever throws up.' Queue violent middle of the night hurlage.
'
I think we've finally mastered potty-training!' Kazam! Poo all over your mother-in-law's carpet.
'
At least we've been spared the flu this winter.' And so starts a week of snot and sickness.
This is not a new concept, humankind (well the clever ones) learnt early on that to name something was to make it real, to give it power. But it seems that when it comes to child-rearing things get a little murkier.
With parenting to share is to stay sane. We have to talk about things to gain perspective, glean advice, justify our actions and pick up tips on applying new ones.
But watch what you say, 'cos Baby Voldermort is a-lurking round every corner, just waiting for a Mama foolish enough to say its name ...
