It's wonderful having videos of our little one romping around our digs, the backyard and the hotel where we stayed on vacation. Alexandra looks chuffed. She careens intelligently about in quasi-directed manner playing with her toys, swallowing the food that's not plastered to her face and swimming with Dad in the hotel pool like she's a baby Esther Williams. She shrieks and laughs and is adorable as can be. I'm glad we're creating this video library of what our little sprout was like during these brief months of babyhood as she turns the page to toddler-hood. We will treasure all the digital memories.
I will not treasure however the glimpses of best or, at minimum, most frequent supporting actress in the family video productions. I'm talking about the video glimpses of yours truly - me in my new role as Mum. While I'm only a background nuisance, I look like the painfully enthusiastic control freak I am.
I'm constantly asking Alexandra, who is likely sick to death of the question, "What do you have to say about that?" or the variation, "What can you tell us?"
If she could talk, and she can't, she'd likely say, "Hey lady, haven't you noticed? No speaky the English." She is still only twelve months old.
Her impatience would be justified. She never has anything to say, except something guttural or high pitched, and totally incomprehensible. At least at this stage in her development, Alexandra is a doer; not a talker. She leaves the talking to others. In the case of the home videos, it appears to be her mother who is keeping up a string of insipid on-camera chitter-chatter combined with suggestions and directions as to what the little star might think of doing on camera.
"Stand up now Alexandra. Stand up for Mummy sweet pea."
"Alexandra. That is SO good. You are Mummy's smarty honey bear. Smile, pea tree."
"What a funny bunny! Look at Mummy and Daddy yummy bunny."
Please imagine a gratingly optimistic sing-song voice speaking all of the above. It makes me retch writing it. I now know the reason behind Miss A.'s spit ups and I'd thought it was indigestion.
When I'm not prodding Alexandra to do or say something or look somewhere, I'm directing Dad in how to handle our blossom deary for her to best make her mark on the small screen.
I'm the worst kind of bossy stage Mum and the real problem is I've been stupid enough to have the fact recorded in Dolby with enough mega-pixels so I can't deny the fact later. Alexandra, when in therapy years down the road, trying to get over her overbearing mother and the emotional scars inflicted, won't have to describe any of my misdeeds. She will merely have to play the reams of video to the psychotherapist. The home movies are all the proof she needs. If he's still awake after Alexandra has shown him the lot, he'll agree about the abuse. I'm cooked.
It's bad enough that I don't sound good. I also don't look good. Video is a useful way to see the warts in your appearance including affected mannerisms.
My eyes, whenever you see me on screen and I'm often only a voice, are wide; my eyebrows are arched in astonishment and my mouth frozen in a grin. I nod a lot. I look like I'm on some new upper for post partum mothers (I'm not). The stilted enthusiasm makes me sound like I'm talking to a simpleton. Since Alexandra must be on the smart side of the bell curve when it comes to intelligence, my tone is all wrong.
To boot, my arms are too skinny and my legs and stomach wobble when I lean over. It's all post partum flab that a few weeks of an aggressive weights program won't eliminate but it's a cruel reminder that, yes, I have been a slug for the last few months. It's not just something I've been feeling.
Of course, nobody's looking at me in the video. They probably don't even notice I'm talking. I'm merely the mother. I've been overshadowed by the real star - the prima donna of the nursery - Alexandra. I won't forget that and don't you.
Mary Bradley © 2007