a baby grudge

When my best friend had a baby, I listened intently as they described how “everything was different now.” Emotions were more searing, watching the news was more terrifying, sleep was more elusive and love all-consuming. They whispered these words to me in a dark hospital room, their voice low so as not to wake the newborn nearby. I nodded, assuring them that I, too, was overwhelmed by the life-altering creature in front of us. As their eyes welled up, they grabbed my hand and choked, “Wendy, I’ve never loved anyone like this.” I smiled back, but internally winced, thinking, “OK, rude. I’m standing right here.”


snap by Courtney Jackson

Countless words have been written about how babies impact friendships. Most deal with the parents’ feelings of guilt as they shed parts of their old lives to make way for this new being. Others are concerned with the bitterness of childless figures, presenting them as lonely husks, left behind and tormented by idyllic slices of family life. But no one mentions any searing resentment directed towards the creature who can’t lift their head yet. It seems like an oversight, because let’s be honest: the baby is the one that messed everything up.

There’s something deeply embarrassing about being jealous of a baby – although, you have to admit that deep down the displeasure is easy enough to understand. They are, after all, draining the time and energy of your favourite human, leaving you with the dregs: their absent-minded attention and unanswered texts. But over time, as you watch the person you love most fall in love with someone else, the feeling can mutate from simple displacement to a strange and ugly form of loneliness.

The real pain isn’t in what you’ve lost, but what you’ve discovered. That someone you thought you knew completely has revealed the capacity to love in a new and devastating way. They’ve tapped into a crevasse of emotion you had no idea existed, but instinctively know you can never access.

Friendships are built around the idea of being included. They’re drawn with lines that designate who is in and who is not. By adulthood, you’re familiar with these boundaries. You’ve survived decades of cliques and clubs; clung to each other through changing social seasons and survived. Until the baby comes along, and you face the first relationship you’re automatically excluded from. Then, while everyone else is enriched by the fresh, chubby pooping machine, exploring unknown capacities for strength, dedication and kindness, you realise that you’re pettier than you ever could have imagined.

Compounding it all is the understanding that this is not something you could ever say to anyone. Best friendships earn the title of ‘best’ through complete transparency. They’re the safe space where you can be your vilest self and still accepted. As it turns out, though, a child is the one thing sacred enough to disrupt such a hallowed place. After all, everyone knows you never talk shit about someone’s kid.

When you’re jealous of a baby, it’s not really about the cooing, spit-covered intruder. Babies don’t make great nemeses. In reality, you’re jealous of time passing, things changing, the bodies and minds close to you stretching out into new directions. Babies are great. But they’re a reminder that no matter how happy you are or how much you love someone, you can’t stop the world from turning. All you can do is look into yourself and search for your secret reservoir of feelings and resolve, hoping to find your own new kind of love – one that is quiet, still and patient. Or that can at least hold out until the kid is a teenager.

This admission of jealousy comes straight from the pages frankie 94. Pick up a copy at your closest stockist, or subscribe here.