Read Sophie’s story from the beginning at thesundaytimes.co.uk/themotherproject
and follow her on @sophieberesiner and @motherprojectofficialWho would take a one-year-old
on a holiday only for adults?
Sophie Beresiner would –
and she’d do it again
The
mother
project
If you subscribe to the gloss of social media, and
you’re still capable of missing the invisible, ordinary
mess between those perfect square moments, you
might have marvelled at my recent holiday. Ah, there
we are, on our peach stone balcony, M, Mr B and me,
and ten of our very good friends-without-kids. Yes, we
took our baby on an otherwise only-adults holiday.
And you’d be right, it was bloody marvellous. It was
beautiful and fun and funny and, oh my God, f ***ing
exhausting, but honestly, for so many reasons that
I wasn’t quite prepared for, a glorious, messy marvel.
I was grateful to be invited in the first place. These
are friends who have contributed to many of the ups
among the downs on our path to parenthood. I don’t
question that they love me, love M, but do they love
having a one-year-old party pooper in their midst?
Apparently so. I would go so far as to say she was guest
of honour, and that is quite an achievement for
someone who has only just developed a personality.
So then why did that self-consciousness that I felt
having M the way that we did — or rather not having
her for so long — resurface, only this time from a very
different perspective (and with Italian subtitles)?
Most of my other friends had their families by the
time we were trying, so naturally we were perched
on the periphery, pretending it didn’t hurt and
getting drunker than necessary because we could.
This Tuscan crew comprised a collective that has
evolved over the years into a solid group of mutually
supportive fun-seekers. It’s why we
were there in fact — celebrating
the long overdue birthday of my
brilliant friend Billie, but I almost
didn’t go because I was conscious
of being on the periphery again,
not being able to get drunker than
necessary because I was looking
after a baby now, and aware we
risked dampening the fun. So how
was it? I’d watched my friendssipping margaritas and dancing in the midday sun
while I prepared M for her nap. And when I came
back from putting her down I sometimes felt like I’d
missed the vibe, but that was OK because while
I pushed M round the pool and marvelled with great
enthusiasm at whatever she pointed at next,
I clicked into her vibe, the mum-fun equivalent of
tequila. OK, maybe not tequila, but totally great in a
totally different way. Any part of me that feared
missing out on the big fun found joy in the little fun,
and bonus points for how much she thrived in the
good Tuscan light with all the grown-up people.
In other words, I was occupying that equilibrium
between Fomo and Jomo. (You’ll notice I’m glossing
over my playing catch-up after her bedtime because
what happens in Tuscany stays in Tuscany.)
When we got home, I had a conversation with a
friend who has been through her own unsuccessful
round of IVF. She was understandably triggered by
seeing how much fun we’d had as a family on social
media. I tried to explain that there were messy bits in
between but caught myself, realising I was that person
who has the potential to say the wrong, dumb, mean-
ingless thing now that I have what she wants. Instead
I said: “Look at us, I didn’t think we’d ever have had this
family either, but you can only try.” She tearfully told
me, “You wouldn’t understand,” something I’d thought
countless times in that painful bit of my life around
my friends-with-kids. It doesn’t matter if I of all people
would obviously understand. Her
own pain is isolating whatever stage
she’s at because that’s what a
personal struggle is, right? The clue
is in the “personal”, and I almost
forgot. I’m in between forgetting
how tough it could be around friends
with kids and, now, how different
it can be around friends without.
I know I’m lucky because fundamen-
tally I’m happy here. ■ Sarah Cresswell, AlamyA friend who has
been through her
own unsuccessful
IVF tearfully told
me, ‘You wouldn’t
understand’
110 • The Sunday Times Style