You’d be surprised what women talk about at mothers’ groups, especially men

The biggest change in our playgroup over time was not that our babies had grown half a metre in height or that they’d morphed into Spidermen. It was the talk that changed. The mothers’ talk.

When we first got together post-birth, cracked nipples were a major theme. Cracked nipples were fascinating. Who had them? Why? Which cream to use? We all shook our heads in sympathy for the cracked nipplees of the world. And winced at the idea of babies wanting a feed. Didn’t they understand?

Spare me the blow-by-blow description AGAIN, mum.Credit: Getty Images

Then came the really big topic – The Birth. It’s strange how you can get together every Friday afternoon with people you’ve just met through the council, say, and give them a blow-by-blow description of your innermost girl bits. It’s liberating too. You’ve all been accepted into this secret society of motherhood, and you understand completely.

Most of our meetings took place in the backyard of whoever was hosting that day. The next-door neighbour, innocently weeding the azalea patch, could learn things like this:

“My waters broke at 5.30am, just after the Wimbledon men’s final.”

“How much comes out?”

“Put it this way ... I had to wedge a beach towel down my jeans on the way to the hospital.”

Or even: “Tommy’s head was as big as a basketball. I should have had a caesarean, but I was too far gone. They tried the forceps but ended up using the vacuum. I had 32 stitches and walked like a cowboy.”

Sometimes our conversation even shifted to the babies and we learnt all sorts of new vocabulary. I’d never heard of a “percentile” before it became the yardstick on which I based my success or failure as a mum.

It was easy to talk about babies and women’s bits when the babies were in arms. It wasn’t until much later that we realised this was the time we really could have talked. The little things just lay there then, cooing and blurting, oblivious to the world. We could have talked about books and films and even the news. But we didn’t want to. Those cracked nipples kept getting in the way.

Soon the kids were crawling and then they were taking their first steps. Another shift in conversation. This was the staccato period when conversation was stop-started with “hang on”, “just a minute”, “sorry, I missed that” and “ETHAN COME BACK HERE NOW!” I remember one trip to the local gardens when nobody answered a question until they’d raced down the hill, saved their boy from wading in the lake and staggered back up.

I say “boy” because boys were the dominant sex in our group and certainly the most active. This led to many conversations on the future of the human race. Were we breeding a new species of rowdy giants? Would we ever get to dress a girl? How in the name of soggy baby rusks did people even make girls? Would mothers’ groups one day be extinct?

The domination of the male sex inevitably led to husbands. Men in the context of family life always produced a hearty session of husband razzing. Anne’s husband once tried to change a nappy using sticky tape and paper clips. Sophie’s partner had never changed a nappy. In 10 years of marriage, Jackie’s husband had never changed a toilet roll. After our fourth cuppa – there were always four – Jackie went to the host’s bathroom and returned with an empty toilet roll.

Suddenly, the kids were at childcare and most of us were going back to work part-time. Conversation got serious again as we talked about the way we were going to juggle our lives. Some mums had a nanny for one or two days, others had Grandma, all had crèche. We talked about the first day we had to say goodbye to our child and how we followed the rules, didn’t hover, and walked away with wobbly legs.

One mum recalled returning to the crèche at the end of the first day, parting the bushes, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering through the window to see how her son was getting on. It wasn’t her last act of voyeurism.

Since our first meeting under the silver birch all those years ago, only one conversation didn’t change. And that was fatigue. We mothers were so tired, knocked out, fagged and pooped we’d exhausted Roget’s Thesaurus. But all for the greater good, and we loved our greater goods, even in our sleep.

When our babies were five years old, they weren’t babies any more. We no longer talked of nipples, though most of us had second children by then. The birth stories of second and third progeny hardly cracked a mention. Schools and school uniforms were the thing and what to put in lunch boxes.

What we didn’t talk about was the future of our mothers’ group.

I remember Anne brought out a flourless, gluten-free, eggful chocolate walnut cake. We were all silent as we felt the cake make chocolatey explosions in our mouths. The kids were inside, pulling apart the home that Anne and her family had just moved into.

Someone started: “I don’t want this to stop.”

Then, another: “It’s the highlight of my week.”

And, “What am I going to do without you all?”

Anne offered another round of cake, and it was agreed. Our mothers’ group would go on as long as the kids were at school and even when they weren’t. As long as someone offered a fourth cup of tea every Friday afternoon.

Jo Stubbings is a freelance writer.