The second rule is: you never laugh at Baby Fight Club.
The third rule is: keep it clean: no hair pulling, no dummy spitting, no pooping.
I attended my first Baby Fight Club yesterday. It was held at an unassuming Church Hall nearby. I had got to know about it through word of mouth.
The lady on the door (who I only knew as 'Mrs Wendy') didn't say much, just gave me a nod and asked if I wanted to buy a raffle ticket. £1 a strip, I thought, why not?
Nervous, as I had never been part of a gathering like this before, I went inside and waited with the others.
In front of me were babies of all different sizes, some wearing tabards, some wearing tea cloths, others, particularly the smaller ones, wore wings.
Next, there was shouty singing, followed by awkward dancing. But no one could quite prepare me for what would happen next.
While two babies tended a smaller baby at the front, one of the smaller winged babies at the back - apparently frustrated with the lack of action - lunged at the small winged baby next to it.
Startled, the smaller baby flailed a bit before standing up and trying to move away.
Unperturbed, the aggressor continued, this time making a clumsy grab for the smaller baby's halo in an attempt to bring her to the ground.
Knowing things were getting dirty, 'Mrs Wendy' stepped in telling the one who started the fight to 'keep her hands to herself'.
After the ugliness, they tried to continue as before with more shouty singing and flappy dancing. But the soiled elephant in the room was still there.
Once it was over, I knew what I had just witnessed would change me. How could it not?
On the drive home, there was one question that kept coming back again and again in my mind:
"How do I tell my husband, the father of my child, that our only sweet first born daughter, tried to punch out another baby at her first nativity?"
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| Look at me again, Mary, and I'll cut you |
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