Hurrah! My little girl’s a champion... farter

Latin on Monday, piano on Tuesday, elocution on Wednesday, nervous breakdown on Thursday. Leigh-Anne Hunter presents the diary of the competitive toddler

Pram envy. It’s the eighth deadly sin.

“And here’s the Baby Stroller S500,” said a salesman as I heaved my pregnant self along the aisles. “At the push of a button, it turns into a high-powered jet.” “Uh-huh,” said my husband. “Does it come with mag wheels?”

Back then I was ill-informed about must-have baby accessories, among the many things parents compete over with a polite ferocity. At the park, a friend gushed: “Ooh, is that a caboodle?” “Actually,” I replied, “I believe it’s a Labrador.”

Even gastronomic activities are a source of smugness. “She’s a champion farter, my girl.”

At baby playdates, moms sniff each other like hounds let loose at the park. What’s her percentile? Hasn’t started crawling yet? Johnny started at four months… Her first word was “Constantinople”. She loves classical antiquity.

One older tot has Latin on Mondays, piano on Tuesdays, elocution lessons on Wednesdays, and a nervous breakdown on Thursdays.

“You haven’t put her name down at a school yet? Tsk-tsk,” said one mum. “I had Josh’s name down at St Pompous and Bankruptcy Preparatory before he was born.” She’s not sure if he’ll get in. Dropping high-calibre school names is the parental equivalent of saying you’re chums with Oprah and Denzel.

The pressure already starts at finding a play group — it’s the foundation for your child’s life. Pick the wrong one and he could end up living in a trailer park or, worse, be too unemployable to leave the house.

At school open days, parents descend like hipsters elbowing each other for a piece of prime Manhattan real estate. “And here we teach them sensory integration,” said one teacher.

Let me explain: there were children sticking plastic beads on paper. For R13,000 a term, I could do that at home.

“We teach children values of love and peace…” she said. I couldn’t hear the rest because one kid ran past bashing another with his plastic sword.

One father — number 225 on list D — left the queue to go to the loo and lost his spot. He threw his toys

Preschool is child’s play compared with finding a spot at the right (one mum classified it as “chinos-and-pearls”) big school. “We accept a limited number of candidates,” says one such school’s website.

To apply, please complete this 100-page document detailing such things as your employment history, a thorough motivation, and the colour of the underpants you wore on June 7 1995.

And here is the address so you can send us your deposit cheque — and left kidney.

Shortlisted candidates will be observed engaging in a “natural activity”. Like sculpting 3D wax models of the Taj Mahal.

Anxious parents watch as their children file into the room like suspects in a police line-up. Things aren’t looking good for little Nellie. Her dad works in Angola and digs for diamonds. Evidently, so does Nellie.

Come registration day, parents camp outside one popular Joburg school in winter every year, clasping Thermos flasks and hopes for their sprogs. I’m told it’s worse than a Stuttafords’ sale.

One father — number 225 on list D — left the queue to go to the loo and lost his spot. He threw his toys.

But someone gave him a dummy and he settled down.