One of my dearest friends in the whole world has just popped out a wee one. As she currently lives in the States, I have to be content with the occasional phone call at odd hours or perusal of her photos on Crackbooke*.
We had a big chat last week, involving a graphic, blow-by-blow description of the birth and the aftermath, including correct medical terminology. I would like to state here it is a good friend indeed who will tolerate repeated utterances of the word perineum. After an hour of this gore, we concluded that she has “a whole new respect for the village woman.”
Anyway, I have been asked, in a totally non-religious, un-Christian, nothing to do with Jesus way, to be the godmother of her child! To provide ‘an alternative viewpoint to her child, should the need arise’!! Oho! The idea is that if the kid has a few teen-angst moments and cannot speak to either of her parents, I can step in with my worldly wisdom.
Do you not love it??
I am humungously flattered. That, despite the fact that I am clearly a good role model for no-one, I am considered in some way suitable to dispense my pearls of experience. However, as I was struck completely a-spiritual by my all-girl Anglican schooling, I had no freaking idea what tasks a godmother might perform. So I asked around:
“When I was little, my godparents were just those people in the background of photos,” said A-Zee. “I don’t remember them doing anything particularly godparently.”
“Oooh being a godparent is awesome,” said my sister. “My godson tells me he loves me every time we speak on the phone. Although he is brutally honest.”
Stelle hmm’ed and said “Being a godparent is an expensive business. You have to buy the best of everything, and your present has to be noticeably better than everyone else’s.”
But Alix summed it up best: “I just wonder what spiritual advice young Meesha Mei will be getting as she grows? Never trust a man in a brown suit? Beware axe-wielding Hungarians in cinemas? The importance of early detection of congenital deformities? Ahh, she is one lucky child, to have the boundless depth of knowledge of your family at her disposal.”
Right she is. I have previously compiled a list of parental wisdom previously dispensed, which has seen me through some tricky crossroads in life. These may come in handy. I also helped out at my friend’s Halloween party by scaring the crap out of their neighbourhood kids with my chilling tales and unearthly cries. Perhaps this was what pushed them over the edge into asking me to be a godmother. I am very good at scaring children, and the sort of dressing up required at a kid’s party, where you leap into the room, shout ‘MUAHAHAHAHAHA’ and dart off again.
I also suspect that being a godparent is somewhat like being a cool older sibling. I distinctly recall my own sister stomping into my room and declaring that I needed ‘pictures of bands on my wall, because that’s what you do’. We spent an afternoon cutting out pictures of B-52s, Culture Club, Kate Bush, Hot Chocolate and there may have even been some Duran Duran. I remember too that Madonna was strictly forbidden**.
I can do all of that! Minus the bad 80s pop, perhaps. Indeed, I am an excellent conduit to all sorts of stuff. But if anyone else has any godparent stories, then bring them on.
*This is even stupider than I had originally supposed. There is some application that is a virtual fishtank. And another where you bite people as a vampire and turn them into Catholic schoolgirls or some shit. As a pal said: ‘it’s really only useful for seeing how minging your ex’s girlfriends are.’
**Along with Wham!, Cyndi Lauper, rolling your socks down so they formed a ring around your ankle, and the words ‘bulk’ and ‘Bulla’.