Cor blimey, mummy!
Between you and me, I’m tired. Tired of being in the dumps, that is. Therefore, I’ve decided not to wallow in feeling sorry for myself anymore. I want to enjoy motherhood. I am entering a new era of positivity, an era in which I can get to know my baby girl, watch my husband bloom into a great dad, and spend more time worrying about the real issues – like what kind of accent my daughter will have.
Seriously, I think about this. You know and I know that there are some pretty nasty British accents out there. One street can make the difference between “nothing” and “nufffink”. Growing up in America, I was reared on the romantic fairytale of the plummy British accent. I’m talking Julie Andrews, David Niven, and James Bond, not Jordan and Kerry Katona. I once heard a comedian joke that Leicester Square is full of disillusioned American tourists, not because they’ve finally realised they’ve been pronouncing Leicester wrong, but because the guy who just robbed them of a bob wasn’t a disgraced country lord with a dreadful cocaine habit to support. It’s the same flavour of disappointment that Brits feel when they realise that I pronounce the R in “New Jersey” rather than rhyming it with “noisy”.
So how do I get Baby talking like Annette Mills in “Muffin the Mule”?
James was raised in Wales. But he sounds like Mr Darcy (part of why I fell in love with him). Apparently, his Welsh accent was beaten out of him at school. I’m hoping I won’t have to hire Baby her own personal Henry Higgins to whip her haitches into shape. Because I’ll do it, you know. Just you watch.
I worry about this now because I’m sure I’ll have much more serious things to worry about when she’s older, like whether she’s up to the same shenanigans I got up to when I was her age. Or whether she got a few points off on that math exam because mommy gave her some formula as a baby.
In the meantime, I’ll have to remain vigilant to make sure she isn’t dropping the H’s in “wahhhhhhh”.