Notes on playgroups

Joanna Gray - 1 Apr 17

Playgroups are the ultimate safe space. Not a new idea born of today’s left but one perfected years ago by the largely conservative church. Pussy hats are not required. Even when the odd father on paternity leave inadvertently joins the soft, feminine throng, playgroups smother any bark of masculinity.

The best are found in church halls where passers by will spot a clutter of parked prams, double buggies and those miniature pushchairs that little girls like to walk. Some church-run playgroups are so popular, ticketing systems are used and slots booked on eventbrite.co.uk. Usually, a nominal fee of 50p or £1 per child is placed in a mug.

Tea, coffee and biscuits, generally served by an elderly member of the congregation, are an absolute must. Again 50p is usually enough. The biscuits are of the variety variety and are shared with the children, and then the toys. Sure Start Centres were on a hiding to nothing when they forbade hot drinks for fear of scalding spills.

What happens to the children at playgroup is entirely incidental. They wander around holding naked dolls, peer into the Wendy house, knock over the blocks and wander back for another biscuit. No, the whole point of playgroup is to provide a safe space for the mothers.

Mothers generally divide into two categories: those who’ve made it through childbirth and early infancy with body and mind in tact, and those who haven’t. The first group continue to highlight their hair and crouch in tiny chairs at the craft table gluing bits of paper together. These lucky women find each other and talk over their babies’ heads, of life outside playgroup: whatever happened to that Lovely Nick Clegg?

The less fortunate set have been battered by recent experiences. Their hair is tied up, their clothes are still of the stretchy variety until the weight is lost. They simply crave a few minutes sit down, in chairs laid out along the walls of the hall. They also find each other and chat about weaning, about sleeping and, what do you think I should do?

For both groups, the desperate friendships forged next to the stickle bricks box are lifelines and can last lifetimes.

Occasionally the unruly child on the truck will crash into a baby, but generally nothing ever happens at playgroup. That is not to say playgroups are a space for work. The odd older woman will arrive with an unexpected third or fourth baby, disappointed to find her life has coiled backwards. She may attempt to work on her phone but it doesn’t last long. She will eventually just sit starring, waiting until “Tidy up time and singing.”

Fathers do come, with a fear of treading on a tiny tot. They tend to remain seated and shout across the hall if their charge is in trouble or danger, “PUT HER DOWN RORY!” As his shouts reverberate, the father too is shocked at his voice. Next time he treads gingerly across the train tracks to retrieve his child without hollering.

Yes playgroups are dull, yes they are safe, yes they’re filled with nattering women, yes they make men uncomfortable but by golly they are a godsend. All hail the faithful volunteers who run them. Now, please may I have another cup of tea?

Joanna Gray

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