THE LAST STRAW: Ideas about child-care have changed a lot over the past century. In general, parents used to have a much more relaxed approach. Even so, I was taken aback recently when reading Ernest Hemingway's account of his life in Paris in the 1920s, when he was poor but happy, and a father for the first time. Here he describes child-minding arrangements for baby Jack, aka "Bumby".
"There were no baby-sitters then, and Bumby would stay happy in his tall cage bed with his big, loving cat named F. Puss.
"There were people who said it was dangerous to leave a cat with a baby [but] F. Puss lay beside Bumby in the tall cage bed and watched the door with his big yellow eyes, and would let no one come near him when we were out and Marie, the femme de manage, had to be away. There was no need for baby-sitters. F. Puss was the baby-sitter." Hemingway doesn't specify how long he and his wife would be "out" on these occasions, or how far away. Nevertheless, it struck me reading it that as, 80 years on, we in Ireland struggle with our own child-care crisis, here could be a way forward.
By coincidence, a director of the employers' group IBEC was discussing the problem recently in this paper, and praised "the renowned French child-care policy". She wasn't referring to Paris in the 1920s, obviously. But with the economy in trouble, hopes of a comprehensive, affordable child-care system now appear unrealistic. I'm not saying it would be ideal, but maybe it's time the option of suitably-trained domestic pets was looked at seriously.
I don't have a cat myself, unfortunately. Before we had children, though, my wife and I were members of a local pet-sharing scheme, under which a neighbour's female cat spent evenings at our place. Looking back, she had many qualities you'd want in a baby sitter. She never brought boyfriends around and rarely used the phone, to name two. But it's also obvious to me in retrospect how many interests cats and babies share. They both drink milk all the time, for example, and they move around on all fours with their tails in the air. As they grow in confidence, they climb all over on your furniture too.
Anyway, at that time the cat had our furniture to herself; until one evening, when she appeared at the back door with a small rodent between her teeth. The rodent was still alive and the cat's plan, clearly, was to kill it for us as a present, thereby cementing the relationship. It was a natural thing for a cat to do, and touching in its own way. Nevertheless, as we stared at each other through the patio door in mutual incomprehension, it was clear to those of us on this side of the glass that the cat would not be getting in again for a while. That was also the moment she failed the interview for the yet-uncreated position of child-minder.
Hemingway didn't write much about his children, which is a pity. His wives might say he didn't have much experience of the subject. But then again, he spent only a short time on the Italian front in 1918 and it made him a military authority for life.
And since his adjective-free accounts (he distrusted adjectives in inverse proportion to cats) of war and drinking and bull-fights and big-game hunting have made generations of male readers feel inadequate, it would be nice if he'd published even a short novel about his time on the child-rearing front. It could have been called A Farewell to Nappies: "In the winter of that year, we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. Then the baby came and after that the rains, and then we didn't see much of the river or the plain or the mountains any more.
"Soon the village was only a rumour. Mostly all we saw were diapers. They were piled high in the trash cans. And when the wind was blowing, and the garbage men were on strike, the smell carried across the river and the plain to the mountains.
"But sometimes the wind changed and you just had to get out of the house and leave the cat in charge."
In fairness, it should be said that "Bumby" grew up to be a fine citizen. He died only two years ago, a more rounded person than his famously macho father. And while his mother had most responsibility for the upbringing, F. Puss clearly deserves credit too. Jack always bore a striking resemblance to the author, incidentally, and the annual Hemingway celebrations in Key West still include a look-alike competition. It was won this year by a hairdresser. There's hope for us all yet.
