When you have a baby, many large truths hit you: I am not the most important person in my world any more. Anyone who harms a child must be electrocuted. My parents loved me very much. A large velour tracksuit is a fine and useful garment.
Then follow smaller, seemingly more inconsequential thoughts which have a far greater effect on your life.
For instance: I think women are right to often feel tearful after they’ve had sex, because one day, a shag will change their lives for ever. The fact that the phrase “A man’s labour” exists, but not “A woman’s labour”, is because our labour is the original labour, by which all others are measured.
My most surprising insight was the realisation that music was invented by mothers.
When I used to work as a music journalist, the understanding was that rocknpopnroll was a man thing. There had never been a female Beatles or an Elvis. Sure, you’ve got a Madonna here and a Kate Bush there, but when the Hundred Best Albums of All Time Ever lists are compiled, it’s never less than 90 per cent male.
But lessons in Dora’s first weeks showed me that mothers are, in fact, the progenitors of rock’n‘roll. When, around about week six, you finally Put The Baby Down For The First Time, the only way you can stop them howling is to sing. You sing to soothe them. Normal people only know the first two lines to songs. “I was working as a waitress in a cocktail barWhen I met youEr er er er er.”
The question remains: if women invented music for their babies, why do men appear to be better at it? It’s not from lack of talent: I have composed at least three songs - “Dora day”, “Dora go drive drive” and “Get that duck!”. Men’s evident rock’n‘roll superiority became clearer when I observed my husband singing my songs. He put on a performance to get her attention. I, on the other hand, just had to get my tits out.
And that’s the history of rock’n‘roll in a nutshell.
