I recently had a baby, and the NCT group I joined meets up every week at one of our houses – there are about eight of us who regularly meet. It’s been really helpful to spend time with people who are going through the same things as I am, so I really value their company. But I’m aware that my turn to host is approaching – I can’t get away with it any longer! The problem is, everybody’s house is nicer than mine. Not only that, they all seem to be great at cooking and hosting, laying on spreads of cake and quiche and salads that I wouldn’t even have been able to prepare before I had a baby constantly on my breast! It’s beginning to cause me massive anxiety, to the point where I’m considering leaving the group. My husband says I’m being ridiculous, but his idea of hosting involves pushing some books off the sofa and ordering a pizza. What do you think I should do?

Okay, of course you shouldn’t leave the group. What nonsense is this? Leave the group that has literally formed out of biscuits and strangers to help you navigate those wild grim months of early motherhood, that will answer your 4am text about your baby’s “weird snore” immediately, with comforting words and a problem of their own? Leave the group that will talk to you about postpartum sex, and how to get back to work, and the horrors of breastfeeding, and lie their babies next to yours on a rug so they can practice friendship? No. So here are your choices: 

You are perfectly within your rights to skip your hosting round, but please be honest with the group. Tell them how you feel. Tell them your home is not really set up for parties, and that you feel a bit weird about it, but don’t want to keep making excuses – is there another way you could contribute? You could do that. I don’t think you should. I think you should take a leaf out of your husband’s book, get some pizzas, put your healthiest pot plant on the table and see what happens. Regardless of how “nice” your home is, the exchange between you and the guest is simple – you open your doors wide, they take what is offered, whether cake, champagne or the warmth of a friend, and thank you heartily as they leave. If they are sniffy about your house, or comment on the cluttered shelves or bad carpet, then they are dicks, without a shadow of a doubt. But of course, they won’t. 

Because the judgment comes not from them but from you, as you attempt, in bad faith, to see your home through their eyes. Through their similarly tired, milk-sick eyes, the eyes of a person simply happy to get out of the house, simply happy to have a cup of tea brought to them while they say things about babies that, elsewhere, would get them banned. Do you think so little of these people, these – let’s call them friends, why not, that word is elastic – that you believe they would think less of you for your situation? That they would take you less seriously if they saw the limits of your wealth, or abilities to cook a flan?

There are things you can do to ease your anxiety. Clean the room they’ll be sitting in, and clean the toilet they’ll be pissing in. Walls can be scrubbed – people forget that. Open a window. Don’t bake unless you want to – buy some fruit, or a bit of cheese. Make a soft little area where the babies can puddle. And don’t apologise – shake off the shame, the anticipated scorn, and breathe yourself into the role of generous and delighted host, albeit one whose home isn’t going to be in World of Interiors any time soon. Which, let’s remind ourselves, is fine. Please, don’t lose these important friends over a quiche.

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