Page 1 of The 3am Shattered Mums' Club

1

SOPHY

It was precisely seventeen minutes past midnight on Friday, 15 February when Sophy finally lost all control of her bowels. It was less of a loosening – as she had been quietly advised by elder relatives who had been through labour before – and more of an anus explosion. The second of the two cheery-but-firm midwives who had arrived in Sophy’s sitting room a few minutes before began the evacuation of the birthing pool, supporting Sophy as she hauled her leg over the side. Jeff, Sophy’s boyfriend – who had been laid out with his neck against the lip of the birthing pool, his head flopped back, eyes shut and mouth slightly open, arms over the side as though he were in a hot tub in a Cotswold’s holiday cottage – shot out of the water at lightning speed. The water changed to a muddy brown just as Sophy was lifted out and onto the sofa.

Baby Max was delivered half an hour later, along with what the midwife referred to as ‘a teeny wee tear’. As Sophy lay still and somewhat shocked on the sofa the midwife tacking her perineum back together, she was certain she heard Jeff whisper, ‘Make sure to get it all nice and tight,’ but Sophy had inhaled a whole tank of gas and air and had probably imagined it.

Finally, thirteen hours after her first contraction, Sophy was propped up in bed wearing the biggest knickers she had ever owned, stuffed to the breaches with a pad the size of a toddler’s mattress, and holding her brand-new son.

Yesterday, she was Sophy West, a thirty-three-year-old social-media influencer and health guru.

Today, she was a mother.

* * *

‘Hey there, healthy bods! It’s Sophy, still here with loads of fab tips for you on staying fit and healthy, even though I just pushed a whopper out of my nether regions just over two weeks ago. Yes, it wasn’t glamorous, and it hurt more than I believed any of you said it would. We have had a gorgeous couple of weeks cosied up in the house, just me, Max and Jeff, and now I’m ready to start whipping your butts back into shape.

‘You might think that as soon as you give birth to that beautiful doe-eyed replica of yourself, all the healthy-eating regime must go out of the window, but believe me, there is a way to keep it up. It’s called stamina. Think of those shiny abs and bulging biceps you worked so hard to achieve, you must KEEP. IT. UP.

‘Listen, I know how hard it is and my life has just got a whole lot harder, as I now have a tiny baby that is literally sucking the life out of me and so I am going to have to work extra hard. But I’m doing it for you guys because I love you and you have totally been there for me all through this pregnancy with your tips and just general bump love. I’m not going to be one of those mums who post endless pics of their baby either. Max may make a cameo appearance from time to time in these vlogs, but basically, it’s just me and you guys. And you know what? After what I have just been through, I know we are stronger than we ever consider ourselves to be, so put that bread-bin lid back on and push the cookies to the back of the cupboard. Seek out your quinoa, fresh veg, nut butter and bags of almonds, cos I’m back and I’m ready to give you all the help you need to maintain that perfect bod. Mwwaaahh!’

Sophy blew a kiss at the camera, then let out a huge sigh. She rubbed at her face where she had applied flawless make-up just an hour earlier and pulled off the pink sports leggings that were digging into her sides. She looked at the red marks they had left behind around her waist and hips – two areas of her body she barely recognised any more – and walked away from the corner of the bedroom she had transformed into a vlogging area. The bedroom was her space, and as much as Jeff constantly griped at how cluttered it felt, he only occupied it to pass out at the end of the day and had never participated in any of the decor and certainly none of the cleaning, so she felt he didn’t have any right to comment.

Sophy flopped onto the bed in her huge knickers which were still stuffed with a heavy flow maternity pad. The healing process was taking much longer than she had anticipated. She had imagined she would be back to her old self by now, going for long walks with Max wrapped up in his pram, then returning pink-cheeked and glowing with maternal vitality. Not still be wincing every time she coughed, or better still, not having to pee in the bath with the shower head spraying between her legs to stop the burning sting.

She remembered an image she had seen on Facebook a few months back of an old school friend posing in front of a Silver Cross grey pram with the beach in the background. The picture had been captured by her husband and below it he had written: ‘Just three days after giving birth – what a woman!’

‘That will be me!’ Sophy had announced to Jeff as she had shown him the picture and caption. And she had truly believed it.

‘One hundred per cent, babes,’ Jeff had said back to her.

Surely, Sophy thought, she should be up and about by now, fourteen days after having Max? But she was still finding it hard to move around the bedroom, let alone lug a pram up and down a promenade and pose for photos. Why weren’t things turning out as she had imagined? This was not how it was supposed to be.

Sophy looked back over at the camera and realised she hadn’t turned it off and the back light was still glaring at her. She used it to highlight the expensive flamboyant wallpaper she had chosen to decorate that one wall; her wall. The one wall that made it look as though she were in a separate room – an office maybe – and not in one of only two bedrooms in this tiny, terraced house in Clapham. She hauled herself up again, flicked the photography lamp off and put the camera on the bed – two pieces of equipment that had set her back a fair bit and had spurred Jeff to mention the price once or twice. Funny how he never complained about the holiday to Barbados they went on last year that was gifted to them by a nutrition company in exchange for a week’s worth of stories and posts as part of a promotion. That was when Max was conceived. Up until then, Sophy had been struggling. She had been off the pill since her thirty-first birthday, but to no avail. She was just on the verge of going to get herself checked out when the holiday happened and boom, she was pregnant.

‘I knew the bloody swimmers weren’t dud! Get in!’ were Jeff’s congratulatory words when she had shown him the test that read ‘two–three weeks pregnant’.

Sophy pulled off her vest, slipped into a cosy white cotton T-shirt and crawled onto the bed. It was just after 7 p.m. and Max had been asleep for over an hour. Who knew when he would wake up again for a feed? She was exclusively breastfeeding. She hated using that term, but so many people had asked her if she would be bottle-feeding soon. Well, she saidpeople, but it was mainly Wendy, Jeff’s mother who wanted to ‘have a go’ and had begun extolling her grandmotherly powers of getting a baby to take a whole bottle in one go. Sophy knew that if there was one thing she would be doing, it was going to be breastfeeding Max until he could hold a spoon in his hand and feed himself.

Sophy began editing the video in a sleep-blurred haze, expertly snipping out theums anderrs and pauses until it was flawless and the perfect length for her fans to engage with. She had only posted a couple of pictures of Max since he had been born, and already she had begun to feel the panic at what might happen to her account if she didn’t keep up with content. She had made a huge effort to make herself look good for the video, even though she was practically shaking with tiredness. She would use the Insta stories, because she knew all the other influencers were using them, but she was still so nervous on social media that she felt better when she had edited a video. That way she had total control.

Sophy packed the camera and laptop and stowed it away in the corner of the room, took a peep in the baby bedside crib at a still-sleeping Max, then climbed into bed, pulled herself under the duvet and closed her eyes. Just as she was about to fall off the ledge of consciousness into the land of sleep, Max let out a tiny mewl that grew rapidly into a fully fledged wail. Sophy sat up and pulled Max from his SnuzPod – a device that had prompted Wendy to ask Sophy what exactly ‘co-sleeping’ was. In her day, babies were put in their beds and expected to sleep, and it didn’t do them any harm. At which point, Sophy had looked over towards Jeff, who had been pointing his camera phone at his face in one hand, stroking his hair back with the other, whilst walking backwards towards the best light and nearly tripped over the laundry basket.

Sophy felt melancholy flood her body as she lifted her T-shirt and pulled a heavy, swollen breast from her maternity bra. She felt her whole body go tense as she looked down at Max, his tiny mouth in an O-shape ready to receive his meal. He had no idea the amount of pain he inflicted on her for those few short minutes until he latched on properly and they both fell into a flow. And she was so tired. She jolted as the tiny slithers of panic jabbed at her. How would she function again tomorrow? She took a deep breath and winced at the pain as Max greedily attached himself to her nipple. She thought this right one had started to heal, but judging by the needle-like shots that pulsated through her body and made her toes curl, causing a small yelp to escape her lips, she realised it was not the case. How on earth was she supposed to get used to this level of abuse? And would it ever stop hurting?

Eventually, Max latched on properly and the pain began to subside. Sophy felt her toes uncurling and her stomach muscles relax. This was the part she enjoyed, one of the little parts of the process of motherhood that she looked forward to. She wouldn’t tell that to Jeff, though. For some unfathomable reason, Sophy felt she needed to make Jeff feel that breastfeeding was a massive inconvenience and that he had not helped out once with a feed. Jeff’s response was of complete bewilderment.

‘What do you want me to do, babes? Grow a pair of knockers?’ So, a couple of days after Max had been born, which had felt like a year, Sophy decided to give her brand-new super turbo-powered breast pump a go. But nothing would bring the milk on like Max’s latch, and so all Sophy had been left with was a sore breast and a dribble of milk. Jeff had given her a wide-eyed look, trying to offer up sympathy, but it came across more as ‘I told you so.’ Once Sophy had hurled the turbo breast pump with all its wires and bits still attached towards Jeff’s head – where it missed and hit the bedroom wall – she decided to focus on breastfeeding Max by herself. Everything else in her world felt so out of control, and this was the one thing she could take ownership of. No one else could do it and Max needed her.

* * *

A few hours later, Sophy woke to Max trying to latch on again, she pulled him closer and relaxed into the feed. Or at least she tried to relax through the tornado of sound that was abusing her ears. She turned her head and looked at Jeff, who was lying flat on his back, snoring. She hadn’t heard him come to bed, but now Max had woken her – maybe it was Jeff’s snoring that had woken Max – she was sure she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

After he had finished feeding, Sophy lay there for what felt like ages, trying to get back to sleep, occasionally nudging Jeff so he would quieten for a few moments, only for him only to begin his incessant snoring again seconds later.

Eventually, she began to feel sick from tiredness and weak from lack of nourishment. She had done two big feeds in four hours, which was the equivalent to a massive workout, surely? Sophy tucked Max safely into his pod, slipped her feet into her fluffy slippers and padded downstairs. The clock on the digital oven blinked03.02.Sophy felt a surge of panic – she’d experienced it a lot lately. Why was she up at this time? Max would be awake again in a few hours and then she had all the housework to do, washing, shopping, and the endless sitting with Max as he stayed awake during the day for what felt like hours sometimes. He would only ever catnap throughout the day, leaving her very little time to do anything for herself, let alone more content for her social media.

Jeff would leave at seven thirty in the morning as usual to go to work at the estate agent’s he had owned for over a decade now, Haddon’s – aptly named after himself – then he wouldn’t be back until gone 6 p.m. Over ten hours by herself. She was always desperately grateful when he returned, armed with pad Thai takeaway or curry. Then she hated herself for how she followed him around the house, Max in her arms, whilst he unwound, removing layers, setting the food out, pouring himself his nightly gin and tonic that might or might not turn into three or four, which would bring on immediate comatose. He would then wake in the early hours, drag himself to bed and proceed to snore for the rest of the night. There was only one other room in the house, which was Max’s nursery, so there was nowhere else she could sleep, unless she bunked down on the floor there. It was a beautiful room and very inviting, with a big white cot and light grey walls. There were splashes of colour in the form of a rainbow-shaped rug, a few colourful prints of animals and a blue blanket draped along the back of the cot. Max had yet to lie in this one – Sophy couldn’t bring herself to put him in it. Besides, Max only wanted to be close to her, rarely anyone else. Jeff would take Max off Sophy’s hands for an hour each night whilst she went off and had a bath and painted her nails. No matter how tired she was, she had to keep up some level of maintenance. And she knew it wasn’t just for her own benefit. Jeff had made a passing comment just before Max was born about mums who lost a bit of themselves after having their babies. ‘Although I’m sure that isn’t going to be you, babes. You’ll always look hot,’ he had added afterwards.

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