Page 2 of The 3am Shattered Mums' Club

But the only ‘hot’ Sophy felt, was the hormonal kind: hot flushes through the night and any time she was trying to get Max ready, herself dressed or pack a bag. Last week, she had broken out in a full-body sweat trying to get into a bag of Kettle chips, followed by both of her breasts soaking her top with milk that was due for Max, who had slept for three hours straight. Much to Jeff’s amusement and her mortification. It had set her back for the rest of the day.

Sophy had begun to feel as if it wasn’t just Max who had been extracted from her on the day she’d given birth, but a huge part of herself had slipped out too, and she felt daily as if she were looking around and searching for it. She had heard of mothers missing their bumps after the baby was born, but Sophy missed who she had been. She had this constant overbearing sense that she had forgotten to do something, and even though she had hours each day to sit and just be with Max, she struggled to do that. In order to push away that feeling, she tried to achieve something unrelated to motherhood every day, which was why she was back uploading content, even though Max was only a couple of weeks old. She felt as though she was missing out; if she didn’t keep going, she would get left behind. It wasn’t that she had itchy feet to be back to work – her mind was already full with everything that Max needed from her – but she would get moments of panic. What if everyone forgot about her and all her followers left? She knew that being Max’s mum was supposed to be enough for now. But she was thirty-three, if she stopped and let the world pass her by, she could become a has-been before she knew it. She had to crack on and be the mum that managed it all. Everyone would look up to her and say how amazing she looked, how well her business was doing. She already had 135,000 followers on Instagram – she couldn’t lose them because she felt a bit tired or a bit vacant that day.

As she pottered about the kitchen, she thought about making some toast and marmalade, and then she thought of the calories that she would put on as a result and decided to forget about the snack for now. She would make some healthy porridge with fruit and seeds for breakfast. She could style it up and a take a photo of it for feed, give her followers a little boost in the right direction; after all, they followed her for a reason. Then she would get Max dressed up in that gorgeous snow suit that her mum had sent and do a flat lay of him in it, then post that. She knew that would bring in a few thousand likes. If she could achieve those two things tomorrow, it would give her a sense of accomplishment. A warm feeling unfurled inside her stomach at the prospect, but it didn’t evolve into the full wave of happiness she had expected.

Although she had forgone the toast, she was still craving it, so decided to curb her pangs with a cuppa. She flicked the kettle on and pulled out a Pukka teabag. She imagined Jeff would still be snoring his head off, and although she could just move her and Max into the nursery, she knew it would be a slippery slope to a relationship counsellor. They weren’t married as it was, but now Max was here, surely that was all the glue they needed to bind them together as a family.

The kettle finished boiling, and Sophy stood next to the island in the immaculate white and grey kitchen.Jeff’simmaculate white and grey kitchen. Sophy was now the mother of his son, and although they had been together for four years and were a couple living together, she wondered at times if she wasn’t much more than a housemate with added benefits. But she knew that thinking those thoughts wasn’t helpful, because it was three o’clock in the morning, and that was never the time to start analysing your life. She dunked her teabag, staring at the clock on the oven, which now read03.10, but she wished it was later as she was struck by an overwhelming sense of loneliness. She wished more than anything there was someone she could call or text at this time of the morning, but it was just her, and that made Sophy feel sadder than she had ever felt.

2

AISHA

Why did she always feel in a rush when there was nothing to do except sit around and feed the twins all day? Over the last few weeks, there had been a rash of visitors all day long, so maybe that was it. Having given birth to twins six weeks ago, meant Aisha had seen every member of her family, including her two older sisters, Carmel and Laila, her cousins, Ruben and Marcel. Even her best friend from school, who now lived up north, had made the effort to come down and visit, but Claire’s reaction to the mass of dirty nappies, piles of bottles and alarming tones of dual cries from the two tiny helpless infants – and the way she had hurried out of the door after just one hour – made Aisha realise that Claire would not be making the trip back down from Hebden Bridge any time soon. One regular visitor, however, was Aisha’s mother, Martina, who had been coming over almost every day with Tupperwares loaded with her grandmother’s recipe of jerk chicken, rice and peas, plus extra treats and bags of fruit and nuts. Aisha had been eating spicy food since she could first put a fork to her mouth, and because of her mum’s Jamaican roots, she had craved it by the bucketload when she got pregnant, and it hadn’t let up since.

Aisha heard the familiar three-rap knock on the front door, and even though her mum had a key ‘for emergencies’, she never used it. Aisha was completely at ease with her own mother letting herself in, especially now she was trying to juggle twin babies – in fact, it was often quite an inconvenience to have to get up mid-feeds, or when she was trying to rest – but Aisha understood why her mum insisted on knocking. Although she was fully supportive of Aisha’s choice to settle and live with a woman and always included Charley, Aisha wasn’t sure she was as comfortable with it as she made out. She referred to Aisha and Charley’s life as ‘the set-up’, which to Aisha made it sound temporary; like Charley was a pop-up lesbian, only here for a short while, then she would be gone. But Charley was the other mother to the twins: Otis and Jude. Of course, they had come from Aisha’s egg – artificially inseminated – so there was nothing biological linking Charley to the boys. Therefore, she could see her mother’s anxieties about the lack of a conventional, genetic bond in the relationship. But then there was nothing simple about Aisha’s whole life, and so Aisha wondered if that was why somewhat traditional Martina was still not entirely comfortable talking about Aisha’s loving and long-term relationship, only referring to Charley as her daughter’s girlfriend every once in a while. The knocking was because Martina was terrified of walking in on something. What exactly that ‘something’ was at this stage in the ‘set-up’ with twin babies, Aisha really couldn’t fathom.

Both boys were lying on their backs in the Moses baskets they kept in the sitting room. Their olive-toned skin and dark eyes captivated visiting midwives, who always asked about their heritage. With a pure Jamaican mother and a white British father, and now a white British girlfriend, Aisha knew she would have to be answering such questions for the foreseeable future.

Martina’s repeated three-rap knock brought Aisha out of her daydream, as she had been lying on the sofa and had almost nodded off completely again. Martina never rang the doorbell, which was another consideration on Aisha’s mother’s part, this time for the babies, who, despite being more than used to the noise that went on in the house day and night, Martina believed would awaken at the loud trill. Charley wrote jingles in the converted basement, so there was always music playing and plenty of people arriving day and night. Charley’s home-based work also meant that Aisha had an extra pair of hands, should she need to ask. Although she rarely did. Charley had taken a couple of weeks off in the beginning, but now, six weeks in, it was just Aisha, and these regular visits from her mum. Aisha was trying to get used to doing things on her own, but in these recent weeks, she had never been more grateful that Martina lived just over a mile away.

‘So, girl, what’s happening?’ All five foot eleven inches of Martina stepped into the hallway as her daughter opened the door. She wiped her feet, took her coat off and hung it neatly on the coat stand. She patted the tight curls that she liked to wear short these days. A few beads of sweat were glistening around Martina’s forehead, and for some reason, Aisha thought of a halo of an angel.

Aisha realised she was staring at her mum when Martina asked again what was happening… Maybe a few months ago, Aisha would have some bit of news or gossip that she could have shared with her mum, and they could have gnawed over it together for half an hour, but the fact that Aisha had barely even walked down the street in the last six weeks meant that she had nothing of value to bring to her mother’s attention. Well, nothing that she felt she wanted to share with her right now, knowing it would only worry her.

Martina had her bag by her feet. It was always packed with goodies for Aisha’s house that Martina had picked up at the Jamaican store in town – those shops were one of the reasons Aisha was glad her mum had remained in Brixton and not followed her to Clapham. Martina was part of a strong community back in Brixton, and Aisha would hate for her mother to be without it. Aisha looked longingly at the bag, which she knew Martina would unpack later in the kitchen, giving Aisha a full inventory as she did so, but for now, she would want to see the twins.

‘Oh, Mum. Nothing is happening. We’re in the fourth trimester – I told you, we’re just chilling.’

Martina, who was almost as broad as she was tall, also had a large chest, which had nursed three babies of her own, Aisha included, and two nephews. Aisha felt her mother’s ample bosom brush against her shoulder as she squeezed past her in the tiny hallway, and it only served to remind her of her own failures as a mother because she had not been able to breastfeed the twins. Martina squeezed Aisha’s shoulder on her way past into the lounge, as though she could read her thoughts. She left behind her the strong smell of her vanilla perfume, and it took Aisha back to a memory of years before when her mum was standing at the stove stirring vanilla custard at their small house in Brixton when she was about ten years old. It was a bittersweet memory, because it had also been only a few hours before that her father had left, on the premise of going out to grab the morning paper. Martina had looked at the clock all day, wringing a tea towel between her hands. Eventually, she had pulled out a huge pot, filled it with two pints of milk and Bird’s custard powder and began stirring.

With the smell of vanilla custard lingering in the hallway whenever Martina arrived, Aisha was perpetually reminded of her father leaving. A strange dichotomy she had yet to overcome.

Martina strode boldly into the lounge. Aisha’s house was such a contrast to the squashed, busy Brixton house that had smelled constantly of cinnamon, sugar and chips – the sort of smell you got at a fairground. There had been a lot of frying in their kitchen when Aisha was young. Growing up around so much food and then working in restaurants her whole life, it was a wonder she wasn’t as big as a house. Aisha’s three-bedroom home was also a terrace – she had still wanted to feel the intimacy of neighbours on either side – but without the busy feel of her cousins and neighbours’ kids trawling in and out all day. Aisha had done each room immaculately in Farrow & Ball paint and quirky wallpaper, which had made Martina do a funny squinting thing with her eye. All the floorboards were salvaged wood and were covered with giant rugs, and original fireplaces adorned the two reception rooms. Aisha was proud of the work she had done, with the help of a friend from uni who ran his own decorating business. It had been the huge distraction she’d needed after she finished at the Greek restaurant where she had been the manager before she took maternity leave. Whenever Aisha felt bereft and out of control, she cast her mind back to the process of decorating each room over the course of those weeks, then she felt calm again. She tried not to dwell too much on how good she had felt having that project to pour all her energy into. It had been so satisfying because even though she had been heavily pregnant and unable to settle well at night, the days were filled with tasks that could get ticked off so she could see the final results.

She wished she could feel the same sense of satisfaction when she was with her sons, but there was no final goal in sight, and by midday she always felt as though she were ready to just write the day off.

Aisha had the blinds closed over slightly; it had been another lazy morning that may have turned into a lazy afternoon had Martina not shown up.

‘What, you mean, “doin’ nothin’”? When I was your age, I had three of you running around, plus your cousins, and what’s this fourth tri—whacha keep callin’ it?’ Martina said firmly but in a hushed tone in case the boys were sleeping. Which they weren’t. They were ready for a feed.

Aisha blew out a breath, picked up Otis out of his Moses basket. She could tell the difference between the two instantly, even when they were sleeping, because Otis’s eyes sloped more at the edges, whereas Jude’s were slightly rounder.

‘Fourthtrimester, Mum. It means for the first few months of a baby’s life, they still think they are in the womb, so we’re trying to replicate that feeling of just being here with them.’

‘I see, just a shame you couldn’t give them your own milk.’

Aisha looked down solemnly. She had desperately wanted to try breastfeeding, there was no denying that, but the second the babies slid out of her, she panicked. And then the juggling of the two of them just didn’t come as naturally as she had hoped. And then the milk just wouldn’t come. She was still mourning the loss of what could have been a beautiful journey, and now hid behind the excuse that she and Charley wanted the feeding of the babies to be a shared experience.

‘But, that’s something I can say I did not do – two at once! You be fine, girl – bottle not gonna do the babies no harm, neither.’ Aisha accepted the half compliment; she knew it was the best she would get from her mother, hardened by the sudden disappearance of her father and raising of her own babies and two of her sisters’ babies alone. Martina’s sister, Lula had suffered ‘the darkness’ after her babies were born; a common mental state of mind amongst many of the mothers in Brixton. Luckily, in a tight-knit community, there were always women like Martina to step in – someone who was already suffering her own loss and tragedy somehow drew from her reserves to help. When Martina was doing such a selfless act for others, it would have been heartless for Aisha to try to explain to her mum how she had felt back then. How a sort of gaping hole had opened up where the extra time for cuddles and listening had been handed over to her auntie’s children, and without a father to step in, it hadn’t closed. But she had grown up to love those children like her own brothers, so Aisha could never complain of being lonely in that sense. It was a different sort of loneliness she had experienced then, and one that still seeped through now and then. But she didn’t want to talk to either Charley or Martina about how that strange nagging feeling in the pit of her tummy she experienced as a child – when she had worried constantly since the day her father had left – was back.

And the reason she didn’t want to mention it was because she didn’t understand it. It was clear why she had those feelings back then – Martina’s time and patience were suddenly stretched from three kids to five overnight. But this feeling, here, now, didn’t make sense. It wasn’t in the right context for a start. Where was the real fear factor? She had Charley, who adored her and the boys, a mum, who may have been strict when they were young, but was trying to make up for it now with her time and love for her grandsons. The house she and Charley had bought was all finished, so even when there was a certain amount of mess in the house, it didn’t look too grim against the backdrop of the smart walls and minimal furniture. There was nothing – other than the incessant wails of two babies that generally needed tending to at the same time, day and night – that should be stressing her out. Charley had said if things began to feel as though they were getting on top of her, she would organise a cleaner to come over.A cleaner?Aisha had thought. She wasn’t sure that someone dusting around her and the boys would help with the tightening of her gut. So why, with pretty much all the boxes ticked, did she sometimes feel as though she was about to topple off the edge of the world?

Aisha pulled Otis onto her lap and picked up one of the bottles she had warmed and brought through earlier.

Jude began his soft mewling, which intensified with every second.

Martina began talking softly to Jude, and Aisha watched in wonder as he seemed to become hypnotised by Martina’s voice, which had now morphed into a sweet lullaby. Jude’s calming synched with the end of Otis’s feed and so the two women made the seamless transaction of the twins so Aisha could begin feeding Jude. She was slowly but surely getting used to managing everything by herself, with only a little bit of help from her mum. She would do this feed, maybe have a little tidy-up and make her and her mum a coffee, then it would be time to do it all again.

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