Page 119 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
Will twirls Joe around a few times and he giggles and kicks his legs in the air.
‘We should get a picture of us. Of our first Christmas together,’ Will suggests.
‘Here?’
‘Good a place as any?’
He whips out his phone, pulling a surprised face which makes Joe and I laugh, and he snaps the picture. He shows it to me. I look drunk, all teeth. Old shoes and a buggy are in the background against the peeling paint on the walls and the holly wreath that Paddy hangs on his door. Errant hairs sprout out from my hairline and I think that might be a bogey stuck up one of Will’s nostrils.
‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Delete.’
‘Never,’ he says, kissing me on the forehead. ‘It’s perfect.’
Epilogue – Six months later
‘Hey Joe’ – The Jimi Hendrix Experience (1967)
Motherhood. So everyone tells you to buy a crap load of muslins, how your boobs grow to the shape of generous honeydews, the teething, the nappy rash, the wind, but they never tell you about other mothers. Christ alive, they are bloody everywhere. People pop babies out like Pringles and you know what, no one is getting it right. If anyone says they are, then they are lying to you because I will bet you that there are times when they’ve been standing in a dark room at three in the morning, pondering what day it is, asking whether they’re the only people in the world who are awake, and questioning whether that smell is them or the baby.
Will and I are currently standing in a hospital ward, taken back to that time when I pushed Joe out. I was awful. I’m told there was a lot of next-level swearing and I had to buy chocolate for everyone on the ward by way of apology. This is not the same ward but there’s everyone from the pregnants who tread the corridors clutching toiletry bags, to fresh mums who sit in beds with their bras on show, drooling into pillows, their complexions flushed, hair pulled back, wearing new pyjama bottoms that cover up all horror of paper knickers, giant sanitary wear and freshly carved C-section wounds.
‘I want all the drugs, Richard. My boobs feel like they’re on fucking fire.’
I don’t know where that voice comes from but, Richard, give the lady what she wants. Give all these ladies everything they want. They all deserve medals, respect, lots of chocolate and to watch as much crap TV as their soon-to-be tired hearts will require. A couple toddle past trying to get a baby moving out of its cosy womb-home.
‘I remember doing that,’ Will says, like I may have forgotten.
‘All you did was buy the Magnums.’
‘And look how well they worked? That’s why Joe is so sweet,’ he says, squidging his cheeks.
‘Or nuts.’
Will wrestles Joe in his arms. He walks now and no one warned us about this either. That suddenly, he’s fleeing us in all directions, grabbing stuff, claiming his independence and freedom. He’s a bloody unpredictable dynamo of a child, nothing is safe. I mean, still edible but just like a constantly moving escape artist. Will puts him down on the floor and he punches his dad in the nuts and then runs off. To where, who knows?
‘She’s ready now,’ a midwife says, approaching us. Will scoops up Joe as we go through to the ward we need. It’s visiting hours so there are many a grandparent and helium balloon in the vicinity. They all stand around Perspex cots housing tiny babies that look like well-wrapped shawarma. We get to a closed curtain and I peek my head around.
‘Hey.’
Yasmin doesn’t say a word. Her baby lies there in her arms and she sits there cross-legged in jersey joggers and a vest, her hair tied into a perfect plait.
‘You cow. You’re not supposed to look so well.’
I remember that first day in the hospital. Photos confirm that I looked hungover and extremely bloated. I go over to hug her and inspect the newborn. She has a little rosebud mouth and lashings of caramel-coloured hair.
‘Oh, she’s beautiful, Yas.’
‘That she is,’ adds Will. ‘Congrats.’
Yasmin waves at Joe, who pulls a face back at her. ‘“Well” might be an overstatement. Underneath it all, it’s a bit of a car crash.’
Will’s eyes scan the room wondering if he needs to hear any more detail.
‘And feeding is weird. We’ve had to move on to bottles. I don’t know if it’s the right thing. Does it feel like my milk’s coming in?’
I reach over and press my hand to one of her breasts. ‘It’ll come. Don’t worry, there’s no right answer. Do whatever gives you greater peace of mind.’ I pull a present out of my bag. It’s muslins. I’m passing on that wisdom, at least.
She smiles. ‘Thank you. And I didn’t forget – I posted Joe’s present before I came in here. Happy birthday, little man.’
