Page 6 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
I don’t want to envisage what that looks like and frankly, I don’t care. The relief that the pain is gone is everything. Instead, I beam. I did that.
Will perches on the bed beside his family.
Family.We are family. I should sing. I don’t.
The screaming has subsided. Perfect silence. A bizarre concoction of feelings overcome me: I can feel the adrenalin thrusting through my veins, pride at the marvels of my female biology, disbelief at the speed of everything. Pure shock. I can’t quite believe my little body-popping foetus is here in my arms. Someone call my sisters.Hello. Again.However, I can’t help wanting to ask if this is what he should look like. Is this normal? He has a cone-shaped head, wrinkles and masses of encrusted, flaky skin, lots of colours shining through like a fresh bruise. He even has nails, like tiny claws. He looks annoyed. Not necessarily happy to see me.This is Will, he’s Dad. I’m your mum.I try and stare him out.
‘So, I am done,’ whispers Joe. He takes off his gloves and gives his work a look like one would a freshly plastered wall. ‘Tea?’ Will and I eye him curiously. Tea is, strangely, the answer here. We nod. Joe looks at this tableau of new family and smiles. I am sure he has many an icebreaker for situations like these.Congratulations. How does it feel? He’s beautiful. You had a baby! Nice one!He looks down at our baby and then back to me.
‘He looks just like you.’
Track One
‘Always Like This’ – Bombay Bicycle Club (2009)
‘Joey, Joe-Joe, Joooooeee. Go to sleep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeease. I’m so tirrrred. So tired my eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaaaat.’
My baby looks up at me like I have finally lost the plot.Those were song lyrics? Those were terrible. They didn’t even rhyme. The melody was shocking. Baby Joe. We lie here together, my face buried in a baby playmat. 4.11 a.m. says my phone. I think the only time I’ve ever been up this early pre-motherhood was after an all-night bender or to catch a cheap flight. I let Joe nestle into my body, hoping my body odour won’t suffocate him. Why is this playmat damp? I’ve either drooled or Joe has pissed himself. Or maybe I’ve pissed myself. I’m so tired I’m not even sure if urine has left my body.
For everything they say about motherhood, nothing can prepare you for the mind-bending, dizzying energy drain that is the exhaustion you feel in those twilight moments when your baby has their midnight feed and they won’t go back to sleep. This is not mentioned on the websites, the manuals, the podcasts. Sleep when they sleep? BUT THE BABY NEVER SLEEPS, no matter what you do. You feed it some more, you clean its tiny bum, you sway and jiggle and rock and sing. Badly. Odd nonsensical songs. You’ll even run a bath and consider going to sit on a night bus or starting a clothes wash so you have something nearby that might, just might vibrate the wee thing into a slumber. Instead, your child looks at you, all wide-eyed:It’s not sleep time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life, entertain me, lady. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING.
Except he doesn’t say this because he can’t talk. He’ll just stare at you and you have no idea what’s going on in his little head. And no one tells you how there’ll be a point where you cry out, exasperated, frustrated into a room, drowned of light, ‘Please just fricking sleep.’ They don’t tell you about the guilt that then comes from saying those words out loud. You believe you’re a truly terrible parent, so you hold the baby closer and apologise softly. I wish someone had told me about those times.
And I wish someone had told me about the endless nights and days, all merging into one. I’ve stared at a hanging cuddly donkey, a wall, a screen, a sliver of sky, not really processing whether it’s three in the afternoon or the morning. Am I asleep? Am I tired? Am I conscious? What time is it? I had a baby? When did I order this coffee? Why is there food in my mouth? The television is on? That’s nice. Time ticks on. This lethargic catatonia is both curious and alien but somehow, you get through every day.
The baby cries, he grows, he drinks, he poos, you clean him, you comb his soft baby hair into a comb-over, he sleeps, he wakes. You live in a universe of messy buns, nursing bras and stained trackies, of moisturising your nipples instead of your face. A universe littered with trips to the supermarket, the health centre, the park, where you both sit in the fresh air and the little one looks in wonder at this big blue stuff above him and you sit there doing bad baby maths.When did he last eat? When did I last eat? Is it Tuesday?
I smell the dampness. It’s wee. I sit up and pull the changing mat out from beside the sofa. He is soaked through – I didn’t tuck his willy in when I last changed him so it’s sprayed in some upward motion and drenched his clothes. This is why girls are better than boys. There’s no way we can pee upwards unless you attach a hose to us. He smiles as I change him. I always smile back. He looks like a tiny comedy bear, with hazel eyes that turn overcast and grey when he’s sad. Does he understand that he’s a miniature time lord who has me questioning my whole existence? By the way he’s studying my boobs, I’m thinking not.
He’s less comedy, more grizzly bear tonight as he emits a noise that’s not quite a cry, not quite a moan. I mimic the noise and he stops momentarily as if he knows I’m mocking him. Maybe it’s wind. People don’t talk enough about wind. I used to see babies being given milk and then delicately being laid down to sleep. No, wind is the enemy, Meg tells me. You feed your baby but if he closes his eyes, you wake that little bugger up. You force him to take another boob so you’re not too lopsided but you sit him up and pat him on the back like you’re performing some sort of first aid manoeuvre on him. I do that but all it does is add another level of sound to his grizzle, like a helicopter is coming in to land.
‘I bought an experimental dance record that sounded like that once. On vinyl.’ Will stands in the doorway to our bedroom, wearing just his spotty boxer shorts. It’s late summer so his brown mass of hair is unkempt and sweaty, sticking to his forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘You’ve got work, just get back to sleep.’
He looks at me. The muggy summer night air has made me abandon all sense of fashion and self-respect so I’m just in a large pair of knickers, a vest top and my maternity bra, into which I’ve tied a muslin that smells vaguely of sour milk and body odour. I tie the muslins to me now like some rosette of motherhood so I know they’re always near. Will comes over and puts a hand to my cheek.
‘You look a state,’ he mumbles.
‘Charmer. You’re supposed to say I look radiant and mother-like.’
‘Like Madonna?’
‘The religious icon or the pop star legend?’
‘Well, you don’t look like either.’
I shake my head and allow him to take Joe while I collapse onto the sofa.
‘Hey, little man? What’s going on here then?’ he says.
There is a look of recognition from Joe but still the grizzle. I can’t fall asleep now. We have to do this together as a show of commitment and support. This sofa has never been more comfortable though. I wish it would swallow my face.
‘Sometimes I think we used to party so hard that it became part of Joe’s genes? Maybe it’s part of his constitution to be able to stay up so late?’ Will whispers.
I smile. ‘You mean he’s a born raver? It’s in his blood?’
‘He is our child. I only hope he’s inherited the best parts of us.’
