Page 13 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Harsh.’
‘But true.’
Track Three
‘Too Young’ – Phoenix (2000)
I can’t quite remember why we moved to Surbiton. Will and I both knew we wanted to stay in South London to be near family but that we also needed somewhere commutable and within budget. This suburb is the place where people come to shed the skins of their young selves and grow up. Before here, we’d been in Brixton which was once up-and-coming and trendy but through the eyes of parents-to-be suddenly looked unsafe and polluted. So we begged, borrowed and ploughed our minimal finances into our flat in this leafy commuter belt and we got it at a bargain price given it hadn’t been renovated since the seventies. This didn’t faze us. It was retro, a style statement. We could peel back the shag pile and do some of the work ourselves. Except we didn’t have any money left. So the shag pile and the avocado bathroom suite stayed. And instead of cool cafés and bars that served trance with their cocktails, we now drink at sensible pubs that play Adele and give you crayons so you can help your little ones colour in their menus.
‘Bitter shandy, a lemonade for the lady and two fish and chips,’ Paddy tells the barman. We’ve opted for one of the pubs on the high street. It’s not one of those newfangled wine bars that serves sweet potato substitutes. Paddy is in the mood for chunky chips which is another reason he’s an ally.
‘What are you having, Joe?’ he asks.
‘Vodka tonic?’ I suggest.
The barman is a serious sort so doesn’t take too kindly to the joke. He glares at Joe almost as a warning that he’s not allowed to cry in here or he’ll bar him. Paddy smiles as he goes to retrieve our drinks.
‘Ignore this fool, go get us a table, pet,’ he mumbles.
I smile. I do love a pub but they are alien places to me these days. Now I come equipped with a buggy, bags and a small human who may at any given moment explode with poo, cry or demand food. Leaving the house, therefore, always puts me slightly on edge.
Negotiating the pub, I find us a table by the window (hitting a row of bar stools as I do) and park the buggy next to us. Joe looks around.Where are we now? This is new? It’s not the supermarket or our front room.I’ve made an effort with him in his best baby jeans but see that he’s lost a sock somewhere. I spot my reflection in a nearby window. Christ on a bike, who’s that bird? I looked vaguely presentable in my bathroom mirror. I put in some dry shampoo, slicked my hair back into a bun, threw on some mascara and found a maxi dress that covered my bumpy, misshapen body. I thought I had a sleek minimalist mother look to me. I don’t. Why does this dress suddenly look like a holiday kaftan? Why am I so sweaty? I try and blot the worst of it off with Joe’s muslin.
There’s a strange clientele in here today: the people sitting around us seem to be single, older men drinking away their sorrows. One table away are a group of people in some sort of meeting; they’re well heeled and engage in animated chat over a sharing platter that involves cured meats and calamari. Why does this feel so strange? Maybe because I won’t be drinking. Or maybe it’s because I just want to curl up on this bench and have a nap. Paddy approaches and puts our drinks down.
‘Love, I ordered you some mushy peas too.’
I smile. The truth is I don’t like mushy peas but now I breastfeed, I eat everything. My appetite knows no bounds. No one told me this was a side effect of breastfeeding to the point where I can smell the calamari on the other table and am thinking about ways I can brush past the table and steal a piece.
‘Is the pub OK? I didn’t know. I think it’s nice. The murals are a bit wanky but I can look past them,’ he says.
‘It’s fine. So tell me, what else have you done today?’
‘Apart from bridge, I went up to Betty’s grave. That was nice.’Don’t cry, Beth.‘And spoke to my boys on the phone but you know how it is, they’re working and I didn’t want to trouble them.’
I put my hand on his. ‘I’m sure they know today means a lot. You’re wearing your wedding ring, I’ve never noticed that before.’
‘I’ve always worn it. Never taken it off.’
I tear up slightly.
‘Just shows how observant you are,’ Paddy jokes.
‘I miss most things. I’ve just had a baby.’
‘Crap excuse.’
Before I can retort, a flurry of women exit what looks like a function room to the side of the bar. I recognise two of them and they clock me immediately, looking a little embarrassed.
‘Caroline, Nas… Hi!’ I say reluctantly.
‘Oh, Beth…’
Both Caroline and Nas were in my NCT group, another bizarre ritual of early parenthood, where I was expected to be the best version of me and attach myself to others with babies, while in reality I was at my physical and mental worst.Hi, I’m Beth and this is Joe. He is a baby. You also have a baby. Let’s be friends forever.NCT was supposed to be the perfect way to make fellow parental friends. Let’s sit in this community hall, our chairs in a circle, set up like we’re about to either chat addiction issues, pray or play musical chairs. And let’s get our bumps out and discuss the impending excitement of parenthood. Except our group never really gelled. Will and I knew why. After years of IVF, Caroline didn’t take too lightly to the fact our pregnancy wasn’t planned. That said, we also didn’t quite take to her husband, who spent most of those classes buttering up Will to do free architectural consultation work on their converted rectory house. Also, when Nas hosted a coffee morning in her five-bedroom detached house with a kitchen bigger than our whole actual flat, we knew they were out of our league.Could you imagine them coming to ours?Will said.People would have to spread out and sit on our bed.
The rest of the parents were just a strange mix of individuals: a really young mum who was nineteen, who came with her mum and Snapchatted constantly through the sessions, and then there was Alison who was fifty-five. She already had three kids, the youngest of which was fifteen. She was going through the menopause so had been attending some acupuncture sessions, the side effects of which were increased fertility and thus she got knocked up. Alison knew more than the NCT tutor but I especially liked how her and her husband would sit there mumbling about how they’d thought they were done with this shit.You wait until the baby’s teething, and it then starts throwing tantrums, won’t eat anything and will speak more to people on YouTube than it will to you.And you used to see half of the mums clutch their bumps protectively like it’d never happen to them. Will and I thought all these people were nothing like us: too old, too organised, too highly strung, too young, too boring. We used to stride in there thinking we were the cool cats. The baby would just follow us around like a trendy accessory. He wouldn’t even cry because we’d be that laidback. It’s just parenthood, chill out. Yet seeing Caroline and Nas now only reinforces how different our approaches to parenthood really are. They appear so effortless and preened, whereas this is something that doesn’t come to me naturally. Both of them have their babies swathed in slings and are dressed head to toe in exercise wear. Joe eyes them curiously. He is not familiar with this style of dress.
‘You’re both looking really well.’
