Page 13 of Special Delivery
‘What time did Maeve last feed?’ asked her mother. ‘Should we wake her now?’
Poppy blinked. ‘I thought you shouldn’t wake a sleeping baby?’
‘No, no. Babies need to feed constantly in these early days. I’ll wake her now, shall I?’
‘Oh, um …’ Maeve had only been asleep for an hour. That didn’t seem excessive.
‘Best wake her now,’ her mum said, beelining for the capsule.
‘Ah …’ Poppy didn’t know what to say. She’d only been a mum for seventy-two hours; it wasn’t like she was an expert. ‘Okay.’
Her daughter’s cry was a wavering bleat. As her mother brought her over, Poppy unclipped her maternity bra with clumsy fingers.
‘She’s latching wrong,’ Chrissie observed, hovering over them. ‘Don’t do it like that or her nose will be covered and she’ll suffocate.’
‘The midwives didn’t mention that.’
‘Oh, they’re too distracted. Understaffed. Move your arm like this …’ She pulled Poppy’s elbow to an awkward angle. ‘There, that’s better.’
It wasn’t better. It felt completely unnatural. Her upper arm immediately began to ache.
‘So,’ said her mother briskly, ‘what do you want to do after the feed? I’ve already changed her bed linen in the nursery. I thought cotton would be better on her skin. Do you want a sleep, or do you want to watch that Diane Keaton movie I was telling you about? Or I could whip something up for dinner? You’ll be needing some iron. How about some chops?’
Poppy’s forehead creased wearily. Could someone else decide?
Her dad patted her arm kindly. ‘You need to take advantage of this, Poppy. Soon her grandparent hormones will fade and she’ll be back at golf.’
‘Paul! I’ve already told Poppy I’ll always be available to help with the baby … just not between nine and one on Mondays and Wednesdays.’
Poppy and her dad glanced at each other and smiled.
‘What?’ demanded Chrissie. ‘A woman needs a hobby. Don’t pretend you want me home twenty-four seven, Paul!’
‘Of course not!’ said her dad quickly, winking at Poppy. ‘Golf all you want, darling.’
‘Well, Mum, if you’re wanting to do something …’ Poppy paused, chewing her lip. ‘Do you think you could help me, um …?’
Her mother looked confused.
‘I know it’s stupid, and if you don’t want to go out in this heat I completely understand, it’s just … I don’t really know how I’d take Maeve outside and, well, I’ve only breathed hospital air for the last few days. So … will you help me … go for a walk?’
Chrissie laughed, clapping her hands. ‘Of course, darling! Gosh, I thought you might need help going to the toilet, or need me to check your bits or something. A walk I can certainly do. Although,’ her mother’s smile abruptly faded, ‘don’t go poking around your bits without me. We don’t want a hand-held mirror getting stuck up there.’
On his stool at the kitchen bench, her dad covered his ears.
The neenish tarts disappeared even faster than anticipated, and fifty minutes later—after a breastfeed, a nappy change and some tense moments connecting the bassinet to the pram frame—they were ready to go. Poppy’s dad settled himself onto her second-hand couch and flicked on the cricket while her mum opened the door and Poppy eased the pram outside, a muslin cloth protecting Maeve from the sun. Her mum followed them, carrying the fully stocked nappy bag ‘just in case’.
‘I think she needs a singlet,’ Chrissie said for the fortieth time.
‘It’s over thirty degrees, Mum.’
‘Yes, but newborns get so cold. I’ll wait here while you go change her. Make sure you get a hat for yourself too.’
It was stiflingly hot but Poppy’s sluggish brain was not prepared for resistance. She lifted Maeve from the pram and walked back inside like a robot.
As they re-emerged through the front door, her mum smiled, vindicated. ‘Much better.’
The air was warm and heavy with the scent of mown grass as they rolled onto the footpath. The stark afternoon sunlightsharpened every vignette. Maeve’s eyes drifted closed and Poppy yielded to the therapy of the motion. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. There was so much to think about but she was doing her best to avoid thinking at all. Some people strived for mindfulness; Poppy strived for mindlessness. If she reduced everything to its smallest component parts—ignoring the terrifying synergy of it all—she felt less overwhelmed. It was all her brain could cope with right now: left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
