Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner

by Kristen Bailey

  He hangs up and takes a breath. ‘Are you sure you’re in labour?’

  ‘What?’ I know what Meg and Emma would have said. She was always a nightmare on her period, this may be her hypochondriac tendencies coming into play.

  ‘Emma said that it’s early to be…’

  ‘Seriously, you can all piss off.’

  ‘OK. Emma told me to get a midwife. I’m going to leave you for just a second. Do you want music?’

  I nod. That much I know. We devoted evenings to preparing this playlist in preparation: ‘Labour of Love’. Music is a shared love of Will’s and mine that the baby needs to inherit or else we will disown him. We have played him everything in our indie lockers; we explained that trance and house are two very different genres; we experimented with classical and rock and punk because we want a child who has edge too. I’ve even decided to birth him in a Kings of Leon T-shirt. If we play our cards right, this child will end up being an international hit-producing DJ or the next John Lennon. Will sets up my phone and carefully inserts two AirPods into my ears. It’s some jazz. Jazz is calming. ‘Jaaaaazzzz,’ I say in a lilting voice. It’ll do. He does some curtain twitching while I feign impending death.

  ‘Go, find someone.’

  I climb into the bed and curl into a ball. It’s like someone’s throwing weights at my stomach, like fire enveloping my nerves. I whimper and suck air through my teeth. Right, let’s put those NCT classes to some use: a house on a beach, palm trees and warm summer breezes, the sun shining, waves lilting on the sand – and deep, gut-wrenching spasms pounding my stomach and punching into me like a double-decker bus. I try to gain perspective: this is surely not the worst of it – the midwife said with inductions it could be a wait of up to two days. Two days of this? Breathe. Pain means the baby is coming and he will be with us soon.

  Crapping mother of tits, that stings. My beach house has been enveloped by an upsurge of liquid magma. Jazz can piss off. Next up on the playlist, Boney M., ‘Daddy Cool’. That’s some bassline. I hum it out loud but assume a position on the bed on all fours, rocking to that beat like I’m a small bucking donkey. Christ alive, this is horrific. So horrific I yell. Kate and Rob next door stop chattering to eavesdrop. The curtain opens and Will stands there a little confused to see me in the table-top position. I pull him close, retch repeatedly and throw up on him. He looks down at his new trainers, trying not to care. My knuckles turn a lighter shade of pale clutching my metal bedstead. A girl stands there who looks like she’s here to wash my hair and sweep the clippings off the floor.

  ‘The midwife will be with you in a minute,’ she whispers. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I glare at Will. Is this girl medically trained? How old is she? I want ID.

  ‘I think, I think I’m in labour…’

  She shakes her head and reassures me that it will probably be a while yet. I glance at her badge: Maternity labour assistant trainee breastfeeding clinic girl. I nod and smile, shooing her away like a pigeon.

  ‘When I die, can you make sure our baby learns to be kind? Make sure he appreciates the outdoors. And Stevie Wonder, play him Stevie.’

  I hope Will heard that. Maybe he needs to write it down. He mops my brow and tries to kiss me but I can’t even feel it. A dentist could be pulling out my molars now and I wouldn’t feel it compared to the volcano that is my abdomen.

  ‘Don’t give the baby a stupid name either. Everyone will think he’s a tosser.’ I wince. Will furrows his brow at me. I am jibber jabbering away which is my default setting when angry or stressed. Usually he solves this with chocolate and leaves the room. I can see the thoughts whirring around his head. I am pretty sure this is not death.

  ‘I’ll make sure our baby isn’t a tosser.’

  The curtain moves again and this time it’s Maggie, who twitches her eyebrows at the sight of the blood. She hoists my legs up in the air and examines my nether regions.

  ‘Daddy, can you just push the button to the left of the bed, please?’

  The button? That’s the emergency button. Aren’t you supposed to push that if my heart’s stopped? Will does as he’s told and looks at me, panicked. Another wave of pain strikes me and I bellow out some feral crescendo through the ward. Wolves in London Zoo howl back in reply.

  ‘Yup, Mummy. Looks like that gel worked quicker than we thought. We’re about seven centimetres dilated at the minute. Let’s get you moved into a room on the labour ward,’ she says, trying to contain her concern.

  ‘I can’t be. It hasn’t been two days yet.’

  ‘Babies don’t work to schedules, love.’

  Baby. Now? I look into Will’s glassy eyes, tears on standby, trying to keep up as he skids around in a puddle of my vomit. Shit, it really is time. I feel Will’s hand in mine, fingers squeezed down to the bone. I squeeze back. It’s a flurry of activity as they adjust the bed and start to wheel me out of here. Kate and Rob look over at us, ashen. I’m sure your birth will be much different. There will be candles and stuff. Not like this visceral slanging match I’m having with my own body.

  We stop at a lift. All fours worked before, so I take off the sheets covering my nether regions and try to rearrange myself, baying like a wounded deer, my bulbous arse and much more staring at the face of the porter. This is how farm animals birth and they always look fairly unaffected by the process, I tell myself. Will and the midwife wrangle me down.

  ‘Let’s leave that move for upstairs, Mummy.’

  Who is Mummy? Oh, that’s me. I’m a mummy? Everything is a bustle of strip light, a metal-clad service elevator, nosy onlookers, orange curtains. We suddenly stop. I see Crocs and retch again.

  A man with blond hair smiles at me. ‘Hi! I’m—’

  But the pain charges through me and I arch my back, trying to get off the bed to better position myself.

  ‘Whoa! Careful. If you break your arm, how are you going to hold your new baby?’

  At this moment, I’d wear him on my back like a monkey for all I care. Blondie can see my reticence for polite chit-chat, spreads my legs and gloves up, chatting to Maddie from downstairs. Will, who would normally be more protective about who looks at his lady’s private areas, has a look too and they all rub their chins like they’re figuring out the best way to tackle a blocked drain. Blondie looks up.

  ‘Alright, this baby wants out.’

  ‘DRUGS!’ I say with some force.

  I’m handed a mouthpiece. I bite down on it and I inhale. Not even inhale, I suck that stuff in like crack. Man, this is good shit. It numbs everything for a small moment and takes my focus elsewhere. I love Will. I really do. I love Blondie here too. I take a couple more hits, wondering why this isn’t sold in supermarkets. They need to sell this part of labour far more.

  ‘OK, so I can see the head and I need you to concentrate on pushing. No more gas and air.’

  I pout. Will laughs as he tries to prise the mouthpiece from my hands.

  ‘Mine!’ I bark back at him. ‘I’m not sharing this shit. Get your own.’

  ‘Beth, do what the nice man asked…’

  ‘No.’

  Will is forced to wrestle me, which is excellent preparation for fathering a toddler. He releases my fingers from the mouthpiece and transfers them to his hand.

  ‘You can do this, B.’

  I suddenly feel pressure. I push and grunt against the flood of pain with every ounce of reason, sweat and gumption I have, waiting for my body to respond. We’re doing this, aren’t we? Just summon something up and push like a motherfucker, right?

  I push.

  And push.

  And push.

  And is that the baby?

  No. I think that was an actual poo. Was it? To be fair, I couldn’t give a flying fajita right now. I’m just glad I’m not in a bath. Will keeps whispering clichés about pride and love. I inhale some Will instead. He smells fruity. Like jelly babies.

  ‘You need to push down,’ Blondie informs me.

  I give him an incredul
ous look, wondering how else I could have indeed been pushing. Up? Sideways? Wait. What in the living daylight of fuck is that? Stinging. What exactly am I giving birth to? A traffic bollard? A watermelon?

  Puuuuuuuuuush. A head. The head is out. Blondie asks if I want to touch it but I’m a little scared. And it’s crying. I have a crying head hanging out of my foof. I close my eyes and pretend I’m tired and in a deep state of concentration because I’m too ashamed to admit that I don’t want to acknowledge my own baby’s head. All I can hear is ritualistic chanting about pushing. Part of me wants to tell them to piss off, part of me just wants to meet this baby. I opt for the latter. I bear all my energy through the lower half of my body, ready to propel myself off the bed, my teeth gritted so tightly I feel they might pop out like broken tiles. Where are my legs? I didn’t know they could stretch that far apart? My stomach contorts and I feel a strange fish-like presence gliding out of me.

  ‘Congratulations. And we have a boy.’

  I don’t look down. I lie back, hearing a full-bellied scream as his little lungs fill with air.

  Relief. We’re OK. He’s here. They push him up on top of me and perch him on my chest, gift-wrapped in a yellow NHS blanket.

  ‘Hello,’ I whisper.

  He doesn’t reply. It’s a really, really little person. Tiny. He has eyes and ears and toes and everything. I do a swift digit check, because that’s what they do on the television. All accounted for. He nestles into my T-shirt which I take as approval for guitar music. Good lad. He stuffs his whole hand in his mouth and stares straight into my eyes. Hello.

  I await the love to overwhelm me, my world to change. Yet all I feel is slightly confused. Blondie is clambering about with injections, placentas and cutting cords. ‘Well done. Now there’s a tear that I’ll have to fix up. Can you hoist your legs open or do you need stirrups?’

  I’ve pushed a baby out; I can take on the world. Without stirrups. I swing my legs up in the air like a showgirl. The little one still stares at me like he wants me to claim ownership. I’m knackered. The anaesthetic stings. I keep saying ‘hello,’ not really knowing how to follow that up.

  Then I look over at the corner of the delivery room where Will has been taking cover. Eyes glazed over, cheeks moist, both hands on top of his head. I reach out a hand and he comes over to inspect his son. He nestles into me and kisses the baby’s head, grimacing as he realises our son is still covered in baby goo. We’re both maniacally speechless.

  ‘I’m your midwife,’ says Blondie. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself.’

  ‘I’m Beth and this is Will. I’m sorry I shouted.’

  ‘I’ve had worse. And what about bubba here?’

  ‘Just Baby Cooper for now.’

  ‘Well, I’m Joe.’

  Midhusband Joe continues to talk from in between my arched legs. His face and the giant lamp down there are slightly disconcerting, like he’s mining for something.

  ‘You did well there, Beth. Some inductions can be brutal like that but A-class pushing if ever I saw it. This is quite a tear but we will sort you out.’

  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 an
d 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.