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

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘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.’

  ‘But we have to home this child for at least sixteen years. I can’t have sixteen years of no sleep.’

  ‘When he gets to his teens, it may be more fun. We could have all-night raves as a family?’

  ‘I imagine our teenage son would love that. Us old folk joining in with our whistles, bucket hats and nineties dance moves.’

  Will goes quiet. ‘I’ll be forty-six when he’s sixteen. Shit. That is ancient.’

  He looks a bit perturbed by the fact and runs his hand through his hair. One thing’s for sure, he’ll still have hair at that age. He likes to think his huge, uncontrollable mop makes him look like the lead singer of an indie band but really, it’s starting to look a bit eighties bouffant.

  Will starts pacing the room. ‘What have you tried tonight?’

  ‘Everything. Bit of white noise, wrapping him up like a spring roll, I tried to feed him asleep too.’

  ‘Obviously all worked then.’

  I grab my phone. ‘Siri, list me all the ways to help a baby get to sleep.’

  ‘This is what I found,’ Siri suggests.

  ‘Try lying him down and brushing his eyelids gently in a downward motion,’ I read off some parenting website.

  Will does as he’s told. Joe seems annoyed that we’re touching his eyes. Don’t touch the eyes. His grizzle gets louder. I hear footsteps upstairs from the flat above. Mrs Siddiqui has never openly complained before but she always gives me curious if well-meaning looks on the stairwell as to why I haven’t quite got the hang of motherhood just yet. Sometimes we hear loud footsteps above in the middle of the night as if to inform us we’ve woken her, and make us feel all the guilt.

  ‘Pick him up.’

  Will bundles our baby boy up into his arms and places his head next to his chest. Joe rubs his face against the chest hair wondering if we’ve acquired a new rug.

  ‘OK. There’s also a method where you cradle him and then swing him from side to side in big sweeping motions,’ I say.

  ‘Like I’m swinging a golf club?’

  ‘Yeah but don’t let him go.’

  Will twists his body around, trying to achieve the desired effect. Less golfer, more swinging Jolly Roger pirate ship ride. Joe giggles. I do like that sound. Just not now. Will laughs quietly and holds the baby’s face to his. He comes to sit down next to me and balances Joe on his jiggling knee.

  ‘You don’t have to be up. Get back to sleep,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m up now.’ He glances over at the television. ‘What was this?’

  ‘The Crown.’

  ‘Any good?’

  I shrug. It is most likely very good but I’ve mainly kept the queen on in the background for company. I’m glad she’s found the depth of character and strength to lead our good country, but I bet she never suffered with cracked nipples.

  Will scrolls through Netflix looking for something else to gaze at. I revert back to my phone, where he notices Facebook open.

  ‘What news befalls social media land?’ he asks.

  This was your post from one year ago, Facebook informs me. Would you like to share?

  I show Will my phone. ‘Christ, how was that a year ago?’

  I can see the cogs whirring in Will’s brain trying to do the bad maths. That was from a whole other life. The post was from a music festival. I’m wearing denim cut-offs that I’d struggle to now get past my knees, a white vest top and a straw trilby decorated with daisies. I am drunk – and revelling in that drunkenness. My arms are slung over Will’s shoulders and I am jumping in time to Bombay Bicycle Club’s music without a bloody care in the world, without having to worry whether the contents of my pelvis are going to combust and displace themselves. And I am singing into the late summer sky with a bottle of beer held aloft, getting overly excited about HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS SONG, slightly sweaty and pink but oh so happy and carefree. And braless. Just my B-cup wonders bouncing around, unaware, joyous. We did that exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago. Why does it feel like time has moved at glacial speed this year, and yet also at a rate I’ve not been able to fathom? I take my phone back and start to scroll up.

  ‘Apparently, your brother’s closest celebrity soulmate is Elon Musk,’ I say to Will, filling him in on what else is happening on Facebook. ‘I really needed to know that.’

  Will laughs.

  ‘A bloke I went to college with is angry about dairy farming, funny meme about Trump, promo, things for sale, Lucy posting selfies and wow, remember that girl I went to school with… Karina? She’s having twins – man, that’s four kids under five. How does she look so shiny?’

  I show Will their family picture. There’s a strong theme to her portraiture. She likes a sunset and everyone is wearing white linen. I compare it to a photo Will and I have on our bookshelf that’s a selfie of us in Ibiza. Will’s mouth is open so wide you can see his tonsils.

  Will stares at the picture for a moment. It’s so far from our reality and I can’t even mock it because I’m so tired.

  ‘Don’t ever make me pose for a picture like that.’

  ‘I see you in white linen. Backstreet Boy style.’

  He chuckles. ‘I’d look like a cult leader. Look at her husband. What is he? Finance, I bet.’

  ‘Hedge fund manager.’

  Will has a pained look to his face. It always intrigues him how other people get and keep their money. We try. We save and scrimp but have never been quite able to amass the millions that I suspect Will thinks we should have in our bank accounts now we’re both thirty.

  ‘Move on,’ Will says.

  Joe’s gaze turns to both of us like he’s disappointed in the quality of the conversation. I’m not sure what he wants here. It’s nearly daybreak. He’s not going to get highbrow and interesting with us at this hour. I study his face. He’s all Will, with my eyes. In his moments of cuteness, I think we get each other. I am your mother. You are Joe, my child. But that still feels like a strange thing to say out loud.

  ‘Have we tried any music yet? Some sort of sound bath, meditative shit that could help Joe nod off?’ Will asks.

  ‘I’ve tried whale music. He wasn’t sure about that.’

  ‘What about some nineties chill out? Morcheeba? Air? Groove Armada? Something with a melody at least.’

  I scroll through my phone. Deciding on Groove Armada’s ‘At the River’. A soft beat lulls out of my phone. This was the song that Will and I used to get stoned to. Joe looks at us strangely. These are not nursery rhymes.

  ‘Are his eyes going?’ I ask.

  ‘I think he’s just studying the beat.’

  We sing along in time and he watches us like the saddos we are. We know a lot of lyrics. If nothing, kid, that is our special superpower that we hope to bequeath to you. I mean we don’t harmonise but we know exactly when a bass will drop and all the extra ad libs. Will goes as far as to mimic a trumpet. The song ends and then another suddenly comes up – ‘I See You Baby’. Joe smiles. He likes this one despite the borderline inappropriate lyrics about ass shaking. Will and I resent having to move that bit quicker. But is it working? He suddenly nestles into his dad’s chest. Will’s eyes widen, and he urges me to recline slowly with him onto the sofa. We still continue to mumble the lyrics, laughing that our baby would think this a lullaby. I turn my phone to a different angle and take a picture of the three of us, to capture this moment where, for once, it all seems worth it, it all makes sense. I inspect the photo. Thank God for Joe because Will and I are seriously letting the side down. I am half blinking and Will has a big sleepy grin on him.

  ‘I like that one,’ he says. ‘I look like I’m about to eat him.’

  I laugh
in my delirium. ‘Nope, delete. I look drunk.’

  ‘I wish. Maybe we should put him down,’ Will whispers. We both sink into the sofa.

  ‘Ssssshhh, just hold your position,’ I say.

  ‘I love this song.’

  ‘New favourite.’

  ‘I think he smells of wee.’

  ‘That might be me.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Track Two

  ‘Taper Jean Girl’ – Kings of Leon (2004)

  XS

  S

  M

  L

  I’ve often debated why sizes are labelled to reflect actual size. I know I’m large. I’ve just had a baby and we’ve stretched my body to its capacity and tripled my boob size. But large is a word you use to describe houses, elephants, the biggest thing on the fast-food menu. So my suggestion is that why don’t we describe all sizes by standardised superlative adjectives instead? I’m not Small, I’m Fantastic. And I’m not Large. I’m Fabulous. And when I’m Extra Large, I’m Extra Fabulous. And why do they put the bigger sizes on the lowest shelves? Why am I on all fours like a sweaty dog scouring shelves and trying to work out which one of these black T-shirts will fit across my gargantuan bosoms? I think I might fit one of my boobs into a Small. Stretch is good but it will be revealing. It’ll cling to my many guts. I move across to a ‘slouchy’ style, except it’s a vest with a strange crochet back which will show off my mammoth nursing bra. I look across the rails, at a bigger one which is practically a dress. Yes. I take it off the rails but then see it has a giant Mickey Mouse on the front. I can’t get away with that anymore, can I? So maybe I go for the original stretch T-shirt in XL. Though if I wear these T-shirts with black leggings then with my pale face and lack of ability to make conversation, I’ll look like a mime artist.

  I keep strolling along to the knicker section. My beloved minis have not been my friend recently so I look at what’s available. Do I go full support pants that kind of look like cycling shorts? It’s the summer – that will be sweaty crack territory. I opt for a multipack of boyfriend shorts. Are these sexy? No. How big do I go? I don’t want a baggy knicker but then I don’t want the elastic to cut off my circulation either or for them to leave grid line indentations across my butt cheeks. I laugh out loud at the thongs, thinking about a piece of string devoured by a couple of sizeable burger buns.

  I’m supposed to be here to buy some babygros for Joe, who seems to be getting bigger at the rate of knots. However, my quick in and out has caught me being sucked into trying to also sort my dire clothes situation. I am at that in between stage where none of my old skinny jeans go past my thighs, and I can’t really wear maternity clothes anymore, which is a shame because an added stretchy waistband to a jean is what the world is missing. I also thought it might cheer me up. Obviously, it hasn’t. To feel better, I throw some socks into my bag. At least I haven’t got fat feet. I also throw in a cotton tote bag, a two-pack of leggings and a multipack of stud earrings. Joe looks worried for me. He wriggles in his pram. This store always seems to be warm, no matter the season. I pick him up, his back and head all matted and sweaty, and throw the basket into his seat, doing the impossible move of trying to push, steer and pacify at the same time. I watch as the sales assistant notices me knocking a row of bargain flip flops from their rack. I’m not even going on holiday this year but I throw some of those in. And a hairbrush.

  ‘What else shall we get?’ I ask Joe.

  Nothing? his eyes tell me. A ticket out of here? I suddenly hear my phone ring. I search for it in my cavernous bag, jiggling with Joe on the spot. Lord. Does she really have to call now?

  ‘Mum. How are you?’

  ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘I am tired.’

  ‘Are you out?’

  ‘I’m just grabbing some shopping and a tea.’

  ‘Not caffeine. That’s why Joe’s not sleeping because he’s essentially just drinking tea.’

  I also ate half a packet of Bourbon biscuits before I came out. That would be a perfect cocktail-flavoured drink.

  ‘Try that camomile stuff I gave you.’

  ‘I will, Mum.’ I won’t.

  ‘And when are you next coming round? I want hugs. I could come to you?’

  ‘No! Don’t do that…’

  There’s a toss-up here of what’s the lesser of two evils. Do I haul my arse all the way over to hers on two buses or do I let her come to my place and judge my lack of tidiness? Usually the first thing she does is locate a hoover. I’d also have to clean the toilet and clear the fridge of septic vegetables. There is a pause where I can tell she’s wondering whether to be offended.

  ‘I’ll try and pop by next week? Maybe?’ I say, trying to be as vague as possible.

  ‘Good. Your father will be happy. Won’t you?’ she says to Dad.

  I smile because he’s most likely sitting in his armchair nodding along but not processing the conversation.

  ‘How is Dad?’

  ‘He’s marking. He’s also tired, he taught this morning.’

  I would doubt he’s as hellishly tired as myself, but depends on the year group. This is the one thing I have in common with my folks. I was the only sister who followed both parents into their chosen profession of teaching. I’ve never been quite sure why. It didn’t feel like a calling, more like a career I stumbled into.

  ‘Ask for help too. I can look after Joe any time, you know that. Except Mondays because that’s when I’m in full time,’ Mum carries on. ‘They started another psychology A-level group.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Classic case of dossers using my subject to fill a gap. That’s why they give them to me so I’ll snap them into shape.’

  She is the sort of teacher people will talk about in years to come as part of the horror story that was their secondary education. She likes kids to maximise their potential. It’s what she’s been wishing for her daughters for years.

  Joe starts to grizzle; shuffling on the spot is clearly starting to lose its appeal.

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Is he hungry?’ she asks. ‘Make sure you use us, Beth, we can help out whenever you need. And use your sisters. Use Lucy, keep her occupied. If she’s not occupied, she finds mischief. You never heard this from me but she’s very good with children.’

  She should hear that from you, I think.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Please remember to hydrate or Joe will have nothing to drink.’

  She makes it sound like my jugs will turn to rock and the world will run out of fluids for this baby of mine.

  ‘I have to go. I’m doing the rounds. I’m calling Meg now,’ she says. It won’t be a call. It will be a battle of wills. ‘Take care of my grandson.’

  She hangs up and I exhale softly. I’m trying, Mum. The phone rings again. Why does everyone always call me when I’m out? I stay at home all the bloody time and none of these bastards call me then. This time it’s Will.

  ‘Beth?’

  I respond with a strangled growling sound that a waking sloth might make.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Mum just rang.’

  ‘Ouch. Was she awful?’

  ‘Just her being Mum.’

  ‘How’s Joe?’

  ‘We’re in Primark. He hates Primark.’

  ‘I taught him that,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘I’m sorry we got you up so late,’ I say. ‘Or is it early? I don’t know anymore.’

  ‘I just think it’s part of my constitution now.’

  Will slipped out of our house at six thirty this morning. I’m not sure what stage of consciousness I was in, but I mumbled something about loving him and he mumbled something about him changing Joe. I wonder if I should get up when he does. We’d sit around a kitchen with freshly brewed coffee, the baby would laugh and we’d wave Will off like he was going to war. Instead, I lay face down on the sofa and heard the door click closed. I fed Joe again and then passed out, awaking two
hours later to find the baby still at my nipple and that I’d missed yet more of The Crown. Had Joe been drinking the whole time? Could I have drowned him with my milk?

  ‘Siri? Can you drown a baby when you breastfeed them?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your question.’

  ‘What did you have for lunch?’ I ask Will.

  ‘Food.’

  ‘What sort of food?’

  ‘Tasty food. We have these vegan, ethical living sorts who pass through the office once a week. Today they came with tiffin lunch tins. I think I ate jackfruit?’

  ‘And liked it?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Bloody East London. I also sat opposite a girl on the Tube today who was wearing head to toe acid-wash denim. She was reading Dickens and ate a whole apple. Like even the core.’

  ‘Then an apple tree will grow in her stomach,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s what I told her.’

  ‘Is double denim back then?’

  ‘Who knows? There’s a girl in the creative media office opposite who wears a tiara,’ he says.

  ‘What shoes?’

  ‘Metallic brogues. She’s also a known pen thief.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  There’s a pause. We do this every day at lunch, our own ritual of trying to stay connected.

  ‘When is it a good time to tell you I’m going to be late again?’ he asks.

  I don’t know how to react to this anymore. It’s been this way since Joe was about a month old; Will took on a new job with an architecture firm in Shoreditch that apparently pays more money but the commute and sheer volume of work means we see him less. I can’t be angry about it but it compounds on my loneliness.

  ‘Will you need dinner?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll grab something at Waterloo. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s cool. Love you.’

  ‘Yes, lemons.’

  I smile. Will didn’t want to be to the uncool person in the office saying ‘I love you’ out loud so we’ve come up with a code word. ‘Lemons’ is an acceptable alternative that can be repeated within the confines of his ultra-trendy hot desking office where it seems everyone stands up and just hangs around in communal spaces talking about Fleabag and non-dairy alternatives.