Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

by Suzy K Quinn

So began a hideous, messy time of horrible-looking vegetable purees stored in ice-cube trays, wallpaper-paste baby rice and glue-like baby porridge.

  Pureed food all over clothes – mine, Demi’s and Lexi’s. Pureed food all over hair – mine, Demi’s and Lexi’s. Pureed food all over the buggy, lodged into crevices that could never be cleaned.

  I realised how easy I’d had it with ‘just breastfeeding’ and hugely wished I could turn back time.

  This was life with babies, I realised. Appreciate how shit you have it now, because it could get even shitter.

  #18 LIE – IT’S BETTER WHEN THEY’RE BABIES – THEY DON’T TALK BACK!

  By the time Lexi was six months, my state maternity pay had long since stopped, my savings had been spent on useless baby gadgets and I needed to get back to work.

  This posed a problem. Who would look after Lexi while Demi and I were working?

  We needed to find childcare.

  All the good nurseries in Brighton (the ones with any kind of real greenery) were booked up years in advance.

  Yes, years.

  You had to get on the waiting list before you got pregnant.

  Some nurseries still had spaces, but many weren’t great. There was one around the corner from us. ‘Safe House’ it was called. Their USP was the prison-like security they kept children in all day long, combined with state-of-the-art CCTV monitoring. It had a concrete yard with barbed wire around its high walls and over fifty swivelling cameras that could be accessed via a secure weblink.

  Every nursery, good or bad, had the same arrangement for babies: lines of barred beds in dark rooms for the under-ones, patrolled by young girls just out of vocational college. There was something of the Romanian orphanage about this set-up.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked my sister. ‘We’re running out of money. I need to work, but Lexi seems too young for a nursery.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s too young?’ said my sister. ‘In Regency France, the aristocracy sent their babies to live in the countryside until they were three years old. The children only returned to their parents when they could speak enough French to tell the cook what they wanted for supper.’

  ‘She just seems too young to be away from us,’ I said. ‘She’s only a baby. She’s too young to understand what’s happening. She’ll think we’ve abandoned her.’

  ‘Peasants in Regency France worked with their babies beside them,’ said my sister. ‘Why don’t you try working while Lexi sleeps?’

  (It turns out my sister was researching Regency France at this time. She writes bestselling historical fiction as C. S. Quinn and is awesome. Read her books – they’re fabulous.)

  I thought about my sister’s advice. Yes – work while Lexi slept. That seemed to be the only solution. Either that or financial difficulty.

  Lexi’s wet wipes, nappies, etc. didn’t cost all that much, but with rent, bills, foolish baby-phase purchases, plus my sugar and hot-chocolate habit, our bank account was dropping to scarily low levels.

  Why hadn’t my parents been more sexist? Brought me up to be a docile female in pretty dresses and demand my husband take total financial responsibility for the household? Why had Demi and I been so right-on and created a life sharing rent and bills? Our liberal attitudes were coming back to haunt us.

  As a freelance writer, I had no sick pay, holiday pay or full-pay maternity leave. I’d always earned enough to get by and no more. I hadn’t really considered the future, believing myself to be too young to think about pensions and all that boring stuff.

  When I thought about money, I got a crippling, anxious, sick feeling in my gut because I knew things were only just OK.

  Our rent kept going up. Bills kept going up.

  So I decided to follow my sister’s advice and write while Lexi slept. Burn the candle at both ends and be one of those romantic rags-to-riches author success stories like J. K. Rowling.

  While Lexi was napping, I dusted off my laptop and started looking through my inbox for freelance writing projects.

  Unfortunately, something had happened to my brain. It had melted.

  While I was struggling to read basic English, Lexi woke up.

  There is nothing more distracting than a baby crying.

  ‘She always sleeps for two hours after lunch,’ I thought. ‘Why would she wake up today of all days? When Mummy is trying to do business stuff.’

  I phoned my sister and begged her to take Lexi out in the buggy so I could get on with the stressful business of conjuring money out of thin air.

  My sister pointed out that in Regency France babies were simply swaddled and left until feeding time. But eventually, after a bit of a cry (me, not her), she agreed.

  Cath took Lexi out and I sifted through my emails.

  In the big pile was something from my agent. I’d submitted a novel to him a few months ago, but never expected anything to come of it because I’d been submitting that same novel in different forms for years.

  I read the email.

  Apparently, a publisher wanted my manuscript. Actually, not just that one manuscript. They wanted two manuscripts. I’d only gone and done it. I’d got the writer’s holy grail: a publishing deal.

  I should have been delighted. A publisher! At last! It was every writer’s dream come true.

  However, this was rather bad timing. All I could think was, ‘How the fuck am I going to write a whole new book and look after a baby?’

  ‘Maybe you should tell them you can’t write a second book right now,’ Demi reasoned. ‘And do it next year.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve been waiting years to find a publisher. I WILL do that second book. I will find a way.’

  I boiled up some strong coffee and tried to get going.

  My sister returned with Lexi, who was wide awake and in playful spirits.

  ‘She wouldn’t sleep,’ Cath explained. ‘I thought she might be missing you.’

  That’s the thing about babies. They’re so bloody unpredictable.

  That evening, I phoned my mum and asked how she’d coped, working and looking after baby twins.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call it coping,’ Mum said. ‘I just got on with it, and if I didn’t cry at the end of the day, I counted myself lucky. But we had a childminder too. Remember Aunty Brenda?’

  I did remember Aunty Brenda. She wasn’t a real aunty, but a kindly red-headed childminder who looked after Cath and me as kids. She made us white-bread sandwiches, played eighties pop songs on the radio (from memory, that song was always ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ by Wham) and taught us how to tie shoelaces. She was ever so nice.

  Of course. A childminder.

  Yes, that was the answer. Some nice lady who did childcare at home. So much gentler than leaving Lexi in a nursery room full of other babies.

  We began our search for Mary Poppins.

  Where I grew up in sunny, simple Essex, there was an abundance of smiley-faced grandmother types who liked nothing better than playing with, and mildly spoiling, children for a few pounds an hour.

  Crazy, creative Brighton lacked these natural nurturers. It attracted bohemian, free-living artists, many of whom had addiction issues. Add to that the fact that city housing is extremely expensive and you get a disillusioned (possibly ex-drug addict) artist in a top-floor apartment, counting the hours until the toddlers running around her wrought-iron sculptures will go home to their real parents.

  I interviewed a LOT of childminders. One freely admitted she didn’t like children all that much. Another had an Ofsted complaint for giving a toddler cassoulet with wine in it.

  Eventually we found a childminder who seemed cheerier than the rest. She had a small house, but everyone in Brighton has a small house. She was very nice and genuinely seemed to like children. Also, she had never killed or injured a child, according to her glowing Ofsted report.

  We decided to go for it. Well, not decided. We had to go for it. Our choices were limited.

  T
hey say nothing can prepare you for having a baby. Well, additionally nothing prepares you for handing that baby over to someone else.

  It felt far, far too soon. Years too soon. If only Lexi was older and could understand us and tell us how she was feeling, this would be so much easier.

  I remember that fateful walk to the childminder’s house for our first settling-in session.

  Evil Brighton seagulls glided and swooped above us as I pushed Lexi’s buggy down narrow streets, no doubt knowing she would soon be abandoned to their beaks and claws. Would the childminder protect Lexi from seagulls, as I would? What if the childminder left Lexi outside for a moment and one of the bigger birds – Beefy Bob as I called him – flew off with her? Just because there were no recorded cases of seagulls stealing children, didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

  I had tears in my eyes as I told Lexi that a lovely lady would look after her while Mummy worked.

  Lexi didn’t understand a word, of course. She just made ‘bah bah bah’ noises and chewed at the Gay Pride rainbow flag she’d recently made her treasured comforter.

  We drew nearer to the childminder’s house.

  I considered doing a runner. I could take Lexi home and just forget about all this childminding business. Did we really need pricey accommodation with four walls and electricity? Couldn’t we live off-grid somewhere in one of those tiny houses I’d been hearing so much about?

  No. There was no way I was emptying my own composting toilet while caring for a young baby.

  Reluctantly, I continued our journey.

  Bad omens were everywhere during that ten-minute walk to the childminder’s house. A single magpie flew overhead. A black cat skittered out of an alleyway. A drunk, homeless man staggered up the street going ‘MAAAAH’.

  Eventually, we reached the childminder’s house.

  I knocked, half-expecting the witch from Hansel and Gretel to open the door and say, ‘Have you been feeding the baby well, my dear? I like them nice and plump.’

  But, of course, the pretty Italian childminder answered, all smiles and continental double-cheek kisses.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Let’s get little Lexi settled.’

  I proceeded to explain at length (again) how the settling-in session should go.

  ‘And she always sleeps with this Gay Pride flag. And here are her food purees. She looks like she’s spitting them out sometimes, but you just have to shove them back in . . .’

  The childminder smiled calmly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve done this before. She’ll be very well taken care of.’

  Yes, I thought. Obviously, she’ll be well taken care of. That’s a basic given. But will you do everything exactly as I do it?

  Lexi started crying then.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ The childminder took Lexi from me and gently swayed her. ‘She’ll be OK when you’ve gone.’

  Lexi reached out her little arms for me and cried harder.

  Ouch.

  It was like having my heart ripped out.

  Lexi had been by my side or in my arms for the last six months. She was almost part of my body. It felt too soon. She was so little. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t understand what was happening.

  Worse – I knew Lexi’s surrogate carer wouldn’t follow my ‘advice’ (instructions) to the letter.

  Sensing my unease, the childminder said, ‘The settling-in will only be a few hours today. Nothing bad can happen in just a few hours. What if you had surgery? You’d leave her with someone else then, wouldn’t you?’

  Yes, I thought. But I’d leave her with her dad, who knows her well. Obviously. What nonsense logic is that?

  However, I knew the childminder was right. A few hours wouldn’t hurt.

  With an awful pain in my heart, I walked out of the door and tried to blot out Lexi’s screams.

  Lexi really went for it – I could hear her halfway up the street. As Judge Judy says, children are manipulative little beasts.

  When I got to my computer, I was far too upset to work.

  The only thing I wanted to do was run back to my little girl and snatch her back into my arms.

  I hadn’t thought about allowing extra work time for emotional turmoil.

  I phoned Demi and cried some more.

  He said in a whispery, worried voice, ‘How badly was she crying? Did she sound very distressed?’

  I confirmed Lexi had been deeply distressed.

  We both decided we’d pick Lexi up a bit early. Just in case.

  An hour later, we approached the childminder’s house, ready for the big reunion.

  ‘Lexi will be so happy to see us!’ we decided.

  I had images of Lexi crying the whole morning, calling out for us in her baby way, not understanding where her dear parents had gone. The poor lamb.

  When we arrived at the childminder’s door, we couldn’t hear any crying.

  ‘That’s a good sign,’ I told Demi. ‘She was wailing her head off when I left.’

  We knocked and waited.

  There was no reply.

  We knocked harder.

  Still no reply.

  Then we started to panic.

  ‘Oh my god,’ I said. ‘What if something’s happened?’

  My already overly active imagination began doing its usual number on me, painting all the awful scenarios that could have happened to our young baby.

  ‘I’ll phone the childminder!’ I screamed. ‘Why would she be out? This is Lexi’s nap time. She knows this is nap time – Lexi should be sleeping in the cot upstairs. The childminder wouldn’t have left her alone, would she?’

  We phoned, but there was no reply.

  I have literally never felt panic like it. It was so severe I was immobilised by it. I couldn’t move or think. I wanted to sit on the pavement and cry.

  Then the childminder came trotting down the street with Lexi sleeping in the buggy.

  ‘You’re here early,’ she remarked cheerfully, as she unlocked the front door. ‘We’ve just been to the park. We had a little bit of a picnic and then Lexi fell asleep.’

  I resisted the urge to ask exactly when Lexi had fallen asleep, how long she’d been asleep, what time she’d fed and what she’d eaten in grams and ounces.

  Demi and I didn’t admit we’d been idiotically panicking. We just thanked the childminder and told her we’d be back for another settling-in session tomorrow.

  ‘It went very well,’ said the childminder. ‘She’s a very contented baby.’

  We smiled in that fake way you do when you know someone’s bullshitting you for kind reasons.

  We knew Lexi was not a contented baby, because she had two stressed, overanxious parents. But we were too polite to say so.

  #19 LIE – BREASTFEEDING HELPS YOU LOSE WEIGHT

  As I got back to work and joined the world of adult humans again, I decided to cut back on breastfeeding and replace Lexi’s afternoon feed with formula.

  I’d done my six months of only breast milk. More than six months, actually. Lexi was weaning now. It seemed like a good time to move towards boob freedom – especially now her teeth had come through (ouch).

  Did I feel guilty about introducing one formula feed a day?

  Yes.

  Do I think that’s ridiculous?

  Yes.

  But you know how us mothers are. We feel guilty about everything. I feel guilty right now being away from my kids and they’re at school, for goodness’ sakes. I’d actually be breaking the law if I spent time with them.

  With breastfeeding on its way out, I had an uncomfortable reality to face up to.

  I was now obese. Fat. I’d eaten all the pies. Become a chubby checker.

  Breastfeeding had not been the magical weight-loss plan I had been sold.

  The horrible, unforgiving scales told me I was 37 per cent fat.

  If you’re not familiar with fat percentages, I’ll sum that up for you: fucking fat.

  (Demi: ‘I was also fat at this time. No,
I’m not saying you were fat. No, no, no. No, you weren’t fat. I was fat. Very fat. That’s what I meant.’)

  That thing about breastfeeding helping you ‘naturally’ lose weight without really trying? It doesn’t work if you’re a hot-chocolate and biscuit addict.

  I’d got through the pregnancy (morning sickness, piles, weird stuffy nose), the first horrible bit of breastfeeding (cracked nipples, mastitis, general pain) and THIS was my reward: a body that looked like I was wearing a comedy fat suit.

  Here were my stats by the time I stopped breastfeeding:

  5’ 7”

  12 stone 6.6 lbs

  37 per cent body fat

  A big, wobbly, squidgy stomach with loads of loose skin, and that horrible pregnancy brown line down the middle

  37¾ inches around the middle

  Chafing body parts

  A double chin

  I kept waiting for my pregnant-looking stomach to deflate like a giant balloon, but it never happened.

  My mum kept taking sideways glances at me, asking if I was carrying extra packets of wet wipes in my sweatshirt pockets.

  Eventually, reality was inescapable.

  My stomach was not going to deflate any more.

  It was not made of post-baby air.

  It was fat.

  When I finally stepped on the scales, post-baby, it really was a shock. I’d expected to put on a bit of weight. You know, baby weight. A few extra pounds that breastfeeding would certainly get rid of in time. But nearly thirty pounds over my normal weight? Wow. This was a whole extra person.

  After a tiny bit of a cry, I decided this could actually be good news. Maybe if I lost weight, I could get my old body back. My saggy middle really might snap back into shape, giving me a toned, tanned abdomen.

  It could happen.

  I watched The Real Housewives of Orange County. Those women looked buff and some of them had three kids.

  Diets sound simple when you’re reading about them. But a few hours in, when you realise your chocolate-biscuit consumption is now heavily restricted, they become a good deal trickier.

  Still, I was determined to lose some weight. I was sure I’d feel more like my old self if I shed a few pounds, but I knew dieting would be hard with a young baby. Sugar and tiredness go together like, well, Ben and Jerry. Häagen and Dazs. So I decided to join a fat club for middle-aged women.