Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘You’ll feel much less manic and crazy if we have a break,’ said Demi. ‘Travel will take your mind off things. We’ve only been away once since Lexi was born. And that holiday was awful.’

  It was true. When Lexi was one and a half, we went on an ill-advised city break to Rome. We learned a valuable lesson on that holiday: hot, cosmopolitan cities and toddlers are a poor combination. Especially when mixed with gelato.

  We spent that long weekend dragging an overheated, tired little girl from one tourist attraction to the next, supervising gelato-induced meltdowns and having panic attacks when mopeds shot out of alleyways and shop doorways.

  Our evenings were spent sitting in a dark hotel room, curtains closed against the streaming Italian sunshine, whispering so as not to wake Lexi.

  We could hear happy, laughing Italians on the street outside, enjoying their after-work Aperols and lengthy Italian meals. For some reason, we’d pictured ourselves doing just the same thing when we booked the holiday. We hadn’t factored in the babysitting element. As I say, we hadn’t grown up yet.

  It was the classic novice-parent mistake – trying to have the sort of holiday we used to have, without appreciating that kids go to bed in a dark room at 7 p.m.

  Italy is lovely, but you may as well be in Bognor Regis if all you see is the inside of a hotel room.

  ‘Are you sure we should go away?’ I asked Demi. ‘It was fucking horrendous last time.’

  ‘We didn’t understand family life back then,’ said Demi. ‘We were thinking like non-baby people. Instead of looking for a cultural adventure, we need to do something easy. Child-friendly.’

  ‘Won’t that be boring?’ I said.

  ‘Excitement is tiring.’

  We had a little cash to spare for a trip away. Moving house had cost quite a bit, but our new rural location was saving us a fortune in filter coffee, sushi, apple martinis and ‘little trips’ to the Tesco Metro for one more bottle of wine.

  Also, our childcare financials had hugely improved. Mum looked after Lexi FOR FREE one whole day a week and sometimes babysat. Additionally, Lexi was now two years old and had fifteen free childcare hours.

  Thank you, government.

  Thank you, wonderful parents.

  A break before the chaos of a newborn hit sounded like a good idea. But where?

  Pre-kids, we’d Interrailed around Europe, camped at boiling-hot Spanish festivals and windsurfed in Greece.

  Exciting stuff.

  However, the days of unencumbered, child-free travel were behind us.

  Post-kids, taking a train around Europe sounded like a fucking nightmare. And windsurfing? Who had the energy? Our new buzzwords were ‘relax’ and ‘unwind’.

  We had a lengthy discussion about the sort of boring holidays people with children might enjoy.

  ‘Why don’t we get some of those family-holiday brochures?’ Demi suggested. ‘You know – the ones with the smiling, tanned family holding a beach ball.’

  I considered this.

  Did we want to be that bland, smiling, tanned family on a beach holiday devoid of culture and excitement? Had we changed so much?

  To test the waters, I took Lexi into town and picked up a wodge of family-holiday brochures for Spain and Greece. They all had pictures of smiling, tanned families holding colourful beach balls on their front covers.

  All of them.

  ‘That tanned bikini woman isn’t a real mother,’ I told Lexi. ‘She couldn’t possibly be. Look at her perfect, flat stomach. Where are the wrinkly bits? The newly formed inside-out belly button? THAT bikini woman is holding a very young baby – clearly that child isn’t hers or she’d have a weird brown line on her stomach.’

  Aged two, Lexi didn’t really understand. ‘Not a mummy? Is a mummy, Mummy. She got baby, Mummy.’

  On the train home, Lexi and I skimmed through the brochures.

  The pictures looked nice. What was that – a cocktail bar in the swimming pool? And an all-inclusive buffet . . . whoa. So we wouldn’t have to cook a single meal? No washing-up? Lexi could chuck stuff on the floor with gay abandon, safe in the knowledge that it was all bought and paid for?

  Sign us up immediately!

  Who knew holidays like this existed?

  My childhood family holidays were self-catering camping trips, sometimes to the south of France if my parents were pushing the boat out. If we were lucky, my sister and I got a French baguette to chew on. If we were unlucky, we’d be carted to some wobbly meat restaurant and served something especially disgusting like liver in garlic butter.

  An all-inclusive buffet was beyond luxury.

  I decided this sort of extravagant holiday must cost a fortune. I mean, how much would a parent pay to have all their meals cooked for them and their child cared for at a kids’ club? £10,000? More?

  But apparently not.

  Out of season, last-minute deals were pretty darned cheap. Around £200 per adult, including all flights, food and drink. Alcoholic drink.

  This, we realised, was only marginally more expensive than living at home.

  Why hadn’t we discovered these ‘package holidays’ before?

  We booked immediately and flew out a week later.

  When we arrived in Corfu, it was better than OK. It was lovely.

  The views were beautiful, the pools were sparkling clean, the food delicious and the drink plentiful.

  Don’t fly during the last trimester, indeed! What nonsense. A break was exactly what I needed.

  Obviously I couldn’t drink the alcohol, being pregnant. But everything was all so relaxing. It was great to do nothing. Truthfully, it was the first proper break we’d had since Lexi was born.

  Demi and I kept giving each other obscure thumbs-up signs across the free bar.

  £400 for all this! AND there was a kids’ club.

  We spent that week reclining on sun loungers, eating Greek pastries and watching Lexi splash in the toddler pool. Occasionally, we’d throw her an ice cream or a sugary drink. She was happy. We were happy.

  We had nothing to do. Nothing! It was just brilliant.

  By day three of the holiday, my anxiety had subsided. Maybe there was something in this ‘taking things easy’ lark. If I stopped running around at 100 mph and just lived life at a slower pace, things would be better.

  Little Lexi enjoying her last days of freedom before a little sister is thrust upon her. Not sure what she’s written in the sand. ‘I love being an only child’?

  I had something of a spiritual epiphany and started doing daily yoga and meditation. I downloaded Buddhist texts and tried to live in the moment, noticing the lovely little birds pecking up croissant crumbs outside the chow hall, and watching my precious daughter with soft, loving eyes as she stamped her feet and bellowed, ‘No birdies! I stamp on you now!’

  Buoyed up by this minor spiritual enlightenment, I began preaching Buddhist wisdom to little Lexi.

  ‘Life is change, Lexi. Live in the moment. Breathe.’

  On the last day of the holiday, Lexi lost a paper bag she’d decorated at the holiday club.

  ‘I’ve lost my unicorn bag, Mummy,’ Lexi screamed. ‘I’ve lost it. MUMMY! Precious, Mummy! Need it, Mummy. Need to take it home, show Nana.’

  There was no way I was walking around the baking-hot holiday resort, looking for an empty paper bag with a few childish scribbles on it.

  ‘The Buddha says attachment is the route of all suffering, Lexi,’ I told her calmly. ‘That paper bag is just a thing. You’ve made it precious. But that’s just a story. Loss is part of life. Move on.’

  Lexi had what is known in childcare circles as a ‘shit fit’.

  She screamed and went red and shouted over and over again, ‘I want my unicorn bag, I WANT MY UNICORN BAG!’

  I tried again to explain about loss and attachment.

  ‘It’s just a thing. That’s all. Let it go in your mind and you won’t suffer any longer.’

  ‘But . . . I . . . loved that bag,’ Lex
i stammered, through little choking sobs.

  ‘It was just an empty bag,’ I said again with a kind smile. ‘You’ve attached yourself to something meaningless and you have to let go.’

  ‘Not empty,’ Lexi stammered. ‘I put your jewellery inside.’

  I sat bolt upright.

  ‘What? WHAT? My jewellery was in it?’

  Lexi nodded.

  ‘MY jewellery!’ I screeched. ‘Where did you have it last? Where did you drop it? What are you sitting there for? We’re going to find it right now.’

  ‘Jewellery is just a thing,’ said Demi, taking a sip of cold beer and reclining on his sun lounger. ‘You’ve made it precious. Attachment is the route of suffering.’

  ‘But I’ve had that lightning pendant since I was a teenager! It’s irreplaceable!’

  ‘That’s just a story,’ said Demi. ‘Let it go.’

  After I’d sworn a lot at Demi, I dragged Lexi around the resort for two hours, looking for the ‘precious’ paper bag. When we found it, all the jewellery was gone. God knows who took it – it was all cheap, costume stuff and fairly worthless to anyone but me. But Lexi was glad to find her bag again.

  We came home relaxed and happy, eager to share our holiday experience with any poor sap who crossed our path.

  ‘And it was only £200 a person! Although I lost a lightning pendant I’d had since I was a teenager . . . [sideways glance at Lexi] but life has loss, I’ve let it go . . .’

  #27 LIE – SECOND BIRTHS ALWAYS HAPPEN QUICKLY

  As labour approached, I considered our ‘birthing plan’ for baby number two.

  Clearly, the first time around, things had gone terribly wrong. The induction. The emergency C-section. None of these things were nature’s plan.

  I made a bold and stupid decision – I would do everything within my power to have a natural birth.

  People asked me why. If you’re allowed to choose a C-section, why not do that? It sounds much easier. Lots of painkillers. And you’ve already got the scar. Plus, no offence, you seem like the sort of person who needs to know – to the minute – when the baby will come out . . .

  I said I’d missed out on the miracle of labour and birth first time around and I wanted to experience what my body was designed to do: give birth. I wanted to connect with my inner mother.

  Little did I know, my inner mother was a renegade. She didn’t like pain or uncertainty and would in no way be giving birth naturally.

  Sensible woman.

  As the birth approached, I visited the midwife for the usual ‘how would you like to give birth?’ menu. I was offered either a C-section (‘today’s special’, if you will) or a natural birth.

  Foolishly, I decided to be a tough guy and try for a ‘VBAC’, which is not a type of bacon but a natural birth for women who have also had a C-section delivery.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the midwife asked. ‘There’s a chance of tearing your C-section scar, bleeding internally and dying.’

  ‘How much of a chance?’

  ‘One per cent.’

  Mmm.

  One in a hundred people might die. Quite high, really.

  Still – I’m an optimist. My C-section scar looked pretty gnarly. Like a knotted rope, tough and durable. I was sure it wouldn’t give up under pressure.

  Let’s go for it!

  For some reason, I got it into my head that birth was an ‘experience’ I should have at least once in my lifetime.

  I didn’t consider that some experiences are awful. Prison, for example. Or watching pantomimes.

  My sister, who by this time had given birth herself, told me that labour was like ‘having boiling acid poured into your insides’.

  ‘And I do make that distinction,’ she said. ‘It’s boiling acid, not just normal acid.’

  Foolishly, I ignored her.

  As the birth approached, I stocked the freezer with ready-made lasagne and loaded the cupboards with high-quality hot chocolate.

  I pulled Lexi’s newborn clothes from the loft and worked out what we needed, having yet another panic attack over the newborn cowboy outfit that STILL had never been worn but was so cute.

  I knew what was coming. I knew we’d have to batten down the hatches for a bit and that I’d probably shout at Demi for not doing things exactly as I did them. But I was pretty relaxed after the holiday and feeling ready to bring on the birth.

  The due date came.

  The due date went.

  Fucking hell.

  A week passed. I fielded the usual ‘has the baby come yet?’ phone calls.

  Then finally something started to happen.

  I got minor contractions every five minutes, all day long.

  This was it! The big push! The natural birth on its way!

  I meditated my way through the contractions. Stayed calm. Lived in the moment. Remembered my connection to mother earth and so forth. Burned joss sticks.

  A sleepless night passed and I found myself still in labour.

  How could this be? I’d missed a night’s sleep, which was scary enough. But where was the baby? Was it stuck?

  The pain was OK. Enough to make me leap up and walk around (which actually gets pretty torturous when you have to do it all day and night), but not agonising.

  Another day and night passed.

  This was bad.

  I phoned my sister in a panic. She told me to calm down and stick on some romantic comedy.

  I did.

  The 1990s triple whammy of When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman and Parenthood saw me through another sleepless night.

  The next day, I decided to go to the hospital, certain that the baby must be close to coming out.

  They told me to go home – I wasn’t in ‘real labour’ yet, and could be in this painful no man’s land for days, if not weeks, to come.

  Oh. My. God.

  NOT REAL LABOUR?

  No amount of meditation could quell my anxiety at this point.

  I’d missed three nights’ sleep. I mean, I had simply not slept. No sleep. Not even dozed a little bit.

  People go mad from lack of sleep. It was a tactic used by Nazi guards.

  I would go mad. I definitely couldn’t look after Lexi if I’d gone mad. Plus, she would blame the new baby for my madness and no one would carry out my ‘give baby as gift’ plan and . . . ARRRG!

  Why wouldn’t this baby come out?

  The labour-that-wasn’t-really-labour lasted five days. Admittedly, I seem to add a day on every time I talk about my labour, so possibly it was four days. But it was AT LEAST three nights.

  During these long days and nights, I’d pop into hospital every so often – only to be told to go home again.

  The midwives and I developed a mutual hatred for one another. I saw them as evil Gestapo harpies, cruelly torturing a pregnant woman. They saw me as a massive drama queen.

  During one journey to the hospital, I took a taxi, fidgeting in the seat every time a contraction washed over me.

  (Demi: ‘If you’re wondering why my pregnant lady wife got a taxi by herself to and from hospital, you should know that she’s highly independent and insisted she go alone while I look after Lexi at home. Also, I still can’t drive.’)

  ‘Have you ever been to Thailand?’ the taxi driver asked me.

  ‘YES!’ I half-shouted as another contraction came along.

  ‘Me too,’ the driver enthused. ‘Wonderful place, isn’t it? I wrote some music about the sunsets out there.’ He reached into his glove compartment. ‘Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, only half-listening.

  ‘I’d better pull over,’ the taxi driver decided. ‘So I can find the right CD.’

  He pulled over into a McDonald’s drive-through and popped a CD into the stereo system.

  ‘This is me, singing,’ he said proudly. ‘Not bad, is it?’

  ‘I’m in labour!’ I shouted. ‘Why are you stopping the car? Drive to the hospital this instant. I’m about to have a baby!’
r />   I got to the hospital, only to be told (again) that I wasn’t actually in labour.

  Some horrible quirk of fate meant I had the same taxi driver on the return journey home.

  Life certainly has a sense of humour.

  I spent the journey home listening to the taxi driver’s faux rock voice singing about Thai sunsets.

  Lexi was still awake when I got back and surprised to see me home.

  ‘Baby not come out?’ she queried.

  ‘The baby won’t come out,’ I said, holding back a sob of panic. ‘It won’t come out!’

  And it wouldn’t.

  I think my brain just wouldn’t allow my body to let go. It was the anxiety. My body thought I was in danger and held on for dear life.

  Finally, after repeatedly begging for a C-section, the hospital relented. But not before pointing out that they’d offered me a C-section ages ago and I’d turned it down.

  ‘You should have made up your mind before labour,’ said the midwife. ‘We’ve had to pull a lot of strings to fit you in.’

  I was too grateful to be rude to her. And far too tired.

  The surgeon came to see me and said all the usual things: ‘This is going to feel like washing-up in your tummy!’

  And then, in a lower, more serious voice: ‘Please sign this contract saying you might die during the procedure . . .’

  After so many days of pain and missed sleep, I was delighted to see the lovely, civilised operating theatre and have the ‘washing-up’ sensations. Then little baby Laya was pulled out, covered in scabby blood.

  Aww . . . birth is magic.

  Then I was rolled to the labour ward, holding just-born baby Laya.

  Demi was waiting there with Lexi.

  I had a moment of panic.

  ‘We need to enact the “baby-as-gift, no-jealousy” plan!’ I shouted at Demi.

  ‘Just worry about healing from the C-section,’ said Demi. ‘Lexi wants to see her little sister.’

  We showed Lexi the new baby, who was sleeping on my chest.

  In her childlike, toddler language, Lexi said something like: ‘Where’s the chocolate? You said there’d be chocolate here.’

  She wasn’t jealous of the new baby at all. Simply gloriously indifferent in that selfish way toddlers are.