‘Yay! Let’s make perfume for Mummy!’
And so they set to work with Kath’s marble pestle and mortar, crushing up half the petals to a floral mush and sprinkling them into four different ornate glass bottles that have been collected over the years from markets and car boot sales. They add water, and every so often encourage me to scent-test their creations. Obviously they all smell the same – a bit mulchy, to be honest – but Lyla is carefully telling us which secret power each perfume has.
‘This one’s for you, Mummy. When you spray it, it will make your heart happy.’ My unhappy heart almost breaks. On some level maybe she understands how flat I’ve been feeling these last few months. She loves me with no agenda or expectation.
Trying not to cry, I say, ‘Lyla, this is the most perfect-smelling perfume I have ever been given. I’m going to wear it every single day and have the happiest of all the hearts in all the world because you gave it to me.’
Her face glows with a smile.
We have a little snuggle while Kath fetches the flower press. As she leaves the kitchen I can see a wry smile on her face. She knows what she’s doing.
Twenty minutes later, and we’re all in full swing with the flower pressing. The Emptiness is fading.
We spend the afternoon carefully selecting the best petals. We go by Lyla’s measure. Using tweezers, we lay them on tissue paper, lay another soft sheet over the top, put them in the press and eventually – when every layer of wood, tissue and petals is full – twist down the nuts and bolts. It’s gentle and methodic and exactly what I need to lose myself in. I suspect Kath has planned this activity for exactly that reason, even though she insists she just had a hankering for it.
Kath takes Lyla upstairs by the hand to place the flower press ceremoniously in the airing cupboard, where it will stay for a good few weeks to ensure we achieve the finest dried flowers in Cambridge, and I take a moment to gaze out of the window into Kath’s garden.
Like her house, her garden has been fully Kathed, too. On wrought iron ‘stems’ Kath has screwed stacked plates and coloured glasses to make decorative flowers. Wind chimes and tiny mirrors hang from bare tree branches, and if you look very closely, the odd porcelain fairy pokes out from beneath brambles and bushes. I can remember being Lyla’s age and being utterly enchanted by them. Kath has such a magical aura about her. She drives me to absolute distraction (I still can’t find my corkscrew after her New Year clear-out, and since then she’s been in and ‘upgraded’ my kitchen chairs with gaudy paisley seat cushions I didn’t ask for and obviously can’t throw out), but on days like this, where would I be without her?
Lyla clatters back into the kitchen with Kath following steadily behind her.
‘Feeling a bit better, love?’
‘Yeah. Things just felt a bit much, you know?’
‘I know. It gets to us all. You’ve got to put your best foot forward and carry on. Carry on all the way to Auntie Kath’s house for a bit of TLC and scones, that’s what.’
She comes over and gives me a huge cuddle. Normally I’d feel uncomfortable with such a show of emotion but today, I’ll take it. Never one to miss out on affection, Lyla bounds over and clings onto the other side until I’m in a Kath/Lyla sandwich. And it’s actually quite lovely.
‘Ooh Mummy, you’re so squishy with love.’
She’s right. I am. My heart is very full, thanks to these two, slightly crazy, very wonderful women.
On the drive home, Lyla is quietly listing the names of all the fairies in Kath’s garden, and I am thinking. Having some time at Kath’s has given my brain a chance to escape from my mummy-guilt and general lethargy for a few hours.
I realise I’ve felt most alive recently when I’m designing or making something, and when I’m with other people. Not socialising specifically – gosh, no – but just being around other grown-ups.
I play with the idea of asking Natalie if I can take on a few more jobs and get back into the swing of things. I’m currently working one or two events every couple of weeks, but with Lyla settled in school, Simon’s new-found flexibility (Storie has taught him to be ‘fluid like the energy of the earth’) and Kath’s help, I could definitely go up to three or four – or more – and maybe lift myself out of this fog I’m in.
A few weeks ago I would have been stressed to the point of tears just thinking about taking on anything more, so letting myself go there – considering working more and taking a bit of ownership for my life – feels like a big step.
I’m going to do it.
Lyla stops listing names. ‘Mummy! You’re smiling! You look happy like a rainbow after it’s rained.’
I hadn’t even noticed, but she’s right.
Maybe the rain has stopped.
TEN
MARCH
SPRING IS AROUND THE corner at last and today I have the day to myself. Lyla is dropped to school by Simon and Storie (I expect they’re listening to her playlist of hideous wind chime music in their electric car – Lyla told me it sounds like someone gently banging knives and forks on glasses). I have had too many days to myself recently. I start with such grand plans. This will be the day I go through the cupboard under the stairs and list Lyla’s old high chair on eBay for some extra cash. This will be the day I cut my wardrobe down by half and donate everything to charity. This will be the day I go to Tesco to buy miscellaneous birthday cards to have in stock at home so that I never again have to flap round the house searching for one. This will be the day I batch-cook a load of nutritious meals to freeze and eat at a later date.
Except it never is the day. None of those days have ever happened in my life. I dream of those days, those never-happening days.
Instead I feel anxious and isolated, watch a lot of daytime TV or get lost in a wormhole of daily vloggers on YouTube who are leading seemingly more glamorous lives than me and being amazing parents. If I’m feeling very low, I’ll treat myself to a giant Costa latte and slice of chocolate tiffin, before I do the food shopping (the freezer won’t stack itself with oven pizzas and fish fingers) and go to collect Lyla from school. All of this will be done in leggings, slightly bagging around the knees, and an oversized shirt that I try to convince myself looks ‘effortlessly stylish’ like celebs at festivals but actually just looks effortless.
Still, though, this will be the day. I keep thinking about Lacey’s pep talk and my idea at Auntie Kath’s and it has given me quite a boost. This actually bloody will be the day I make the most of the me time and tick things off my list.
Here we go:
Shower and style self. This feels like a given, but after Val’s remarks I realise just how downtrodden I’ve been looking lately and think I might give it a bit more effort. Twice in two months will be some kind of record!
List understairs junk on eBay. My cubbyhole is a TARDIS-like vortex for years gone by. If there were ever a prize for real-life Tetris with baby/child equipment, I’d win it hands down. I’ve got half of Mothercare stashed away in my house. The distinct lack of romance in my life suggests there are no more little Lylas coming my way, so it’s time to let it all go. Like the mini-trampoline I bought last year, thinking I’d go on it every night and be more toned than Julia Roberts in the Pretty Woman piano scene in mere months. In reality, I had five or six big bounces and was quickly reminded what a difficult birth Lyla was. Thanks to my bladder, my trampolining days are well and truly over.
Clean out make-up kit and – be brave – message Natalie about more independent jobs. I secretly love sorting through my kit. There’s something very cathartic about cleaning brushes and wiping down all the products. Tiny little pots of colour and shimmer. Tubes of concealer and foundation promising the holy grail of perfect skin. Huge flat palettes that open with a satisfying click and are filled with circular slots of every shade you can imagine: some neutral, some iridescent, some you can’t imagine how you’d actually incorporate into a make-up look (acid green, I’m looking at you). This is definitely achievable today. You’ve
got to make your list manageable.
Work out. I’ve had my gym membership for two years now but barely used it. Mum bought me it after a visit up from their place in Cornwall, and I’m not sure if I was more insulted than grateful. Still, it’s there, so I’m going to be bold and give it a go.
Right: list written (on unopened phone bill), I should probably add ‘open impending doom envelopes’ to the list, but I’m not going to be totally unrealistic.
Time to seize the day!
After a long shower (including leg shave and exfoliation – oh, how I’m treating myself), I take a bit of time to assess my wardrobe and pick something out that isn’t stretchy or jersey cotton.
This is actually more challenging that I first anticipated it to be. Aside from the odd special occasion dress (I cycle through the same five for weddings, christenings and birthday meals out) and my nice white shirt which now has a red wine stain, dammit, I seem to just live in jeans, T-shirts, smocks or leggings. This is ridiculous.
I quickly give up (story of my life) and throw on some sweats and a tee because nobody in their right mind would tackle an understairs cubbyhole in something without stretch. How ludicrous.
Surprising even myself, I plod downstairs, set my Spotify to ‘Motivation’ and begin tearing things out of the cupboard with more gusto than I thought I had in me at 9.45 a.m. This is my day! I’m doing it! First I pull out all the things I actually use, like the hoover, mop, a ladder and put them in the kitchen. Once I’ve scratched the first layer I’m on to the ‘sorting through’ items. With a bit of effort, I retrieve the high chair, car seat, pram chassis, pram top, pushchair top, separate umbrella pushchair (this kid had a lot of transport options, apparently), a Bumbo seat, the rock-and-vibrate bouncer (that I remember Simon and I having a massive row over in Mothercare, him saying it was too expensive and me arguing that I needed it if only so I could have a moment of quiet and maintain my sanity), a clear plastic tub of smaller toys, a broken plastic watering can, a squashed lampshade, a plethora of half-used tins of paint from when Granny lived here and a dusty bin bag of coloured card from the découpage crafting phase I went through three years ago. With everything scattered haphazardly around my hall and lounge, I can clearly see just how much junk I’ve been hoarding and feel suddenly quite overwhelmed.
Turning back to the cubbyhole to see if I’ve missed anything, I’m surprised to find my old shell box. I hold it in my hands, running my fingers over each varnished shell. Kath brought back this beautiful, deep, A4 sized box covered in shells from one of her holidays in the Mediterranean with Derek when I was about thirteen, and I’ve used it as a memory box ever since. I’ve thrown in photos and ticket stubs, lucky charms like a miniature troll with red hair and the plastic hospital bracelets Lyla had on her wrists and ankles when she was born. It’s so lovely to find it again. I feel all my memories flooding back as I rifle through, and then, at the bottom, I find all the notes and bits of paper I’ve written on over the years, scrawling out lists and memories and thoughts on the world around me. I’d forgotten I used to do that. I take them out and start to read through them – the thoughts I wrote down the overwhelming day I found out I was pregnant; a couple of pictures of Lyla when we first brought her home – I should put these in the albums with the rest, smiley snaps from when Simon and I first moved in together; a gorgeous photo of Lacey and me in bikinis in her back garden – we must have been about fourteen – I can remember how hot it was, and how we felt like we could take over the world … Then I discover a page torn from a notebook, soft from being folded and unfolded so many times. I know exactly what it is. Lacey has so often said, when I’ve wobbled since Simon left, that having Lyla was an amazing thing. I carried and gave birth to that beautiful baby girl. I did it. And if I can do that, she always says, I can do anything. I unfold the pages and read:
Ten days since Lyla burst into our lives. Feels like a decade already. All the days merge into one when you don’t sleep through the nights. No one told me breastfeeding would be so hard. I know they say it’s all about bonding with baby and ‘breast is best’, but fuck me, it had better be worth it. Right now it feels like I constantly have 7lbs of flesh attached to me. When she sucks it’s like a thousand tiny threads of cotton are being pulled from the back of my chest, through my boob and out of my nipples. Every time she latches on I flinch and make a face. This isn’t like the adverts with that mum in soft grey clothes in the perfect airy nursery. I feel so duped. This is horrific.
We were watching Grand Designs when it happened. Kevin McCloud was talking about a building ‘blending seamlessly into the surrounding countryside’ or something and then all of a sudden, my waters broke. There were no contractions, no warnings, just a massive gush and the sofa upholstery was ruined!
Called the maternity unit, and they told us to wait until the contractions began and then come in. As soon as we’d put the phone down, they began. They were so mild at first that I thought all those women on One Born Every Minute were wimps, but after two hours things heated up. I rolled on my ball while Simon watched the News At Ten, and then I couldn’t take it any longer so I manoeuvred my massive bump into the front seat of the car and we drove in.
As usual – even in between contractions – we had a row about the parking. He’d assumed I’d put change for the meter in my hospital bag because I’d said I had ‘everything’. Idiot. I obviously meant everything for me and the baby.
Once we were in, things really started to happen, and not in that breathing-calmly-and-thinking-of-your-precious-baby way. There were internal examinations (basically being fingered multiple times by women I don’t even know), soft belts stretched round my giant tummy to monitor her heart rate, gas and air (to ‘take the edge off’ – ha!) and a lot of vomit. A few people feel sick on gas and air and, lucky for me, I fell into that bracket.
It was a mess. I was a mess. I really wanted to be one of those women who does it so well. Who ‘bears down’ and births a beautiful pink baby and then looks up at her husband glowing with contentment, as they hold the bundle.
After four more hours of contractions so painful I wanted to smash my fists into the walls, it was time to push. By this point I’d had so many drugs I felt completely spaced out and alone. It was like I was really far away from everyone and couldn’t communicate it.
After an hour of pushing, my incredibly young-looking midwife suggested I needed ‘a little help’. Forceps. Huge metal salad tongs to be shoved up my vagina to ‘help’ me get baby out. I vaguely remember not caring. You’d think you would care about that kind of thing, but I’ve never felt desperation like this before so I garbled something about ‘do whatever the fuck you want sorry for swearing ow ow fuck get her ouuutttt’, and in they went.
The next few minutes were a blur. There was pain and people and not a shred of dignity, but then all of a sudden, Lyla was in the world.
Her slimy little body was put on my chest and I realised I was holding my daughter. A brand new life that I had made and delivered, just lying there on my chest.
For a moment she was the youngest thing in the whole wide world. I felt like we were a team. She’d been in there all that time, and now I was holding her on the outside, protecting her from the cool air with my hands and bit of hospital gown … my precious baby.
Everyone says you forget. But I don’t want to forget, which is why I’m writing this now. It’s 3.07 a.m. The house is silent. Simon is sleeping – lucky him – and my tiny baby girl is snuffling in her cot next to me. I look at her. I could gaze at her for hours.
They say you feel an instant rush of love, but that’s not how I’d describe it. Love to me is soft and kind and warm. I felt a rush of ferocity. If anyone, at any point, were to try and hurt this perfect child of mine, I’d kill them. I felt instantly protective, and like it doesn’t matter what happens to me; I’ll take care of her.
I look up from the pages. I did do it.
And I can do this.
I quickly gather e
verything to put it all back in the box. I’ll look through them properly later when I’m not seizing the day. Just before I pack it away, right at the very bottom I spot an old card with a heart on the front from Simon saying Happy Six Months Ro-Ro, Love you forever, Simon xxx. Wow. That stings.
I DON’T REMEMBER MEETING Simon Dessens – he has been in my life forever. Our mums were friends from the community centre where they worked, so we’d played together since we were Lyla’s age. Our mums jointly managed bookings for the events or clubs, handled the petty cash, stocked the kitchen with coffee, teabags, sugar and milk and looked after the keys and alarms. They both took great pride in organising the summer fete, and despite their smiles and their florals, they were deeply competitive. The way they talked about it when we were little you’d think they were running the United Nations. Simon and I (increasingly grudgingly as we got older) helped serve refreshments to the old age pensioners at their social clubs and tidied away the chairs from the Weight Watchers’ meetings.
By the time we were sixteen, we were in love. Both quite shy kids who lived under the rule of our overbearing mothers, we were kind of each other’s security blanket, and felt a connection. Obviously at sixteen you rarely understand yourself, let alone the complexities of deep, proper relationships, and so we felt it imperative to go to the same university as each other. We stayed relatively local and graduated from Warwick, he with a 2.2 in Geography and me with a 2.1 in Communications and Media. Clearly you don’t know what on earth you want to do with your life at eighteen, when you pick your degree! I went to an evening course in make-up artistry on the side, and enjoyed it so much more than the education I spent my studen loan on. At the request of our empty-nest-suffering parents we moved back to Cambridge, and by twenty-two I was pregnant with Lyla. I was working as a freelance make-up artist doing weddings or am-dram shows and Simon’s dad secured him a steady desk job at a local factory that made drill bits, so we had an income and we could pay the rent on our tiny two-up, two-down terrace.
Wilde Like Me Page 6
