by Aimee Horton
After what seems like ages, there is a bit of a kerfuffle, then, “Here we are. Wow, what a whopper!” But wait a minute. Now there’s silence.
Why isn’t she crying yet?
More silence, and I panic all over again as I watch/see the midwife wrap a pinky, purply, gross little body in a blanket.
“Is she OK? Is she breathing? Just bloody pinch her, OK?” There’s a ripple of laughter, which is quickly covered up by a few coughs, then I hear it.
First a whimpering that gets louder and louder, turning into a full-blown angry cry as they whip her off to get weighed. I’m crying again, Henry too, and he’s stroking my hair, and all of a sudden everything is perfect. Who cares about the horrible house, or a car that only has two back seats, or that Henry nearly missed the birth? He’s here now; we’re a wonderful family. Henry, Dottie, Arthur, Mabel and baby girl Martha.
“Well, he’s a healthy weight, that’s for sure,” the midwife says. “Nine pounds, thirteen ounces. And what a head! There’s no way you’d have turned this boy, and he obviously knew it!”
“She!” Henry and I both shout in unison, looking at the middle-aged woman who is carrying our still-crying daughter towards us. The baby’s blanket is already stained with blood.
Seriously, how is she allowed to be holding babies if she can’t even get the sex right?
“No, definitely not a she,” she says, smiling, “I’ve been doing this a very long time, and I can tell the difference, you know.” She winks as Henry and I glance at each other, confused. Then, lowering her arms so we can see the tiny scrunched-up red face, she says, “Congratulations! It’s a beautiful bouncing baby boy.”
2.
How long would laundry stay on the stairs if I didn’t tidy it up myself?
I wish I’d stayed in the hospital for an extra couple of days, just George and me. That’s not his real name by the way, it’s just what we’re calling him while we decide. I hadn’t even looked at boys’ names after the scan told us that “he” was a “she.” So, on Mabel’s firm instructions, we’ve temporarily called him “George” after the character in Peppa Pig.
Next Mabel will want to change her name to Peppa.
I thought I needed to be home, though. So I forced myself to hobble down the corridor with as much of a spring in my step as I could muster, and they happily let me escape after two nights.
Now we’re squashed into the car and on our way home. George is trying to sleep in the backseat, while Mabel and Arthur argue about who’s going to cuddle him first. I should be pleased they’re excited to have a baby brother, but my head hurts.
Henry squeezes my knee. He’s beaming from ear to ear, looking every bit the proud father of three.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” he says, looking over his shoulder at our three beautiful children in the back.
Oh God, three of them.
“What about Barney?” I suggest, changing the subject, not wanting to disappoint him. Barney is actually quite a cute name.
“Bert?” he replies.
Yuck. I wrinkle my nose and brush his hand off my leg.
We sit in silence as we drive towards 32 Paddock Lane.
Our house, which we only moved into four days ago.
Has it really only been four days?
I say “we,” but actually it was just “me.” Well, the kids and me, which is basically me on my own but three times harder.
Bloody Henry.
Reaching for a mint, I have a sudden flash of inspiration.
“Murray? Oh, I love Murray!” I shout.
Murray would be perfect.
“No way,” says Henry, just as Mabel and Arthur shout, “George, George, George.” Poor George wakes with a jump and starts crying hysterically.
I try to twist around to stroke his cheek and wince with the pain. When I open my eyes, Arthur is stroking George’s cheek and already the baby has drifted back to sleep. Arthur smiles, and this time, I squeeze Henry’s knee.
Aren’t our children amazing?
Henry pulls into our drive, and the kids excitedly unfasten their seat belts and rattle the door handles until Henry lets them out. Like yapping dogs, they race to the front door.
It’s like we’ve lived here forever.
I ease out of my seat as Henry fiddles with the car seat, and I admire our new house. How lovely it looks from the outside.
So what if it doesn’t have a wine cellar?
Just as I’m thinking how peaceful the street is, I hear a cough from across the street. I turn to see the woman from the house opposite walking to the end of her drive and grabbing her recycle bin.
She’s tall, with long, shiny strawberry-blonde hair, the kind you call ginger on a boy but on a girl looks gorgeous.
I give a small wave, but I don’t think she sees me. Once she’s dragged the bin up the drive, I try to catch her eye again. It would be nice to have a friend across the street. She grudgingly looks at me, and grabbing the opportunity, I shoot her a winning smile.
“Hello! Nice to meet you!” I call in my best friendly neighbour voice.
She gives a half smile before glancing at the car seat, which Henry has finally freed from the car and is now hanging effortlessly over his arm.
“Hello,” is her quick response, before marching back into her house and slamming the door behind her.
Not that friendly then.
Shrugging, Henry and I join the kids at the front door to our new home.
~~~~
What has he been doing for two entire days?!
“Looking after the kids,” is his response.
Nothing has changed since the day I went into labour. Empty cardboard boxes are scattered between rooms, and the laundry, which includes the towel and jogging bottoms my waters broke in are still in the washing machine.
With the baby snuggled up and feeding away in his bright pink sling, I send Henry out to the car to get the bags, and I begin to unpack a box of food that is still sitting on the kitchen counter. As I unload tins of beans and sauces into the cupboard, he comes back into the kitchen and races to my side, his hand on my back.
“Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing? You’re meant to be resting!” His face is creased with concern, but this only adds to my annoyance.
“And who else is going to do it? I don’t see anybody else unpacking,” I snap, slamming a bottle of ketchup onto the counter. As I see his wounded look, my eyes fill with tears so I turn away.
It’s not his fault he’s an idiot.
There’s an awkward silence as Henry flicks on the kettle, and I ease myself onto a stool next to the breakfast bar. I stroke George’s cheek as he continues to feed. The silence gets louder as Henry makes two cups of tea.
I hate these silences.
I pick up a tin of tomato sauce. “What about Tom?” I suggest, waving the tin at Henry. He drops the tea spoon on the counter and carries the mugs over.
I hate it when he does that. What’s wrong with the sink or the dishwasher?
“You know what? I like it.” He places my tea in front of me.
Tom. Thomas Harris.
After that, Henry turns into a gem.
He orders me to rest on the sofa with baby Tom and the TV, while he carries bags and empties boxes. I’ve just finished another cup of tea and snuggled under my blanket when the phone rings.
Who’s that? I didn’t even know we’d been connected yet.
“Bob, Miriam,” Henry says when he answers the phone.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Mum and Dad are back from Spain then.
I hear footsteps approaching and quickly pretend to be asleep.
“Dottie,” Henry whispers, tiptoeing across the room.
I am asleep. I am asleep.
“Dots, I can tell you’re awake.” Henry touches my shoulder, and grumpily, I open my eyes and glare at him.
“When are they coming?” I ask, slowly sitting up and preparing myself for the worst.
“Er…
in about half an hour.”
I sigh, gesturing for him to bring my handbag over.
Henry grabs the bag and passes it to me. He’s a gem, even if he did just invite my parents over.
“Did you tell them anything?” I ask as I pull out my make-up bag. He shakes his head, and I roll my eyes before glancing in the little mirror and wincing at my reflection. “How do the kids look?”
“Feral. But you look perfect. And anyway, they’ll be too busy looking at Tom to notice anything else.”
“Except the house.” Mum’s going to hate it as much as I did on first glance, except of course, I saw the potential. I look around the bright mint and orange lounge, at the swirling terracotta carpet, and the lampshades that appear to have been glued on.
“Shall I get some of that coffee your mum likes? It might distract her.”
I nod, watching him leave the house.
I need a wee.
Easing myself up, I head to the downstairs loo and on a whim lock the door.
“Mummayyy. MUMMYYYY!” Mabel’s voice bounces off the walls.
It’s like they have a sensor.
I’ll go quickly, and it should tide me over until my parents have gone.
“Mummayyy? Mummy! MUMMEEE!” She’s wandering from room to room. “Mummmmyyy?” She’s getting closer and angrier; she hates when she can’t find me.
Ha! But the door is locked. She can’t get me this time.
Except I hear Arthur’s voice too. He’s speaking in that voice he copied from me. Suddenly, I see the lock turning, and slowly, the handle is pulled down, and the door opens to two expectant faces. My bladder freezes. Stage fright.
“MUMMMAYYYY! I SHOW YOU SOMETHING!” screeches Mabel, stomping in and grabbing my hand.
My son is triumphantly holding a ten pence coin.
“It’s OK, Mummy. You’re not locked in any more. I rescued you.” He grins, before thumping back upstairs to his bedroom.
I realise if I don’t come now, they’ll wake the baby up. Sighing, I allow Mabel to pull me into the kitchen to “show me something.” She waves her arms in the direction of the recycle bin.
“I help,” she says proudly. She’s taken all the glasses from a box, ready to be arranged into a cupboard, and put them in the recycle bin.
Great.
“Wow, aren’t you clever” I say, not wanting to anger her before Mum and Dad come. “Thank you! Here,” I say, reaching for a packet of biscuits, “have a biscuit, and take one for Artie too please.” She happily trots off.
After putting the glasses into a random cupboard, I pick up another box marked “spare room” and head to the hall to put them on the stairs, ready for Henry to carry up later. As I place it on the bottom step next to the baby monitor, also meant for the next trip upstairs, the monitor crackles to life. The sound of a lullaby I’ve never heard before fills the air.
What the actual fu…?
I stare at it for a second, fear gripping my stomach.
Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I back out of the hall and peel into the lounge where George is sleeping away to the sounds of the TV. I head back to the stairs, and the lullaby is still playing. Taking a deep breath, I pick up the monitor, then creep up the stairs to the nursery to check out the base unit of the monitor.
It’s switched off.
This is freaking me out. I stand still, listening. Voices, then another lullaby. Unsure what else to do, I switch the base unit on. The music stops and is replaced by buzzing. And then I hear breathing. Really heavy breathing.
What’s going on?
My ears prick up as I hear the sound of a car on a drive, then the slam of a door. The sound rebounds around the room, and then a gasp emanates from the monitor.
Just then, our front door bangs, and I realise it’s my breathing I hear, and my gasp.
Stupid cow. I’ve been listening to myself breathing! I turn off the base unit and then switch off both handsets. I drop them into the cot and go downstairs to greet Henry.
“Look who I met on the door step! Didn’t you hear the bell?” Henry doesn’t seem to notice that my hands are shaking and I’m still breathing deeply.
To be fair, he doesn’t have a chance, because before I can say anything, Mabel bellows, “I GOT A BABY BROTHER!” She heads straight for her “Ganma.” She yanks my mother by the hand and heads towards the lounge. “COME MEET GEORGE!”
“Tom!” Henry and I say in unison.
“George,” Mabel mutters, still tugging at my mother’s hand.
“Erm… the scans were wrong. It’s a boy!” I announce.
Dad beams and hugs me. “I’m so happy you’re all OK.”
“I told you, you know. You weren’t nearly as fat as you were with Mabel,” Mum says as she pecks me on the cheek.
“Granddad, Grandma! Come and meet George! He’s SOOOO TINY! Mummy says he looks like me!” Artie is jumping up and down, excited to show off his little brother.
“Tom, darling. Remember? We’re calling him Tom.” I ruffle his hair as I correct him.
“George,” Mabel says quietly.
Soon everyone is gathered around Tom, cooing and stroking his face, until he wakes up with a startled cry.
Poor sod. I don’t blame him. If I opened my eyes and saw my mother staring at me, I’d cry too.
Before I have a chance to stop her, my mother scoops him up and begins to bounce him up and down at full speed.
“Er, he’s just had a feed.” I will her to slow down the bouncing. I’d forgotten how much that had irritated me with the other two.
The bouncing.
“Oh hush.” My mother waves in my direction, a dismissive gesture she’s used for years. “He’s fine. Look, he’s gone quiet now. He just needed a good bounce. They all like a good bounce.” She’s nearly hopping from foot to foot with the effort now.
Henry comes in with a tray of coffee and a plate of biscuits; the kids descend on the biscuits. Everyone sits except Mum, who continues to bounce as she silently takes in the lounge décor.
This is getting awkward.
“So, what do you think of Tom then?” Henry asks, attempting to break the silence. Before anyone can answer, Mabel lets out a roar and throws herself onto the floor.
“GEORGE!” she screams, her face going red and her legs banging up and down. “GEORGE, GEORGE, GEORGE, GEORGE.”
“Why does she keep saying George?” my dad asks, looking amused, which only infuriates Mabel more. She kicks her legs so that she makes her way across the floor towards my dad, and then she starts hitting him, still screaming. He ignores her.
I love my dad.
“It was the nickname we used for Tom until we could decide what to call him,” Henry explains.
“GEORGE, GEORGE, GEORGE!”
This is getting embarrassing. I glare at Henry, and he looks blankly at me before finally getting the hint.
“Mabel, darling, don’t you like the name Tom?” he asks, squatting down next to our daughter. Her tear-stained face is now red and covered in snot.
“No! George!” she screams at him.
“But we’ve called him Tom. His name is Tom!” I say, losing patience.
She can be so pig-headed at times.
“I quite like George, you know,” says Dad, not looking me in the eye. Arthur, who has been mesmerised by Mum’s bouncing skills, goes to sit on his granddad’s knee.
“Me too, Mummy. Call him George!”
Mabel has gone quiet, but her bottom lip is still wobbling. I sigh. I’m not sure I can be bothered to argue any more.
I look at Henry, who nods his head.
“Oh OK then!” I say, knowing I’ve lost. But I can’t help laughing because Arthur and Mabel jump up and down, squealing and clapping.
“Right. Now that’s over with,” Mum pants, looking rather red in the face, “I have to ask: Is the rest of the house as bad as this room?”
Just then, George throws up on her rather expensive blouse, and I know he’s going to be my
favourite child ever.
3.
I wonder if punching your husband in the face for lying diagonally across the bed while you’re busy with a crying baby is counted as assault?
Surely the judge would be sympathetic to the fact that I haven’t slept for six years and the fact that I have a two-week-old baby.
Instead of punching him though, I shove his shoulder so he rolls back onto his side of the bed. As he does, he stops snoring. Still irritated, but desperate for sleep, I snuggle down and close my eyes.
He’s dribbled on my pillow.
I can’t believe he’s done that. I want to kill him.
I lie there and count to ten. I feel myself calming down, and just as sleep washes over me, I hear the familiar sound of George waking up for his next feed.
Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
He is, though. I can tell. The little noises, which I find so sweet during the day, now fill me with fear.
When did I become scared of a baby?
Sighing, I ease myself up and scoop him into my arms. As he settles into his feed, I grab my phone and flick through the various social networking channels. No updates. How boring.
I suppose it has only been two hours since I last checked.
I breathe in George’s milky smell and stroke his cheek. He is so lovely. I don’t know why I didn’t want him to wake up. Yes, I’m a bit tired, but this is just so… so perfect.
I drop my phone onto the night table, and we sit in silence until he’s finished. Propping him up to wind him, I aim him in Henry’s direction. This time, there’s no sick, just a few bubbling trumps, then a warm feeling on my lap.
Shit.
I look down, and yes, there’s shit on my PJs. I climb out of bed and hold George at arms’ length, then make my way to the nursery, watching as the brownish-yellow stain spreads down one of the legs of his sleep suit.
How can one small child make so much mess?
I gag a bit as I clean him up, then nuzzle his hair as I walk back to the bedroom. Of course the instant I lay him down in his Moses basket, he cries. Little whimpers to begin with, but they get angrier. I try to resist, but I can’t. I cave and pick him up.
