by Aimee Horton
He stops crying immediately. I bounce him until his eyes droop and his body slumps back into sleep. Slowly, I lower him back down, and before I even take my hand out from under his head, he starts to scream. Really, really loudly. I pick him up, and he is quiet again.
The little…
This continues for five more goes. Before losing the will to live, I lay him on the bed next to Henry. I tug the breast pads out of my nursing bra and place them next to George’s face. He continues to cry.
I’m sure I read that laying breast pads next to the baby helps him settle? It makes him feel like he’s close to his mother.
Or does that make him hungrier? Lying next to something that smells like food would make me hungry.
Either way, after two weeks of struggling to settle him in the night—never in the day—I am willing to try anything. After all, that bloody “sleep sheep” didn’t work, did it?
Henry doesn’t even stir as the screaming next to him gets louder and louder. I shoot him another totally pointless look.
Idiot.
I scoop George up and begin to rock him, side to side, up and down, until after a few moments the crying stops again. I watch as his little mouth and body relax into sleep, carrying on for a bit longer just to be sure. Then slowly… carefully… I settle him back into the basket. My hand is still on his chest, and I leave it there for a few seconds, until finally, I ease it away and take a nervous step back. Silence.
Result.
I rummage in the laundry basket for a nearly clean nightie. Changing into it, I notice there’s a bit of poo on my arm. I wander into the en-suite, glaring (as I do every time I go in) at the naked woman tiled into the walls. She looks back at me, judging me, probably unable to believe that this wild-haired mess would dare enter her bathroom. Arm washed, I head back to the bedroom.
The light illuminates my husband—the man of my dreams—sprawled across my side of the bed cuddling up to my pillow. Again.
Rage.
I resist the urge to punch him. Or even to flick the light on and off until he stirs, knowing it will only wake George, who is still resting peacefully in his basket.
I just want to pick him up and squeeze him when he’s like that.
Instead, I climb into bed. The clock blinks four forty-five a.m. at me, and a nervous panic grips my stomach. In less than two hours, the day will begin. I need to get some sleep.
I’ve got the kids on my own tomorrow.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten. Starting from my toes, then my stomach and my tired arms. I tell my body to relax. All the way up to my head, until finally I feel myself drifting off.
THUD!
I jump, but my heart rate goes back to normal as I hear little toddler footsteps on the landing. Then, the voice, which usually creates so much joy, screeches loudly, like nails down a chalkboard.
“MUMMAYYYY I DONE A POO POO!”
I want to cry, but instead I kick Henry. This time, it’s his turn.
~~~~
HOW THE HELL IS IT EIGHT-FIFTEEN A.M.?
I’m still in bed. I’ve looked at my clock, my watch and finally my phone. I don’t want to believe that all three are correct, because that would mean school starts in forty-five minutes.
George is still asleep next to me, and for a second I panic and move my hand over his face, hoping to feel his breathing. He starts to squeak so I quickly whip it away. The house is quiet, but I convince myself, just for a second, that Henry has taken pity on me. That he’s quietly got himself and the kids up and dressed, that they’re all downstairs eating breakfast. That all I need to do is sort myself and pack lunches.
Yes, that’s it.
I drag myself out of bed. The house is silent as I make my way towards Mabel’s room; the gate across her door is still closed. Peering in, I see them both; Henry kneeling on the floor, head on the bed, and Mabel, her arms around his neck in some sort of headlock. Both are fast asleep, and the room smells like cuddles and milk.
Bugger!
I hate being late. It makes me feel sick, and today is worse. Today is my first school run on my own. Today, Henry is back to work.
Back to freedom.
I shake Henry, and he wakes with a jump. I thrust my watch in front of him, and the panic descends on his face.
We both want the first shower, because whoever showers second has to get the kids dressed and make breakfast.
Taking full advantage of Mabel being wrapped around his neck, I dash to our en-suite, slamming the door and locking it behind me.
He’s always late anyway.
I don’t know how, but we make it through the school gates with the dregs of the late arrivals. It might be a minute after nine according to my phone, but as the classroom door is still open, I think that counts as being on time.
I drag the kids across the playground towards Arthur’s classroom and am greeted by a mum I haven’t seen since before George was born.
“I heard you had the baby! Where is she? At home with Henry?” she trills, kitted out in Boden, with perfectly straightened hair.
Idiot. He’s in the sling on my front. Instead, I say sweetly, “Oh here he is, in the sling!” I smile and continue walking, noticing a group of mothers approaching. Quickly, I slip Mabel another Malteser, hoping she will continue to sit quietly in her pushchair. They surround me like vultures.
“Oh bless you, you look knackered!” one says with a sympathetic head tilt.
“Not long now… oh you’ve had her… him,” says the skinny woman with a face like a horse.
“Have you made your bug costume yet? I bet you have! Evie wants her wings to flap. It’s going to be tricky, but we just have to soldier on, don’t we?” That’s Uber-Mum. Already in her gym kit, iPod attached to her arm.
I hope they all fall over and face plant the pavement. Onto a really pointy stone.
I field the questions as quickly as I can, continuing to walk as they talk, using the pushchair as an “annoying mum” road sweeper.
Finally we reach Artie’s classroom. I plant a kiss firmly on his head and then nudge him inside. At this point, Mabel decides she wants to stay with her brother. She undoes her pushchair harness and collapses onto the ground, sobbing and yelling for him.
Grabbing her arm, I begin to drag her towards the nursery entrance, pulling the pushchair behind me.
Bloody C-Section. How the hell am I meant to control these tantrums?
Head held high, I smile at everyone. I refuse to look embarrassed, even though I want the ground to swallow me up. By the time I get to the nursery, Mabel has stopped crying and is holding onto my leg. I knock, and Megs, one of my favourite girls, flings the door open.
“Goodbye, Mummy!” she sings, taking Mabel and waving in my direction before shutting the door in my face.
I slump against the wall briefly, holding a protective arm around George in his sling as he sleeps peacefully.
I will not cry.
The playground is now empty. I compose myself before I make my way home, pushing the empty buggy in the sunshine.
As I turn down my street, I hear voices in the air. Picking up the pace again, desperate to catch sight of my neighbours, I round the corner just in time to see two women crossing the road near my house.
One of them has big blonde curls, with a toddler on her hip—my next door neighbor who I spotted while I was peeping through a gap in the fence. The other, a brunette, is heavily pregnant.
I speed up, hoping to say “hello,” but before I can, the door from the house opposite mine opens, and my strawberry-blonde neighbour ushers the two women inside. With what looks like a smug glance in my direction, she slams the door behind them.
They must be friends.
I’m quite jealous. Back at my old house, I had lots of friends on the street. I’d been there for years. But here, I know nobody.
Not wanting to look like an idiot standing in the middle of the street, I head up to my own house and drag the pushchair inside.
&
nbsp; After I’ve flicked the kettle on, I head upstairs to put George down for a nap. I lay him at the bottom of the pink-and-white-clad cot in his room.
He looks too small.
Not able to cope with how tiny he looks, I scoop him out again. I grab his Moses basket from our room and pop it in the cot before laying him back down. He dozes off, oblivious to how major my baby napping in his own room is.
I’m not sure I like it.
However, knowing I need to chill, I pick up the baby monitor and reluctantly leave the room.
Sitting in the conservatory, I feel lonely, even with a packet of hobnobs and a mug of hot tea. I wonder what the women across the road are talking about. Are they sharing a plate of biscuits? What are their names? Do they watch Breaking Bad too?
Stop being so melodramatic, Dottie.
Instead, I think about Jane. We’ve known each other forever. Jane’s mum and dad lived next door to my mum and dad—still do. Jane and I grew up together.
Jane’s husband, Adam, was in the navy and got killed in service when their daughter, Hannah, was only four months old. Even thinking about it now makes me want to cry. Adam and Jane had met on a night out when we were nineteen. He was on leave, and she had just started training to be a nurse. They fell in love instantly and were perfect for each other. When I met Henry, we made a great foursome. We attended each other’s weddings, threw parties for each other’s first houses and were inseparable. Now Jane is left alone with Hannah. She lives in a little “Jane Flat,” which is actually her mum and dad’s double garage converted into a cottage for her.
Now I miss her even more and am glad she’s coming over later. Hannah is the same age as Arthur, and they’re the best of friends. I hope that will last forever, like Jane and me.
I head to the cupboard for more hobnobs, stopping to check the fridge to make sure there’s enough wine for later.
Me, Jane and a few bottles of wine. Who needs the ladies across the street?
4.
I’m not the only person to make a boob of themselves at the worst possible moment, am I?
I can’t wait for Henry to get home. For the entire week he’s been in Scotland, there has been one disaster after another. Topped off by the visit we’ve just had at my mother’s house.
Looking in the passenger seat at Artie, then in the review mirror at a constantly snot-stained Mabel and a sleeping George, I sigh. I was relying on Mum helping me get the green out of them—not make it worse.
Arthur had been given a green slime kit by our neighbour yesterday. She’d dropped it off, saying her son was allergic to something in the ingredients and thought the kids might like it.
Unfortunately, I didn’t read the instructions all the way to the end. Perhaps if I had, I’d have realised the “essential” plastic gloves were missing, and I wouldn’t have let them bathe in it. Now, all three of my children are green.
My one-month-old baby is green.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Artie?” I try to be cheerful although I’m dreading what Henry will say when he realises all three children resemble the Incredible Hulk.
“What’s that smell?”
I sniff the air, and as I do, the car makes a horrid groaning noise. Before I have a chance to work out what’s going on or pull over, my car comes to a juddering stop right in the middle of the single-track road.
Shit.
I try the engine a couple of times, but nothing—just more smoke.
“Fuck, shit, bollocks,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“NEVER repeat those words,” I say to Artie. “Mummy will take some pocket money out of her purse for being so bad!”
“Bollocks,” Mabel whispers to herself. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.” She dances her doll on her leg.
I’m about to chastise her when I see a car coming towards us. Leaping out of my own still-smoking car, I jump up and down, waving.
“Helloooo… I could do with some help please!” The car slows down, and I realise it belongs to my new neighbor across the road.
“Hi! Hello! Oh thank goodness it’s you!” I shout, although I know she can’t hear me. The car continues slowly, and as it bumps onto the grass verge, my red-haired neighbour catches my eye and smiles.
Oh thank God.
But instead of stopping, the car passes me, bumps back onto the road and speeds off.
Bitch! What am I going to do now?
Before I have a chance to burst into tears, a knocking from the window makes me turn around. Artie is holding up the little yellow card I keep in the ashtray with my spare change.
Of course! Breakdown cover!
“You’re a genius!” I beam, ruffling my son’s gross-looking hair and taking the card.
Just as I begin to dial, a white van blasts its horn and bumps my wing mirror as it races past.
“We’re going to die aren’t we, Mummy?” Arthur says in a scarily calm voice, looking at me with wide eyes.
Probably.
“No, darling!” I trill, waiting for the breakdown company to pick up. They finally do and then ask questions I have no idea how to answer. I mean, who knows their registration plate number?
As I am confirming that no, actually, I’m not in a safe place and really, half an hour to get here? George wakes up.
~~~~
Henry is lying on the kitchen floor laughing at me. Actually, he’s not lying, he’s rolling. His knees are tucked up to his chest, and he’s rocking from side to side, laughing hysterically.
I’m standing, arms folded, glaring at him and waiting for him to stop. He’s not even been home an hour, and I wish he’d just bugger off back to Scotland again.
“So… all the time they were trying to fix your car and put it on the tow truck, your boob was out?” He hyperventilates and uses the time when I answer with a stony silence to finally calm down enough to stand up. “And in the truck, next to him? With the kids? Your boob was out? All that time?” He wipes away a tear. “Oh Dottie, you are funny.”
I don’t think it’s funny though. I’m mortified. I’d been feeding George while I was waiting for the breakdown people. I must have fallen asleep, because they’d woken me up with a knock on the window. It wasn’t until they’d driven off, leaving us at our front door while they towed my stupid car off to the garage that I realised my shirt was open and my boob was still out.
Nipple and everything.
“I’m going for a bath,” I say, slamming my gin glass down in frustration at his lack of sympathy. “You can order us dinner instead of me cooking, and while you’re waiting for it to be delivered, you can work out how you’re going to get me a car that’s reliable and safe for our children.” I turn and flounce dramatically out of the room.
That should guilt him into not suggesting a bloody Skoda again.
Upstairs, I run a huge bath and try my hardest to ignore the horrendous décor left by the previous owners.
I’ve left my book downstairs, but I can’t go and get it because I don’t want to look like I’ve backed down. So instead, I root through a box next to the bed and find an old copy of Grazia. I plonk it next to the bath before pulling my clothes off and throwing them on the floor next to the laundry basket in a (even I would admit) childish act of rebellion.
Then I realise nobody else is going to pick them up, so I quickly pop them in the basket.
Sinking into the bath, I close my eyes and feel the hot water soak into my skin, and things seem a bit better.
Does it really matter that he saw my boob? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
Opening my eyes, I catch sight of the naked lady tiled into the wall, who seems to be staring at my hands. Thank God the body scrub I tried earlier has taken most of the green off me. I’m not sure the kids will stand for such rigorous scrubbing.
Although the way Mabel has behaved today, I would quite enjoy it.
Glancing back at Tile Lady’s judgemental face, I wonder if it’s actually sympathy—not judgement.
After all, let’s face it: What I’m really angry about is how my neighbour drove off and left me.
Henry reckons she mustn’t have realised it was me, but I know she did. She looked me in the eyes for crying out loud.
And then smiled as she drove off.
Wanting to forget about it all, I lean back and dunk my head under the water. Feeling my hair swish around, I remember how when I was little I used to pretend to be a mermaid with my hair floating around my face.
Life was so much easier back then.
I lay there for a few more moments as my hair sinks to the bottom of the bath, then lift my head and rest it against the tub, letting out a sigh as I finally start to relax.
What’s that noise?
I sit up and try to listen harder. Panting, then high-pitched squeaking, then a thud. It repeats, with the sort of rhythm you hear when there’s a zip that keeps catching in the tumble dryer.
Where’s it coming from? What is it?
It sounds like it’s out in the hall, so I ease out of the water to investigate. Then I hear it. A low moan. I freeze.
“You dirty little bitch,” a husky voice whispers.
“Do it, do it harder,” a woman responds.
OH MY GOD. Someone is having sex! Who though?
I spot the flashing red and green lights on the baby monitor lying on my bed. Grabbing a towel, I nearly fall out of the bath as I race into George’s room, only to remember as I see the empty cot that he’s downstairs with Henry.
What the hell is going on?
I tiptoe back into the bedroom. The lights on the monitor are still flashing, and I can still hear the sounds of sex.
I should turn it off.
Wrapping my towel around me, I pick up the handset and sit on the bed, rubbing my hair dry as I continue to listen.
They’ve been going at it for quite a long time.
Finally, it ends in a shuddering climax from him, and what I personally think sounds like a fake one from her. I eye the bedroom door, checking that neither of the older children are there. They’re not. Neither is Henry, who for some reason I don’t think would approve of this.
