Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012

by Nick Spalding

  Instead she nurses a cup of sweet tea - because that’s what you do when you’ve had a shock: drink sweet tea. Quite how a sugar rush and caffeine injection is supposed to calm your nerves is beyond me, but what do I know? I can’t even screw my missus without putting a baby in her belly.

  ‘What are we going to do Jamie?’ Laura asks, staring at the television - where Sky News reporter Joey Jones is standing outside Number Ten, telling us all about the new tax breaks for working families. The coincidence is eye watering.

  ‘I don’t know, baby. I really don’t.’

  Now, there is one suggestion I could put forward…

  But it is a horrible suggestion. The kind of suggestion you hope to never make in all the days of your life.

  Sometimes though, necessity trumps all other considerations – and this is one of those times.

  ‘Do you… do you want to have it?’ I ask. ‘Because, you know, you don’t have to.’ The words are like ashes in my mouth. I can’t believe I even said it.

  ‘Do you mean a… a… ’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘It is an option.’ An awful, awful option.

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

  The logical, sensible part of me says: ‘Yes, oh God yes. We don’t have enough money, or time, or money to have a baby right now.’ But looking at Laura, her beautiful blue eyes glistening with tears, I just can’t imagine ever putting her through that kind of… procedure.

  This is the woman I love.

  The reason why she’s now pregnant is because I love her. Because I made love to her. This baby is a product of that love.

  Alright, it wasn’t the most romantic bunk-up in history, but it wasn’t a casual, meaningless shag either.

  ‘No,’ I say emphatically. ‘I don’t want that.’ I take her hand. ‘I love you baby, no matter what, and if you’re going to have my baby, then you are going to have my baby.’ I sit back a bit. ‘Unless you don’t want to have it of course.’

  She laughs.

  It’s a short, brittle sound, but a laugh none-the-less. ‘I hadn’t even thought about not having it, to be honest. All I’ve been thinking about is how big my arse is going to get.’

  ‘Don’t forget your tits,’ I say, smiling for the first time in what feels like a century. ‘They’re going to be massive.’ I waggle my eyebrows at my tired wife and make obscene grabbing gestures with my hands, making her giggle.

  She wipes her eyes and sniffs. ‘It’s going to be bloody hard, honey,’ she says. ‘Me without a job, I mean. The money from the sell-off isn’t going to last long.’

  I put my arm around her. ‘We’ll be alright. I can grab some extra freelance stuff. Maybe you could find some too.’

  She gives me a withering look. ‘What? Like a freelance chocolate maker?’

  ‘Yeah! Why not? That kind of thing exists, yeah?’

  Of course things like that don’t bloody exist. I’m clutching at straws, but I’ll say anything right now to keep the mood away from abject misery.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replies, and giggles again. ‘I could go to people’s houses and cook a shit load of chocolate for them.’

  ‘There you go then! I could do the marketing for you.’ I put a hand out. ‘Laura Newman: She’ll cook you a shit load of chocolate.’

  This makes her collapse with laughter, which makes me laugh too.

  I guess if you can get the shock of your life and be laughing your arse off an hour later, it must mean the situation can’t be all that bad.

  …right?

  Laura’s Diary

  Wednesday, May 22nd

  Dear Mum,

  Looking at one’s insides via the medium of a television screen is disconcerting to say the least.

  What’s going on in your body is about as private a matter as you can think of. Having it splashed across a screen – even in the shape of an ultrasound scan – leaves you feeling strangely vulnerable, even if the only people watching are your husband and the sonographer.

  It was with some trepidation that I booked the ultrasound at the local hospital.

  I mean… there are so many questions aren’t there?

  What if there’s something wrong with the baby? What if it doesn’t move? What if we can’t hear the heartbeat? What if it’s got two heads? What if it bursts from my stomach like that thing from Alien?

  Ah, Alien.

  A movie I saw once in the early nineties and have never dared to go back to since.

  At the time I was mortally terrified - and remained so for weeks afterwards. But little did I know that the memory of it would rear its ugly, acid-spitting head again when I fell pregnant.

  There’s nothing quite like a movie about a parasitical alien organism that grows inside a human body - before it bursts through the chest cavity in a gory, fatal birth sequence - to really make you feel good about having a tiny human living inside you…

  With visions of John Hurt eating Chinese food and Sigourney Weaver being probed by a disturbingly phallic tail, Jamie and I jumped in the car and made our way to Queen Alexandra Hospital for our appointment.

  Our first shock was being told the doctor wouldn’t actually be the one administering the scan.

  Instead it would be carried out by someone called a ‘sonographer'.

  This sounded to Jamie and I like a position on a Naval submarine, and we were both slightly disappointed when a dumpy Asian woman walked in and introduced herself.

  We were rather hoping for a bespectacled young man in a navy blue sweater and glasses, wearing a pair of those enormous World War 2 earphones, and speaking in a broad Brooklyn accent.

  Narinda the sonographer took us through to a room in the x-ray department.

  ‘Do you know how a sonogram works, Mrs Newman?’

  I used to run a chocolate shop Narinda, I wouldn’t know a sonogram from a Sony Playstation.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘And how about you Mr Newman?’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s an x-ray analysis of the inside of the human body…’

  This is where I generally zone out - when Jamie takes on that tone of voice.

  For some reason, he – like a majority of the male species – finds it impossible to admit that he knows little to nothing about a given topic.

  Instead of merely admitting ignorance, he’ll try to sound like he knows what he’s talking about, by piecing together random bits of information floating around his head that may, or may not, have something to do with the subject in question.

  ‘…and you hold a thing that looks like a bar code scanner at Tesco, and you run it over Laura’s belly. In fact, it’s a similar technology to the bar code scanner isn’t it?’

  Oh good God, now he’s comparing the method by which we can study our unborn baby with the way you buy a tin of beans and a fruit cake.

  What does he expect is going to happen?

  Narinda here runs the scanner over me, it beeps and the price of the baby pops up on the flaming screen?

  Narinda gives Jamie a look that one usually aims at the mentally challenged. ‘Um… no Mr Newman, it’s not like a bar code scanner. A sonogram is based on sound waves. High frequency sound waves that pass harmlessly through Laura’s body, producing an image of the baby on the screen.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jamie replies, effecting a look of studied intelligence, ‘so much like the sonar systems found on a submarine? They use it to detect enemy ships and large animals in the water. Like whales.’

  Oh fabulous, now he’s equating me with a bloody humpback.

  ‘Well… let’s get started shall we?’ Narinda says chirpily, completely ignoring my moronic husband. ‘Sit down Mrs Newman, while I check the machine.’

  I sit down on a chair that looks uncomfortably like it should live at the dentist. This does not help to alleviate my sense of unease.

  Narinda presses a few switches on a rather antiquated looking machine next to the chair (it’s got a white plastic surround. White plastic surrounds were unf
ashionable even in the late eighties) and looks back at me with the same chirpy smile. She obviously practises it in front of the mirror every morning. It’s a smile that says: ‘relax, nervous first time mother. I’ve done this a million times and while it may be a big deal to you, I’m already thinking about the tuna pasta salad I’m going to buy from the cafeteria for my lunch’.

  ‘Just lift your shirt for me, Mrs Newman.’

  Unbelievably, Jamie giggles at this.

  I know what’s happening.

  He’s nervous about the scan as well, and whenever my husband feels uptight he reverts to childhood sensibilities.

  I shoot him a look filled with sharp daggers. He shifts in his seat to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘This is the transducer,’ Narinda tells us.

  I thought that was the movie where the robots change into cars, but I keep my mouth shut because that’s obviously not right.

  ‘I’m going to run this over your belly and we’ll see what pops up,’ Narinda exclaims cheerfully.

  I don’t know what’s going to ‘pop up’ Narinda, but if it even slightly resembles an Alien face hugger you’re going to have to get out of the way of an exploding Laura Newman as quickly as you can.

  Narinda then squirts cold lubricant over my stomach. The tube makes a dispirited farting noise as it empties itself. I deliberately don’t look at my husband beside me, as there’s every chance he’s trying to suppress a look of childish glee.

  ‘Off we go then,’ Narinda says, as if we’re all going on a jolly outing to the seaside, rather than examining the alien life form currently taking up residence in my uterus.

  For a while there’s not a lot to see on the screen. Just a static cloud of white against a dark background.

  Narinda runs the transducer across my belly again, this time a bit slower. This is obviously taking longer than usual as she’s starting to look like one of those lunatics you see on the beach with a metal detector.

  A few more seconds go by and she still can’t seem to find the pot of gold she’s looking for.

  Jamie’s hand tightens on mine. We’re both feeling the tension now. Either my baby has developed superhuman powers of invisibility – which will bode well for him or her in later life – or there’s a problem.

  Heart rates increasing, we watch Narinda take another pass.

  Finally, she lets out a short laugh of satisfaction and focuses in on one point. ‘There we go, there’s your baby.’

  …and indeed, there it is.

  The child growing inside me.

  The blob that will one day become a child, anyway.

  ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ Jamie asks in a dreamy voice.

  ‘Too early to say, Mr Newman,’ Narinda tells him.

  It’s wobbling.

  The tiny peanut shaped foetus is moving about.

  Aaarrgghh! There’s a person inside me moving around!! Aaarrgghh!!

  Why did no-one bloody warn me?!

  All you ever hear about is doe-eyed mothers listening to the heartbeat for the first time, and getting all misty eyed while they gaze at the creature lurking in their womb on a small, hazy television screen.

  They don’t mention the bizarre feeling that comes with realising there’s a living thing floating around inside your body, taking up valuable real estate and nicking half your food.

  There’s a word for things that do that: parasite!

  Aaarrghhh!!

  ‘Wow. That’s so cool,’ Jamie says.

  Well, he bloody would, wouldn’t he?

  He loved Alien - and all the sequels. It’s not him that this thing is going to erupt from in a few months and proceed to systematically murder everyone on board ship!

  …okay. I have to get a grip here. I’m just having a pregnancy panic. This isn’t the first and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I’m giving birth to a baby… not the Alien.

  I take a few deep breaths as I study the image on screen. The foetus jiggles again making my heart race, but the more I look at it, the more used I become to the concept that I have a living, breathing human being inside me.

  ‘Would you like to hear the heartbeat?’ Narinda asks, knowing full well what the answer will be. Jamie and I both nod – him a little more enthusiastically than me if I’m being honest.

  ‘This is the part I love the most,’ the sonographer says happily, turning up the volume.

  It’s like listening to the sound of the universe…

  The measured ‘thump-thump, thump-thump’ is almost hypnotic. It fills the room – and it fills my entire body.

  I look at Jamie. This time the child-like expression on his face is beautiful. He looks completely awestruck.

  I’m sure I look exactly the same way.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Narinda says in a calm voice.

  It takes me a few moments to form words. ‘Yes,’ I tell her, mouth as dry as the Sahara. ‘It’s incredible.’ All thoughts of Ridley Scott horror movies are banished from my mind by that consistent thump-thump of my baby’s heart. I could listen to it forever.

  ‘It sounds like the start of an AC/DC song,’ Jamie says, doing his usual brilliant job of ruining a perfect moment.

  ‘What?’ both Narinda and I say at the same time.

  ‘Yeah! You know… da-dah, da da-dah, da-dah, da da-dah.’ He starts miming playing the drums. I start to consider divorce proceedings.

  Then, to compound matters, he starts to sing.

  ‘The video game says play me…’ It’s an awful screeching voice, like a cat having its testicles squeezed in a vice. ‘Face it on a level, but it takes you every time on a one-on-one…’ he continues, until he realises we’re both staring at him. ‘You know... it’s Who Made Who, isn’t it? Great song.’ Jamie points at the ultrasound screen. ‘Even the kid likes it.’

  I look back at the screen and yes - oh good God in Heaven yes - it looks like one tiny arm is raised above the rest of the body.

  My unborn foetus - still too small to even have an identifiable gender – has one arm aloft in a fist-pump.

  I’m going to give birth to a heavy metal fan.

  Narinda turns the volume back down with a huff.

  I can’t blame her attitude. She’s probably not used to having what she obviously perceives to be a magical moment reduced to an excuse for a fully grown man to play air drums.

  ‘Your baby looks perfectly healthy at this stage, Mr and Mrs Newman. The heart beat is strong and regular.’ And in the key of C apparently. ‘I detect no problems, and am happy to book you in for your next scan in a few weeks, when we should be able to identify the gender, if you want to know it.’

  Don’t bother Narinda. It’s obvious from the fist-pump I’m having a boy.

  ‘Thank you very much. It’s very nice to have our minds set at rest, isn’t it Jamie?’

  Jamie doesn’t answer.

  He’s sat there with his eyes closed, humming the first few chords of Who Made Who under his breath, fingers twitching rhythmically in his lap.

  ‘Jamie!’

  ‘What?’ he exclaims, startled out of the rock concert going on in his head. ‘Oh yeah, er… yeah. Minds definitely set at rest. Thanks very much for your time.’ He beams at Narinda, then looks back at me. ‘Hey Laura,’ he says, pointing at my stomach. ‘That stuff looks just like the gloop from the Alien movies doesn’t it?’

  Somehow, Jamie manages to make it out of the room without the transducer inserted into his backside.

  This once again displays my sometimes superhuman levels of tolerance.

  The drive home is a thoughtful one… for me at least.

  Rather inevitably, I’m subjected to AC/DC’s greatest hits.

  As Jamie headbangs along to the caterwauling noise, I sit back and think about what’s just happened.

  An involuntary hand goes to my belly as I remember the sound of the baby’s heartbeat. A wonderful feeling of contentment passes through me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still absolutely terrifie
d about the whole thing…

  We can’t afford a baby, I can’t imagine the damage it’s going to do to my vagina; and having a child changes your life in ways you can’t even begin to contemplate.

  But that heartbeat is undeniable… and amazing.

  This is going to be a rollercoaster ride that I won’t be able to get off. And like a rollercoaster ride, it’ll involve a lot of vomit and will end with me screaming my head off.

  Love you, miss you, and have a new found appreciation for the twelve hours of labour you went through with me Mum.

  Your contemplative daughter,

  Laura

  xxx

  Jamie’s Blog

  Tuesday 11 June

  In recent days I have been thinking only of the things I will now never be able to afford, thanks to my inability to control my semen distribution.

  I read a horrifying statistic once – back when I was young, single and didn’t care about such things – that a child costs upwards of £200,000 to bring to adulthood.

  Two hundred grand.

  That’s a three bed semi-detached, people.

  …or a Lamborghini Diablo for the weekends and a second hand Porsche 911 for the drive to work.

  …or several luxury cruises round the world, a year long cocaine binge, and a daily blow job from a high class escort girl for several months.

  I’m not saying I would ever have actually purchased any of these wonderful things, but just the mere fact I no longer can makes me sick.

  I’m trying my hardest to be positive about the pregnancy, I really am. But when your offspring is still a couple of inches of cells inside your wife’s uterus, it’s a little hard to focus on how adorable, intelligent or good at mowing the lawn they are likely to be in years to come.

  All I can dwell on is the downside.

  Mainly the raping my bank account is going to continually endure - but also the fact I’m going to have to take on the responsibility of bringing up a child in this strange, challenging and 18 certificate world.