Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012

by Nick Spalding

  If you’ve been reading my blog for a while now, you’ll know that Jamie Newman and considered, thoughtful, adult behaviour are about as far apart as Katie Price’s legs.

  How the hell am I supposed to convince a child that I have anything worthwhile to contribute to their existence?

  Laura is the exact opposite of me, of course. She’s built for this stuff.

  Running your own shop for years builds an innate ability to plan and organise; skills she’s putting into good use with the pregnancy. There must be some German in her family background, as the Teutonic way she’s going about this thing is hair-raising to say the least.

  She’s already booked in the midwife appointments months in advance, can recite the timeline of a pregnancy down to the nanosecond, and has started putting together a birth pack for the trip to the hospital.

  She also likes to regale me with graphic, stomach churning descriptions of what’s happening to her body. It’s putting me off sex good and proper.

  I have a feeling this is deliberate.

  Laura positively glows with all those hormones floating about inside her body, making her look about as sexy as it’s possible to be without a soft focus lens and a Barry White soundtrack. I basically want to fuck her every second she’s awake.

  …actually, scratch that, I’d probably insert my penis into her mouth while she’s sound asleep if I thought I could get away with it.

  The stories about giving birth she likes to terrify and disgust me with (accompanied by the God-awful pictures she’s pulled off the internet) are her way of quelling the Newman horn long enough for her to get on with her day without me hanging off her leg like a rutting hound.

  We’re now way past twelve weeks into the pregnancy, which means the threat of miscarriage has diminished considerably. I didn’t even know this until Laura happily announced it a few days ago. The fact that she could have miscarried hadn’t occurred to me.

  …I’m terrible at this, aren’t I?

  It’s customary after that particular milestone to start telling friends and relatives about the newest member of the human population.

  We thought the best way would be to arrange a couple of impromptu get-togethers at our house on consecutive nights – one for friends and one for relatives. Anyone who couldn’t attend would get told via Facebook.

  I can thank Laura’s pregnancy for providing me with the first genuinely useful reason in my life to use the stupid social network.

  It’s very convenient to tell everyone that you’re going to be a father in a status update. You don’t actually have to communicate with any of them face-to-face or over the phone.

  Let’s face it, there are a limited number of people you actually care about enough to tell them the big news stories in your life.

  I feel no urge to tell Kathy Wilkins – a girl I got off with once at a school disco – that I’m going to be a dad. Nor do I feel it necessary to pick up the phone and call my cousin Alan, given that he lives in Canada, has questionable personal hygiene, and a disturbing tendency to marry women a lot (really, a lot) younger than him. I occasionally check the Montreal online newspapers… you know, just in case.

  The first announcement came on Friday evening.

  We invited just about every friend we wanted to break the news to. Laura asked Tim and Dan along (we made sure to buy plenty of man-size tissues, because those boys can cry like an Oscar winning actress when they want to), as well as her best friend Melina, her ex-flatmate Charlie, and a few other randoms I frankly don’t get on well enough with to mention here in more detail.

  I elected to keep my guest list a little smaller, knowing full well that the gossip machine and Facebook would largely do most of the announcing for me.

  Still, Ryan would kill me if I didn’t tell him to his face, so I invite him - even if it does mean having to spend a couple of hours in Isobel’s company. I was hoping those two would have split months ago, but it appears true love blossoms in the strangest of relationships.

  I’m more than happy to invite Dave and Katherine, and even happier when they tell me Angela and Mitchell are out of the country skiing, so there’s no need to conveniently ‘forget’ to ask them along.

  Our guests have no idea why we’ve decided throw this little shindig, so Laura and I have twinkley little smiles on our faces for the first hour of the evening. There’s something quite excellent about sharing a secret no other bugger knows about.

  I can understand why people think spies are cool.

  At about nine o’clock, we both get up and shush everyone into silence.

  ‘Guys, we have an announcement to make,’ I say, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Oh God, you’re getting a divorce!’ squeals Tim.

  ‘What?’ I scowl. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Tim contrives to look extremely sheepish. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Little signs…’

  ‘Little signs? What bloody little signs? There haven’t been any signs. We’re perfectly happ - ’

  ‘Jamie!’ Laura butts in before I can launch into a proper tirade. ‘We’re not getting a divorce Tim,’ she tells him.

  ‘Are you getting that sex change you’ve been on about?’ asks Ryan, sending Isobel into a fit of drunken cackling. I’m pretty sure she’s already polished off a whole bottle of chardonnay. The way she keeps shoving Ryan’s hand between her legs is a dead giveaway.

  ‘Very funny cock features,’ I retort with rapier-like wit.

  ‘Come on, tell us what it is,’ Dave shouts, earning a dig in the ribs from Katherine.

  I keep expecting one of them to guess what we’re about to say and ruin the surprise, but none of them have so far.

  I guess Laura and I have never given off the signals that we would even contemplate having kids, so why would any of them make that connection?

  I decide to concentrate on their faces as Laura gives them the big news to see what reactions it gets.

  Laura takes a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Nearly fifteen weeks.’

  Right then, here’s the scores on the doors:

  Tim and Dan: Pretty much what you’d expect. Two little high-pitched homosexual whoops, followed by furious hand flapping in front of faces.

  Dave and Katherine: Dave dumbfounded, jaw wide open. Katherine wide-eyed, but pleased.

  Melina: Delighted. Hands clapping and smiling broadly.

  Charlie: Somewhat confused. This is no surprise. Charlie is a lovely girl, but not over-blessed in the brains department. There’s every chance her brain is still working out the meaning of the word pregnant.

  Ryan: Pissing himself laughing. This is also not unexpected. The amount of conversations we’ve had about never, ever having children is in double figures at least. He will dine out on this for months - if not years - to come.

  Isobel: Hmmm. Not sure about this one. The cross-eyed, glazed expression may be a sign of happiness, but it could equally just be the wine. I don’t think massaging Ryan’s groin has much to do with her feelings about my upcoming fatherhood. Nor does the thin line of drool coming from one corner of her mouth… I hope.

  ‘That’s so, so fantastic!’ Tim squeals, this time in happiness. Dan’s hands have gone to his face in delight. I love these two, but sometimes I do wish they’d dial down the camp just a bit. ‘Ooh! Ooh! Bagsy being a Godparent!’ Tim wails.

  Dan gives him a playful clout. ‘You bitch, I was going to say that.’

  ‘Well paint me bright yellow and call me a fucking banana,’ Dave says. ‘You’re the last couple on Earth I would have expected this from!’

  ‘Dave!’ Katherine says in a horrified voice.

  ‘It’s alright Katherine, we felt exactly the same way,’ Laura says. ‘It’s taken us weeks to get used to the idea.’

  …of never buying a Lamborghini, I think in the dark recesses of the pettiest parts of my brain.

  It seems that the general reaction is a good one.

  I note that Katherine and Isobel h
ave both got their smart phones out and are probably changing their status updates. There will be tweets and re-tweets happening as well, I have no doubt.

  God bless the social network revolution. My cousin Alan will be up to speed in no time… provided he’s not been banged up for inappropriate touching by the Montreal police.

  The rest of the evening is awash with the usual questions.

  The one I’ve been dreading is asked by Isobel: ‘So, did you plan to knock ‘er up, Jame? I hope there was no pictures of Jesus nearby!’ This sends her into another gale of drunken laughter. Laura gives me a look that screams ‘you’ll be explaining that one to me in bed later, mister’.

  I’ve managed to keep the explicit details of my night of terror with Isobel to myself for two years now, but no longer it appears.

  ‘It wasn’t planned Isobel, no.’ I tell her.

  ‘But we’re happy about it nonetheless,’ Laura interjects, just to make everybody clear. I feel like she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else, but I put the thought out of my head. The horny leer Isobel is aiming in my direction is helping to do this magnificently.

  Other than that little embarrassment (thankfully Laura was so tired by the time everyone left she’d forgotten all about Isobel’s cryptic utterance) the evening ended well.

  We sent our friends off armed with all the information they’d need about the pregnancy to spread the story across the internet, and we both sat down to do our own Facebook status updates.

  Laura’s received ten times as many Likes from her largely female friends list as I did from my predominantly male one - which just goes to show who’s really paying attention, doesn’t it?

  I’d like to say that the following evening with the relatives went as well, but families (mine anyway) have a distinct and never-ending ability to fuck up even the happiest of occasions.

  Laura’s Diary

  Wednesday, June 12th

  Dear Mum,

  There are many times I wish you’d squeezed out more siblings for me to fight over the bathroom with. I always feel I missed out somewhat because I never had a large family.

  Saturday night convinced me that on the whole, I was actually better off with just you…

  Friday evening went brilliantly. Tim and Dan were beside themselves, Melina immediately wanted to tell me everything she’d learned during her pregnancy, and Ryan and Isobel had sex in the airing cupboard while the rest of us were downstairs wondering what they were up to.

  I went into Saturday night in a positive frame of mind.

  Ha!

  More fool me.

  It’s not that I don’t like my husband’s family, it’s just that I sometimes feel decidedly ganged-up on when Jamie and I are at odds. If I had you, my useless dad, or any of the aforementioned bathroom hogging siblings to back me up it might not be so bad.

  …oh, and on the subject of my shitbag of a father, I spent a fairly unpleasant hour the other night talking to Jamie about whether we should contact him to let him know he’s going to be a grandfather. The last I’d heard he was still in India somewhere – probably Goa – wearing a kaftan and smoking his own body weight in cannabis.

  Even if I did want to tell him, the chances of getting hold of the feckless idiot are slim to none.

  Jamie was dead set against it anyway. ‘All he’ll do is tell you to call it Moonbeam Sunrise or some other hippy shit, and ask if he can borrow £500 to fix his motorbike.’

  He’s probably right. It would have been nice to have a father who is actually an adult, but we can’t always get what we want - as Mick Jagger insists on telling us.

  You’re the one I really miss being here Mum, that goes without saying.

  Every time I remember I won’t be able to show you your new grandchild it makes me blub like a school girl. It’s all these bloody hormones. I seem to cry at the drop of a hat these days.

  I’m even starting to fill up now as I write this diary entry. It’s quite pathetic.

  Still, getting a few wet spots on a diary page is far better than breaking down in front of your husband’s relatives, which is what happened on Saturday.

  Jamie doesn’t have a huge family, but he’s got two more parents and two more siblings than me, so we’ll call that a win for his side.

  I get on pretty well with Jamie’s sister Sarah and brother Chris. I would get on better with his dad Michael if it weren’t for the fact he looks at my tits whenever he gets the chance.

  The relationship I have with his mother Jane has always been a bit distant, but tonight showed me there was more bubbling under the surface than I realised.

  As on Friday, we elected to keep the surprise on hold until about nine o’clock. I cooked a spaghetti bolognaise for all of us (I don’t let Jamie near the kitchen if I can help it - and we certainly never have fajitas if I do) which I took my time over to impress the in-laws.

  Thankfully Jane isn’t a particularly good cook herself. I once found three dog hairs in one of her casseroles.

  Side note: Does anybody actually like casserole? I’ve never come across anyone who does. I mean, what is it exactly? Really, really thick soup? Only that’s broth isn’t it? Either that or it’s a runny roast dinner. As far as I’m concerned you can tart the bugger up as much as you like with sprigs of coriander and mint, it’s still going to look like dog sick in a bowl when you get right down to it.

  Anyway, back to the point.

  The bolognaise went down well. Even Jane polished off her entire plate, which amazed me.

  No-one seemed to notice I wasn’t filling my glass from the bottles of white we’d opened for the occasion. I’d just surreptitiously leave the dining room every half an hour or so to recharge my glass with a carefully concealed bottle of Appletiser.

  I wasn’t feeling the excitement of a withheld secret like the previous night, and I could tell Jamie was more nervous about revealing the existence of the baby as well. Telling your mates is one thing, letting your family know – the people whose opinions really matter in the grand scheme of things – is entirely another.

  By nine, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly convivial.

  Michael had told his third golden anecdote of the evening to a chorus of polite laughter, Jane had bored everyone with how much she was loving her new gym and how her instructor was really helping with her thighs, Chris had successfully steered his mother away from sensitive questions regarding his marriage to Helena the Portuguese barmaid, and Sarah was pleased to announce she’d lost eight pounds in the last month.

  It seems like the appropriate time to drop the bombshell.

  Jamie tinks a fork on the side of his glass. I don’t know why he does this as there are only six of us present, but he likes to obey these little customs from time to time.

  ‘Stop doing that Jamie,’ his mother says. ‘You’ll set off my tinnitus.’

  ‘Sorry mum.’ He coughs and takes the legendary deep breath. ‘Laura and I have an announcement to make.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re getting a divorce, aren’t you?’ Sarah says from around the bread roll she is stuffing into her mouth.

  Jamie’s face crumples. ‘No, we are not getting a divorce. Why does everyone think we’re getting a bloody divorce? Do we give off divorcey vibes? Are you lot privy to some highly advanced precognitive abilities I’m not aware of?’ He takes a massive swig of wine in disgust and folds his arms. ‘Honestly, you try to tell people something important and they just make groundless assumptions,’ he mutters under his breath.

  ‘Don’t slouch Jamie,’ Jane tells him. ‘It makes you look like a naughty school boy. Sit up straight.’

  ‘Mum! I’m thirty two years old, for crying out loud. Don’t tell me how to sit!’

  ‘Don’t speak to your mother like that, son,’ Michael pipes up.

  ‘You do slouch a lot Jamie,’ Sarah adds. ‘You always have.’

  ‘Yeah? Well you’ve got an idiot for a face,’ Jamie sneers at her.

  ‘You’re such a b
adger’s sack, Jamie!’ Sarah wailed and the conversation descended into the kind of bickering only family members have perfected through decades of practice.

  It’s giving me a headache though, so I decide to nip things in the bud.

  ‘I’m pregnant!’ I say over the tumult.

  Everyone stops talking at once.

  Silence - pregnant silence, you might say - descends.

  Then Jane, looking squarely at my husband, says something that gives me a really good idea of her true feelings for me. ‘Is it yours?’ she says in a level tone.

  I’ve never stepped into a walk-in freezer, but I imagine the experience is much like our dining room at that moment.

  ‘Of course it’s mine!’ Jamie is livid. I just struggle not to burst into tears. ‘What the hell kind of shit is that to say, mother?’

  ‘Don’t swear, Jamie!’ Michael says.

  Jamie gives him daggers. ‘Oh sod off Dad, you swear like a paralytic docker when mum’s not around. You even did it when we were kids, so knock off the responsible parent act, okay?’

  Jane swings around to stare at her husband. ‘Michael Newman!’

  Michael swigs his beer. ‘Oh fucking hell woman, calm down. A bit of swearing never hurt anyone.’

  ‘Apologise to Laura,’ Jamie orders his mother in a cold voice.

  Chris, who has wisely stayed silent, slowly moves his chair backwards and removes his glass of wine from the table. There’s an air of resignation about his movements that suggest he’s been in the middle of one of these squabbles on many occasions.

  ‘Well…’ Jane begins and then pauses with a look of severe consternation on her face. You can see how hard it is for her to even contemplate the idea of apologising to another human being.

  Jamie has told me stories in the past that have made her out to be a harridan of the highest order. I’ve always taken them with a pinch of salt, knowing how he likes to embellish for the sake of a good yarn - but now I’m starting to realise he may have been telling the truth after all. The woman’s pretty much just intimated that I go around shagging other men.