Slowly, I make my way back upstairs, the plate held out in front of me like an offering to one of the elder gods.
In the bedroom it stirs.
One beady eye stares at me from the duvet cocoon, bidding me enter.
‘Is it crispy?’ it demands.
‘Yes, yes it is indeed crispy,’ I reply in the voice of the smallest mouse. ‘and covered in chocolate, as you requested.’
‘The Bourneville Dark?’
My heart sinks, my palsied hands begin to shake.
‘No mistress, the Dairy Milk. You finished the Bourneville last night.’ I cower, knowing the death blow may come at any time.
It snatches the plate from me, exposing one taloned hand for the briefest of moments.
‘Begone foul slave!’ it tells me… and my soul sings. Today will not be the day I am eaten alive. It spares me for another.
Once more I tug my forelock and back away as it slobbers and stuffs the chocolate covered meat into its ravenous maw.
My heavens, I do not know how much longer I can go on. The suffering.
Oh, the suffering!
***
The bacon and chocolate surprise is just the latest in the list of cravings that Laura has developed during the pregnancy.
However disgusting the combination of bacon and chocolate may sound, at least it’s edible.
A few weeks ago we were shopping in Tesco, when I realise I’ve lost my wife.
I search for five minutes before I find her in the detergent aisle with an open box of Daz. She’s sneakily popping one wet finger into the powder and licking it off, a look of ecstasy on her face.
‘No!’ I cry, and rush to snatch the box from her hand.
‘Give it back, Jamie! I want to eat it!’
‘You can’t eat detergent, woman!’
…which is a phrase no sane, reasonable person should ever have to utter.
I’ve done a bit of research about pregnancy and I know that these weird cravings happen. Something to do with the body lacking minerals and vitamins the baby needs. It all sounds perfectly reasonable.
But detergent?
In what way does it benefit mother and baby to suck down a load of washing powder?
What is there in a box of Daz that my unborn daughter thinks she needs?
Is she perhaps worried that the womb is getting a bit dirty? Does she think it could do with a good spring clean? If so, it doesn’t bode well for her ability to keep her bedroom tidy in the future, does it?
Detergent isn’t the only cleaning product Laura has inexplicably craved.
I walked into the bathroom a couple of days after the Tesco incident to find her contentedly sucking on a bar of soap like it was an ice lolly. There she was, laid out in the bath, her big belly breaking the surface of the water - with a big bar of Dove stuck in her gob.
The frothing made it look uncomfortably like she’d caught rabies.
I think she’s secretly training me for when the baby comes along. I’ll be an expert at snatching foreign objects from my daughter’s mouth, as I will have spent several months beforehand doing the same with her mother.
The longer this pregnancy goes on, the more I’m starting to realise that having a baby makes a woman lose her mind.
Laura is usually the sensible, clever, down-to-earth half of our relationship. I’m the one prone to flights of fancy, lack of common sense and moments of blinding idiocy. Having the dynamic turned upside down is deeply distressing.
The mood swings are the worst…
Case in point:
I decided last week that what we both needed was a good, hearty meal. One conducted out in public at a restaurant, rather than on our laps in front of Come Dine With Me repeats.
I’d just been paid, so it seemed like a good excuse for us to spend some quality time together in a relaxed atmosphere. We’ve both been working like dogs recently, along with dealing with the ups and downs of the pregnancy, so I thought it would be good for us.
‘Oh Jamie! That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ Laura exclaims when I tell her the plan. She then bursts into tears like I’d just shot her dog.
A couple of months ago I would have been concerned and asked her what was wrong. By this stage though, I’m well used to her bouts of uncontrolled emotion and simply let her cry on my shoulder for a few minutes until she pulls herself together.
‘I thought we could go for Italian.’
This brings on fresh waves of eye water. ‘Oh Jamie! You’re so thoughtful!’
What?
‘It’s just like the date we had. When you made the Piazza Navona in the lounge!’
‘Oh… er, yeah. That’s right.’
That wasn’t the reason I’d actually suggested pizza. I just fancied a quattro formaggi and garlic bread. But if Laura wants to believe I’ve suddenly become Captain Thoughtful Pants then who am I to let her down?
I look at my now sodden shirt. ‘I’ll just go change this and we’ll pop out then’.
‘Excellent!’ Laura beams, and we both go upstairs.
I put on a fresh shirt and go for a wee in the bathroom. Laura is out of my sight for no more than twenty seconds.
In that time though, she has gone from ecstatic about our impromptu night out, to suicidal.
‘I can’t go out!’ she wails from her perch on the end of the bed, in front of the mirror.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m an elephant!’
What?
Has it finally happened? Has my wife completely succumbed to the pressure of giving birth and lost her mind completely? Will I have to spend the rest of my days feeding her buns and mucking out her pen?
‘I’m so fat!’
Ah.
Now I understand.
I come over and sit next to her. ‘You’re not fat, baby. You’re gorgeous.’
‘No! No, look at me! I’m a big, squishy lard monster!’ As if to demonstrate, she pokes herself in the belly.
‘Don’t poke the baby, dear,’ I tell her.
‘Sorry.’
There’s a moment of silence.
‘I’m fatter than a bloody sumo wrestler!’
‘No you’re not. You look absolutely wonderful!’ I’m skating on very thin ice here. ‘You’re having our baby and because of that I’d say you look beautiful.’
Laura smiles. I do a mental back flip of self-congratulation.
‘I do?’
‘You do.’ I kiss her on the forehead. ‘And you’ll keep looking beautiful. It doesn’t matter that you’re going to get even bigger - ’
Oh, fuck it.
…and I was doing so well.
Laura looks at me with abject misery, puts her head in her hands and blubbers.
I stand up. There is nothing – literally nothing – I can do to improve this situation.
So I take the coward’s way out and leave. ‘I’m just going to check the restaurant opening times on the laptop, baby.’
Downstairs, I sit hunched over the laptop, wondering who will walk down the stairs next.
Laura could stay in the realms of self pity for the rest of the night, or she could turn into an axe murderer craving my blood. I simply have no idea.
I’ve never been so terrified in my life.
When I hear the footsteps on the stairs I cringe a bit. It’s hard to look at the doorway as Laura enters. But when I do…
Oh my.
She looks amazing.
Laura has changed into the blue maternity dress she picked up last week in town. Her hair is up, showing off her neckline, and the make-up she’s wearing simply accentuates what I consider to be the most beautiful face in the world.
On top of all that, I can see the perfect round globe of her belly beneath the dress. My daughter lies there - beneath her mother’s breast, slowly growing stronger, and heading towards the day when she’ll look at the world with her own eyes.
Laura has never been more beautiful.
‘You look incredible,’ I te
ll her.
‘Really?’ she says, unsure of herself.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry I keep flying off the handle. I just can’t seem to control myself.’
‘It’s okay.’ I go over and place a hand on her stomach. ‘It’s all going to be worth it gorgeous. You just wait and see.’
Laura smiles and we kiss.
Looks like I’m going to get my quattro formaggi after all!
The happy mood lasts about an hour and a half - which is quite good these days.
Unfortunately the restaurant is very busy and our order takes a long time to come.
Too long for my pregnant wife, whose temporary good nature is slipping away faster than a greasy squirrel on a frozen slide.
‘How bloody long is this going to take?’ she mutters, tearing a bread roll and stuffing one half in her mouth.
‘Relax, baby. They’re busy.’
‘I know they’re busy Jamie, I’ve got eyes haven’t I?’ Her head whips round. ‘This is bloody ridiculous though. We’ve been sat here nearly an hour.’
‘I’m sure they’re coming.’
And come they do about five minutes later, just as Laura is starting to stab her fork into the tablecloth. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the worst may have been averted.
‘Sorry for the delay folks,’ the waiter says. ‘Here are your pizzas.’ He deposits two plates of round, cheesy goodness in front of us and prepares to leave.
‘What exactly do you call this?’ Laura says, steel running through every syllable.
‘Your pizza madam.’
‘This isn’t my pizza. I ordered a margherita. This is quite plainly a visuvio.’ She glares at the waiter, fork hovering over the table in one white knuckle. ‘Do I look like I want a visuvio?
‘I’m pretty sure you ordered a visuvio, madam.’
Oh God.
Somebody kill me. Kill me now.
‘Really?!’ A few heads turn to look at us. ‘I’m a pregnant woman, you cock. Do you think a pregnant woman would want to eat something really spicy?’
‘I have no idea madam.’ The poor man is now looking decidedly scared.
‘Oh, you have no idea? Tell me, did your mother have any children that lived?’
Ouch.
That’s a bad one, even for angry Laura.
‘I’m sorry madam,’ he says, trying to recover the situation. ‘I will take this away and get you what you wanted.’
‘Too late!’ she screams and stabs the fork into the middle of the visuvio, narrowly missing the waiter’s hand as he goes to pick it up. ‘My husband and I are leaving.’
‘We are? But I wanted a pizza.’
The look Laura gives me contains daggers, swords, machine guns, land mines and at least one inter-continental ballistic nuclear missile.
I get up, resigned to eating sodding toast again for dinner.
Laura storms out of the restaurant, pausing only to lean over a young couple near the window, who are waiting for their meals as well. ‘You won’t get what you ordered you know!’ she barks at them, tearing them both from the romantic reverie they’d obviously been enjoying. ‘If you ordered a quattro staggioni, don’t be surprised if he brings out a plate of fucking vermicelli!’
I grab one of Laura’s arms and usher her quickly out of the front door.
I have a feeling we won’t be returning to this particular restaurant any time in the near future.
We ended up traipsing around the 24 hour Asda looking for frozen pizzas.
I picked up a four seasons for me and a ham and cheese for Laura. Both look like they’re made of cardboard, and will probably taste much the same.
It’s only when I get to the self service counter that I realise my wife is no longer with me.
When I do find her ten minutes later, I have to chase her up the aisle to get the bottle of Cillit Bang out of her hand before she takes a swig and earns herself a night in casualty.
Laura’s Diary
Friday, October 4th
Dear Mum,
It’s impossible.
Completely and utterly impossible.
I look down at the enormous bump in front of me and there is NO WAY I can squeeze its contents out of my vagina.
It’s ridiculous!
What am I, a reticulated python?
Intellectually I know it’s perfectly possible, otherwise the human race wouldn’t exist, but there’s a gigantic mental block in my head that simply can’t accept it on a visceral level.
I can see why so many women elect to have a caesarean.
In the last few days I’ve started to have not what I’d call panic attacks – but definitely panic ‘incidents’ that come and go quite at random.
I’ll be behind the counter at work thinking about nothing in particular, when this little voice will pipe up: ‘That baby’s head is going to wreck your under carriage.’
…and I’ll spend the next ten minutes frozen in fear, until a customer snaps me out of it with a question about mint thins.
On top of that there’s the whole bringing up another human being for the next twenty years part of the equation. The sheer responsibility of it threatens to crush the life out of me.
How the hell do these women squeeze out four or five of the little sods?
I know that some of them (the Housing Authority kind, who look up to Kim Kardashian and believe everything they read in The Sun) have babies so they can get benefits from the government - and thus never have to trouble themselves with finding a job.
I just can’t get my head around that.
No amount of government handouts could ever persuade me that it’s worth having my lady garden stretched to breaking point, and my life completely taken over by a miniature person with incontinence and no volume control.
I spoke of my concerns (oh, alright I cried like a bitch) to my midwife Marigold.
‘You need antenatal classes, you stupid girl,’ she said in her usual caring manner. ‘I keep telling you to go. It’ll help you with all this stuff when I’m not around.’
I admit I’ve been putting antenatal classes off.
I have enough night terrors thinking about the birth thanks to the information I do have - I don’t need my worst fears confirmed in a public setting.
I say as much to Marigold.
She shakes her head and regards me with the eyeball. ‘I never heard such girly rubbish in all my days. You think you’re the first to have these worries? Get your skinny white backside to classes and don’t talk such cow shit to me anymore!’
With this sage advice ringing in my ears, last night Jamie and I attended our first antenatal class.
I’ll give you three guesses how it went…
The first two don’t count.
‘Really?’ whines my husband when I tell him what we’re doing.
‘Yes Jamie. We need to go. I’m thirty weeks in now. There’s stuff we have to learn about.’
‘It won’t be any fun, you know.’
‘It isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be educational.’
Jamie groans even louder. ‘But it’ll be a room full of idiots like us.’
‘Look, Marigold’s recommended this class to me at the leisure centre. It’s private, so there are less people. It won’t be that bad.’
I should learn to never say ‘It won’t be that bad’ before entering into a new activity for the first time. It’s like I’m putting a curse on myself.
We bowl up to the leisure centre at six thirty to find four other couples waiting outside one of the smaller activity rooms towards the back of the building.
‘Evening,’ I say, waddling up to them. I get a few obligatory British nods of heads and muttered return greetings.
One woman, a petite Oriental girl, gives me a toothy grin. ‘Hello to you! I’m Lolly! This first time?’ she says in that clipped efficient manner Asians have when English isn’t their first language.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Ah… good! Good!’ she turns to a white guy in his fifties standing next to her. ‘They like us two week ago Brian!’
‘Looks like it,’ Brian replies. The dynamic between the two of them is fairly obvious. I have to wonder whether he paid for her up-front or on inspection of the goods at the airport.
‘Why are we all stood out here then?’ Jamie asks the small crowd of expectant parents.
‘She’s late again,’ sneers a tall, rangy looking individual in a brown sports coat near the door – one arm wrapped round his much shorter wife’s neck. Body language can be such a dead giveaway sometimes. He rolls his eyes.
‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon.’ This much friendlier response comes from a lady a good few years past forty, standing with her equally friendly looking husband of about the same age. ‘Nice to meet you love,’ she says and extends a hand, which I’m happy to take. ‘I’m Susan and this is Clive.’
‘Hello. I’m Laura and this is Jamie.’
‘Lovely.’ She regards my belly. ‘How far gone are you?’
This is a question I’ve been asked more times than any other recently.
A pattern has formed in most of my conversations, which revolves exclusively around how my pregnancy is progressing… and very little else.
‘I’m thirty weeks.’
‘Thirty five for me. First time?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Yep. Decided it was about time we produced offspring. Couldn’t have left it much later!’
She’s going to ask me if I know the sex of my baby next.
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl.’
I have to finish the ritual, to do otherwise would be rude. ‘Yours?’
‘We don’t know yet. We wanted to keep it a surprise.’
Yes, and by the look of the clothes you’re wearing you can probably afford it.
The predictable conversation is interrupted by a stick insect in a yellow jump suit. At least this is my first impression of the woman who runs the antenatal class.
‘Sorry I’m late everyone.’
Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 Page 7
