Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  “Sorry about the mess. Heavy night!”

  On top of the note, he had left a five pound note and three one pound coins! He must have surveyed the damage in the bedroom and in the bathroom and thought,

  “It’s a real mess in here! Really bad! It’s worse than a fiver’s worth of mess, but maybe not quite a tenners worth!”

  I told the manageress and the man in question was billed for a further night as his room was deemed unfit for occupation for the next day. I’m sure if that man’s mother was still alive and she had heard what he’d done, she’d have been ashamed. If Richie and I did have a boy, I was definitely going to teach him some manners and some decent toilet habits!

  At thirty two weeks pregnant, I called it quits at the hotel and started preparing our home for the new arrival. It was an exciting but expensive business, as we had to buy a car seat, a ‘Moses’ basket in case we decided that we didn’t want the child and would put it in a basket and float it down the river, a cot, a pram, baby clothes and all this was on top of converting our spare room to a nursery. I seemed to be pregnant forever and the arrival of the baby felt like something that Richie and I would talk about endlessly but would never happen. Just before I packed in work, the dreaded stretch marks came and by the time I eventually went into labour, they had arrived all over my medicine ball of a belly like a hundred jelly worms tattooed under my skin. They were gross and Richie’s sex life died on the spot once I saw them in the mirror. I have to feel sexy to have sex and if I feel repulsed by my own body, its hard to get in the mood! His sex life was given a mini-revival when I was several days overdue and Amy advised that her and Jim had triggered Gracie’s labour by indulging in a sex session. I let Richie start, but unlike Mastermind, I did not let him finish, as I had visions of the midwife doing an ‘internal’ and emerging with Richie’s sperm all over her gloves! His sex life flatlined again after that and I’m sure Richie thinks that it was never the same again, which to an extent is true.

  Sex did not start my labour. Prostaglandin did! I was ten days overdue with swollen ankles, feet, legs, arms, face and belly. I was so big, Richie nearly rolled me into hospital. A few days earlier, the Doctors and Midwives had said if the baby had not arrived naturally by the Monday, that I should come back in after the weekend and they would “get things started”. All that weekend, I was willing the baby to get moving, but other than Braxton Hicks, nothing happened, so on the Monday morning, Richie and I traipsed in to Nottingham City Hospital and a cheerful, young midwife inserted a pessary on Monday afternoon that she said would ripen my cervix and induce labour, although she did warn it may take some time! She wasn’t wrong! “Proper” labour started about thirty hours later!

  In the ante-natal classes that I had attended and Richie had usually avoided, the Midwife often discussed birthing plans and encouraged us to make one, but I didn’t know where to start, as how can you plan for something you don’t know how you are going to cope with. You could plan that you are not going to have any drugs whatsoever and then halfway through decide its all too much and you need an epidural. The Midwives kept telling us that every pregnancy and labour is different, so it just seemed senseless to plan. All I can say is, however painful I imagined childbirth to be, it was twice that bad! During several contractions, I actually thought that I was going to die from the pain because it was so intense! No mother ever tells you that when you are glowing! After I came out of hospital, I felt like knocking on every mother’s door on our street and saying,

  “You bitches kept that to yourselves, didn’t you?”

  In labour, I survived until I was about five centimetres dilated on gas and air. The contractions were coming more and more regularly, so the second I had the vaguest hint of an oncoming contraction, I would snatch the mask from Richie, breathe in and out desperately through it and then toss it on the floor once it passed off. Richie would then scramble around on the floor, picking it up ready for the next one! Some friends of mine have slagged off their partners during their labour, but Richie did all I asked of him. Ultimately, the male is pretty helpless in the whole event and if he can manage to be supportive without you wanting to rip his head off, then that has to be deemed a success. Richie pretty much struck the balance right between interfering and sitting back on his arse and doing nothing. I’d say he was involved but not pushy.

  My main support through the labour was my midwife, Niamh, who was originally from Dungannon in County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. She said she had moved over to England in 1993, after two civilians were killed in her area, after they had mistakenly been identified as IRA members. Niamh said she had not known them personally, but it signalled to her that it was time for a fresh start. Richie said the following day that Niamh was obviously on the Catholic side of the religious divide. He understood it all better than me. For me, if you believe in God, you should all just be respectful to each other, it seems ridiculous that you would kill someone for sharing the same Christian faith but choose to practice it, in a slightly different way. I said this to Richie and he said the problems are deep rooted and he only had a basic understanding of it himself. All I know is that Niamh was lovely and there for me when I needed her, she was encouraging, knowledgeable and superb at her job. In the times, I just felt like giving up, she would say things like,

  “Well, I don’t think that baby of yours is going to let you give up! Come on now, Jemma, you’re doing really well, you seem so in control, it’s hard to believe you are having your first baby!”

  I think she must have blinked each time I threw the gas away!

  The best thing about Niamh, was that she did not try to lead the birth by bullying me into doing things I did not want to do, she was just there as a guide. A mentor. The fact that she was so relaxed definitely did not lead to me being relaxed too, but I was probably calmer because she was there.

  Given the drama I have experienced in my life, I was expecting my childbirth to be riddled with complexities for both myself and the baby, but I had what Niamh described as a “wonderful, problem free labour.”

  If only it had been pain free too! Once I got to five centimetres dilated the gas and air started making me vomit. To help me through Niamh suggested Pethidine, which she explained was a fast acting, analgesic drug. I was happy to try this, as I was not coping well with the gas and I was frightened of having an epidural, so this seemed like a sensible solution. All in all, I think the Pethidine helped me cope with the contractions until I got to the stage that I was ready to push. Someone, probably Richie, told me relative to the size of the pelvis, humans have the biggest heads of any mammals, so getting the baby’s head out, stung like mad. I reached a stage where I felt an almighty urge to push, Niamh confirmed that I was fully dilated and I just felt overcome by this increasing pressure. Richie always tells the story to friends that I was literally howling with pain, noises were coming out of me the likes of which he had never heard from me or anyone else, for that matter!

  “Just keep going, Jemma! You’re almost there!”

  Richie encouraged from between my legs. All along, he had said he would stay at the top end throughout, but curiosity had got the better of him and he had dropped down to the business end. He was so fascinated, he could have done with a miners lamp, as he was looking right up my insides,

  “I can see the baby’s head!”

  “Ooooowwwww!” I screamed.

  “Keep going Jemma! Almost there! Keep pushing!”

  “It’s alright for you!” I said in between grimacing pushes, “it feels like you’re burning my labia with a blow torch!”

  For the last half hour, Niamh and Richie turned into my cheerleaders and they both must have said,

  “Just one more push!” a dozen times each.

  Eventually though, the final push arrived and Niamh passed the baby on to my chest.

  “Congratulations Jemma and Richie! You have a beautiful baby girl!”

  Melissa Kelly Billingham was born at 9.52pm on Monday 7th June 1999, we
ighing seven pounds, three ounces, which I think they said was 3.3 kilograms. She was, and still is, the most stunningly beautiful creature that God has ever created.

  Richie

  Jemma was already in bed when I came in. The lights were off but my side of the bed was closest to the door, so I just clambered in, snuggling in close to her. Jemma was facing away from me. I put my hand inside her pyjama bottoms and felt her cold, sexy backside against my palm.

  “Good night, Richie!” Jemma stated pleasantly. I took my hand out and reached over to kiss her.

  “Good night honey!”

  There was a silence that lasted maybe thirty seconds.

  “Take that thing off me!” she stated firmly like a policewoman tackling a snake.

  “What thing?” I innocently protested.

  “Richie, you know very well what thing!”

  “You used to love it!”

  “I used to have a decent night’s sleep without one baby crying every two hours and the other one sneaking between us at six o’clock in the morning! I’m knackered, Richie!”

  “So am I, Jemma, but I’m still attracted to you.”

  “It’s different for girls, Richie!”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve gone off me!”

  “Richie, it sounds to me like I’m absolutely knackered. Now good night!”

  “Good night!”

  I left it for a few seconds, sulking, before adding, “Have we had sex this year?”

  “It’s been about three weeks, Richie.”

  “We used to have sex about twenty times in three weeks.”

  “Yes, and as a result of that we had two children and as a result of them, I’m knackered. Now for the last time, good night!”

  As a mark of protest, I got back up out of bed.

  “Where are you off to now?” Jemma asked. “To watch TV. I’m not tired.” “Why did you come to bed then?”

  “You know why I came to bed.”

  “Maybe at the weekend, babe, if I’m not so tired.”

  “I heard that one last week, Jemma and the week before.”

  “I can’t help being shattered. I don’t know what you expect.”

  “The odd night of affection!”

  “You get the odd night of affection!”

  “Whatever, Jemma!”

  I grabbed my dressing gown from behind the door and headed downstairs, trying to choose between Playmates and the Playstation as I went. The Playstation won this time, but I knew if another fruitless weekend passed me by, the allure of the football management games would soon diminish. I felt miserable. At that point, I felt like I had a wife and children that I adored but for the first time in our marriage, I started to wonder if this was just a one way thing. Maybe Jemma no longer felt the same way about me. It all felt wrong. I was married to someone who treated me like her brother. Maybe if I spoke to someone else about this, another bloke with kids, I could get a better perspective on things. Maybe if everyone else with kids was the same, I’d feel better. Maybe I should speak to Jim or ‘Dogger’. Yes, that’s what I’d do, I’d speak to one of those guys, but first of all I needed to get Accrington Stanley back into the Premiership!

  Jemma

  “I don’t know how you do it, Jemma!” Amy said, as she wiped Gracie’s nose. We were in Ormskirk at one of the soft play centres where a hundred under fives ran around in all directions like a herd of cats. Gracie was a beautiful thing, with jet black curls and a gappy smile, she had managed to avoid her father’s looks, but she did have an innate ability to create more snot than a bucket of snuff.

  “You just manage,” I replied, speaking in a barely audible shout, as the din of a hundred children is louder than the roar of a Wembley crowd, “two kids under three is hard work, but what can I do? I just have to get on with it and cope as best I can. Melissa’s very good, she’ll play with her dolls or watch the TV, it’s just this fella, who causes all the trouble.”

  I pointed at Jamie who was now six months old. He was all chubby cheeks and rolls of fat. He was sat up in his pushchair watching the older children, wishing he was old enough to throw plastic balls at other kids heads. I gave him a rusk to take his mind off his lack of mobility. Jamie was born by caesarean section due to being breech and from labour to date, he’d been difficult! He was a poor sleeper, he’d struggled with colic, wouldn’t latch on to the breast, everything that had been straightforward with Melissa became difficult with Jamie. He was adorable, but “problematic” was his middle name.

  “No!” Amy yelled back as loud as a whisper, “I was talking about you and Richie! How do you do IT?”

  I contained my smirk, I was pretty open about sex, but Amy and I had not discussed it for a long time and all of a sudden I felt we were both teenagers again, talking about “doing it” over a bottle of Thunderbirds or Asti Spumante.

  “Are you asking me who takes what position, Amy?”

  “No! Don’t be daft! I’m not interested in the graphic detail, I just mean you’ve got both Melissa and Jamie, so you’ve obviously done it at least twice in the last three years and at least once in the last eighteen months. How do you find the energy for sex? Since I had Gracie, I hardly have the energy to switch the light off!”

  “Surely you must do it from time to time?” I asked, bizarrely intrigued given the thought of Amy and Jim in sexual mode was not a pleasant one.

  “If the first time is Christmas 1998 and the second time is Easter 2000, then yes, we do it from time to time!”

  “Bloody hell! I thought we were bad!”

  “Why, how often are you?” Amy asked, before Gracie, who had wandered off after blowing her nose came back, offering her tissue to her mother as though it was a snot filled boomerang.

  “Gracie, be a good girl and take your tissue to the bin,” Amy commanded.

  “Once or twice a month.” I answered.

  Amy was taken aback.

  “Once or twice a month! Even now? You dirty cow!”

  “You need to speak to Richie, he thinks he’s hard done to!”

  “You must be joking!” Amy laughed, “Richie needs to get some perspective from Jim! Once or twice a month! That’s like every other weekend!”

  “Every other Sunday night to be precise!”

  “Is it “proper” sex too?”

  “Proper sex?”

  “Drink, starter, main course, afters, coffee?”

  “Not really. More like quick kiss, dips his little finger in to check if it’s going to hurt to squeeze the big boy in, if he thinks it will, out comes the K-Y, then he clambers on top, asks if he’s squashing me, if not, half a dozen thrusts, a quick groan, asks if I need a tissue then says goodnight.

  I can’t really be bothered to be honest, but three minutes of thinking of England is better than a whole month of self-pitying moans. I love Richie with all my heart, but making love needs to be atmospheric and when you’ve got two kids under three, there’s more atmosphere on the moon than in our bedroom! It’s OK feeling sexy when you’ve got no kids, but for the first twelve months after they’re born, your nipples drip and you stink of milk or baby vomit, then after that, they start tottering around everywhere and by the time you get them to bed, you just want to go too. I wear crap clothes, I never have time to do my hair or my make up, my bits and my stomach still bear the scars of childbirth. There is just nothing sexy about motherhood!”

  Amy nodded in agreement. Gracie returned from disposing of her tissue,

  “Mummy, can you play with me?”

  Amy was not interested in playing with Gracie, I think she was delighted to hear everyone else in the world was not having passionate sex whilst she abstained.

  “Gracie,” she said, “leave Mummy to talk to Auntie Jemma for a minute. Go and play with Melissa over there in the ball pit. Good girl…”

  Gracie waddled off.

  “It’s not like that for men though, is it?” Amy said seamlessly reverting to adult conversation like all good mothers do, “I mean, if it wa
s about atmosphere for men, every heroin addicted hooker would be out of business. It’s like fulfilling a need in men, like drinking or eating or having a wee.”

  “Exactly, but you’re not fulfilling that need of Jim’s…”

  “No,” Amy said, “but it doesn’t stop him though! He just does it to himself! He used to stay up later than me and get himself excited by someone on the TV or the internet, but he doesn’t even bother doing that now. He comes to bed with me and just lies there next to me, pushing and pulling!”

  “How romantic!”

  “I’m used to it now! Rather him than me! Jim just says if I’m not game, he’ll sort himself out!”

  “I don’t even think Richie plays the home games.”

  “Come off it!”

  “No, no, I don’t think he does. I’ve never seen him.”

  “You’ve never seen him breathe in oxygen, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t do it!”

  Melissa who had played like an angel for the last half hour toddled towards me looking like she had something on her mind, as her normally smiling face was wearing a slight frown.

  “Mummy, I need a wee wee!”

  “OK honey,” I said standing up, “Mummy’s coming!”

  “Not something Mummy does very often!” Amy chipped in.

  “Look who’s talking!” was my retort.

  Amy stood up too and accompanied me on our slow trek to the ‘Ladies’, as I pushed Jamie’s pushchair along with one hand and guided Melissa through the bedlam with the other.

  “Do you think they’re happy though?” I asked.

  “The kids?”

  “No, our husbands.”

  “I’m sure they are. Every mother with young kids will be exactly the same as us. Maybe not as harsh as me, but certainly Richie’s lucky to be greasing his pole twice a month!”