by Poppy Dolan
‘Yes!’ I could jump for actual joy. A potential mum mate! Don’t mess this up, Stevie. Stay cool.
But I’m so studiously staying cool, I’m not saying a word as we amble around the grass. What can I ask her? What can I say? ‘Oh… er …’
‘I’m Nelle.’ She turns to me. ‘And this is Joe. My third, god help me.’
‘I’m Stevie, and this is Cherry.’ I chuck Cherry’s cheek proudly and come away with a dried-on bit of baby porridge. ‘My one and only.’
Nelle smiles. ‘A right couple of rock chicks, you two! Are you named after Stevie Nicks?’
And so begins the conversation I’ve had roughly 4,000 times in my life.
‘Yup. My mum was living in the States when I was born and she owned a record store there. Big into music. But Cherry’s not so much rock and roll – it’s after my gran, Cheryl. Though everyone called her Cherry, back in the day. And she’s grown to fit the name now – red and round.’
‘I like it! And there I was, thinking you’d be a mum-mum, being first one in at the clinic and everything.’
We reach a faded park bench and both flop down wearily. ‘Mum-mum?’
‘Oh, you know, those women who take mum duties that bit too far. Mum-mums. They grow their own organic quinoa and still have time for a blow-dry every other day. Wouldn’t be seen dead in their pyjama bottoms at the park.’ She waves down at the checked flannel trousers she’s wearing.
Oh, please, oh, please let me make her my mum mate.
‘I’m lucky if I make it out of the house and I’ve remembered trousers at all,’ I chip in, my voice slightly wobbly with nervous energy.
Nelle laughs and I feel my shoulders drop with relief.
‘So how old are your other two? I think you are amazing to have more than one.’
Nelle chews the inside of her lip. ‘Not amazing. Foolish? Poor memory, maybe? My others are thirteen and eleven. And this one’ – she looks down at the little fuzzy head nestled in between her cleavage – ‘let’s just say he wasn’t exactly on the menu. A surprise fortieth birthday present, if you catch my drift. But he’s lovely. Six weeks tomorrow.’
Despite knowing better about the realities of newborns and all their mysterious, maddening complexities, I feel a rush of maternity mush as I catch a glimpse of a tiny little ear, like a pasta shell. Sweet!
Nelle shuts her eyes. ‘I could just fall asleep here, do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Maybe if I did just nod off, all day, someone else would magically feed the baby. And sign for the grocery delivery. And pick the others up from school. And make sure the PE kits get washed. And answer all the business emails for bookings. Then make some magical tea that everyone will eat happily. Ugh.’
‘So… three is pretty hard, then?’
She smiles weakly. ‘Yes. And no. It’s not that any particular bit is difficult. It’s just that… it’s just that it never ends.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
Nelle opens her eyes and scans the park. ‘Still, could have been worse. Could have been twins!’ She juts her chin in the direction of the swings, where Mr Hot But Mean is trying to push one squalling toddler while the other is trying to climb out of the seat, head first. I don’t think the ‘nice girls’ message has hit home.
Nelle blows out a big, exasperated breath. ‘He’s not having a good day.’
‘Neither was I, when he was massively rude to me earlier.’
She frowns at me. My heart leaps into my throat. Did that sound too bitchy? Have I gone too far? Idiot, idiot, idiot!
Pushing down on her thighs, Nelle eases herself up. ‘Well, we can’t have this. Come on.’ She starts striding in his direction. My cheeks are on fire as I trot after her. Never mind three kids, with a tone so commanding, she could marshal three hundred of them.
‘Hello there!’ Nelle calls cheerfully. The Mean Man briefly flicks his eyes to us but then looks back to his swinging tots. He’s got them both securely in now and is pushing in tandem. ‘Thought we’d introduce ourselves, as fellow local parents!’ she chirps on.
His chiselled face barely flickers with interest.
‘How’s your day going?’
In an instant, he spins on the spot to face us. ‘Look, I don’t need help. I don’t need guidance. I’m a dad, not a stand-in mum. I’m not “babysitting”’ – he actually does the air quotes but angrily, like he wants to give the air a strong pinch – ‘I’m not clueless. I’m just a dad. Not in search of pity or a helping hand. Yep?’ Out of steam, he goes back to his duties.
‘Oh, boy,’ Nelle replies calmly. ‘I really think we all need some caffeine. I’m Nelle, this is Stevie. Like the rocker. Coffee at The Jolly Good?’
‘The… pub?’ I fall over my words.
She looks at me as if I’ve got my shoes on the wrong feet. ‘Yes. But the first tequila shot is on me. Actually, they do a really decent coffee and the garden has no sharp objects.’
‘Will,’ the Mean Man mutters.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m Will.’
Chapter 2
The Jolly Good does, in fact, do a decent coffee and a big plate of toast. Nelle seems to know the barman, too. He plonks the buttery pile down in front of us at the bench we’ve decamped to in the beer garden with a wink.
‘Lifesaver.’ She beams at him.
But even the excitement of caffeine, toast and new mates cannot dull the nervous twitch that I shouldn’t be in a pub on a weekday mid-morning. With a baby. With a bunch of babies, for that matter. What if someone sees? What if it’s one of the health visitors and I go on a Bad Mums Watchlist?
Will clears his throat. ‘This is all on me, by the way. To say sorry for my outburst. I… my girls are…’ He looks over to where they are dancing madly in front of the pram for Cherry’s amusement, hopping from foot to foot and singing what sounds like a version of a Lady Gaga tune. She’s cooing like no tomorrow, so I’m considering asking him whether they have an hourly karaoke rate. ‘Well, they’re full of energy. And a right handful, if I’m honest. It’s bad enough that when you’re the dad in the toddler group everyone expects you to do a half-arsed job, but when you have a pair of turbo-charged two year olds to wrangle, the very best you can do is half-arsed. And I hate reinforcing that stereotype. I feel everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to give them a can of Coke each while I read the paper.’ He rubs his hands down over his face and growls in exasperation. ‘But none of that is your fault. So I’m very sorry. And thank you for coming to talk to me. You’ve no idea how you’ve rescued my day.’
‘Or mine,’ I brave.
‘Pleasure!’ Nelle raises her coffee cup in a toast. ‘I know I’m no wallflower. Sometimes you’ll have to remind me to put a lid on it. But all my original mum mates are well out of the baby stage now. In fact, some of them are in the GCSE prep stage.’
‘It can be… well, I’ve found it’s pretty… tricky to make mum mates. Sometimes.’ My voice cracks just a smidge.
Will nods in agreement. ‘For me, it’s hard not to come across as some sort of creep. I worry the mums I meet might think I’m chatting them up.’
Nelle laughs. ‘I think you’ll find most of the mums round here would love that!’
I try not to blush and out myself as one of those mums. ‘I always have to abandon potential social things when Cherry kicks off. Hard to get to know new people when your baby has just vomited on their pristine pram hood and is now screeching like it’s a yodelling competition. She has reflux. Silent reflux. It’s a pain in the arse, if I’m honest.’
Just as Will gives an ‘Oh’ of sympathetic understanding, Nelle replies with an ‘Eh?’
I rush to explain myself, so I don’t sound totally ungrateful for the gorgeous baby currently smiling madly in her pram. ‘I mean, all babies can be sick sometimes. But Cherry is particularly partial to bringing up her milk and food. And then, most of the time, reswallowing it.’ Nelle can barely hide the
grimace she makes. ‘So the stomach acid irritates her throat on the way up, and then on the way down again. Hence being in a foul mood so often. I give her this really mild antacid each morning, but I’m not always convinced it’s helping.’ I fiddle with my watch strap.
‘The girls had it, too,’ Will says. ‘Up until about three months. Very common in twins, because they’re often born early, before their throat muscle have time to fully develop and so keep everything nicely held in. It is such a—’ His voice drops and he mouths the next word, ‘bastard and you never know when they’ll grow out of it. But they do,’ he finishes, encouragingly.
‘God, I hope so. I hate to think of her having horrible heartburn all the time. In the grand scheme of things we’re lucky; some babies have it so badly they can’t keep anything down, and they lose weight, they develop food aversion later in life…’ A shudder moves through my shoulders as I remember all the late-night Dr Google sessions that have shown me these terrifying scenarios. ‘I shouldn’t begrudge her a cry of annoyance but when she does get the serious grumps with it, people look at her like she’s this demon baby, and me like I’m not even trying to help her.’
Nelle gives a snort of derision. ‘It’s plain to anyone with half a brain that you take excellent care of that girl – she’s plump and happy. And if she cries sometimes, then she cries. They can stuff it. We were all babies once. We all irritated someone’s ears without meaning to. Hey, don’t suppose you guys fancy trying Tinkle Tots tomorrow? Stupid name, I know, but it’s a new music class and they’re doing a free taster session. If Cherry gets upset we can form a protective human shield around you from any mardy mums, Stevie. It’s got to be better than staring at the laundry pile, right?’
* * *
I feed Cherry dinner, clean up the resulting carnage, watch a bit of Twirlywoos – a children’s TV godsend – bath her, dress her, give her the last milk feed of the day, spend twenty minutes jiggling her through her nightly screamathon until she conks out, and all the while I am wrapped in a cloud of fluffy white joy. Mum mates! Well, parent mates. But two of them! This is the most meaningful social interaction I’ve had in six months – so much better than chatting to the postman.
As I trail around the house, picking up errant muslins, building blocks and four half-drunk mugs of stone-cold tea, I’m lost in a vision of the three of us heatedly discussing international politics or the destruction of the green belt. Or gender roles in Peppa Pig. Or car parking charges in town. I would happily talk through the For Sale ads in the local paper if it meant I had adult company.
‘Steve?’ Ted’s voice cuts though my imagination, just as I was wittily analysing a leather sofa for sale outside Marlow.
‘Sorry, sorry. Hiya. You’re back early.’
‘Well, it’s seven-fifteen.’ He looks at his watch and sighs, as if I was making a dig. I really wasn’t. It was an innocent enough comment, seeing as he usually drags himself home at around eight. His work is full on, and he’s good at it. Add in the commute out of the City, and I can count on one hand the times Ted has made it home for bath time in the last month. I shouldn’t grumble – he’s a great dad. When he’s here. And he works really hard to support us. But, sometimes, it feels like our different kinds of work – his, which involves digital asset management; and mine, which involves angry-child-into-car-seat management – exist in wholly separate universes.
Ted slings his laptop bag down by the foot of the stairs and I have to bite my lip from criticising. I’ll just move it myself, in a minute. I’m no neat freak but I appreciate not having something to trip on just there when I bring Cherry down in the pitch black. She’s such a loud complainer when she wakes up in the night that often I bring her down to the dark living room to feed her and then try and bounce her to sleep, softly singing in her ear all the time. I try to keep the noise away from Ted, so he can sleep ahead of a long business day, but I have to admit I don’t feel very benevolent about it when he’s upstairs in the land of nod and I’m staring at a blank wall, exhausted and bored rigid, my round bum bouncing on my yoga ball while my ears are full of baby cries. And to think I imagined I could deflate that ball, once I’d used it in labour! Pah! I’ve barely been off the damn lime-green thing since. And to add insult to injury it really, really doesn’t go with my fancy grey and sulphur-yellow colour scheme.
But even pangs of sleep envy won’t deflate my good mood tonight. Nope. I’ve got something to actually talk to my other half about! Not just how Cherry is progressing in her attempts to turn over to a sort of sideways plank: up on her side, with one arm trapped underneath, she does a lot of grunting and wiggling and then flops onto her back again, usually depositing a mouthful of sick onto her onesie in annoyance. I keep taking videos of these odd breakdancing attempts of hers and messaging them to Ted but he only ever says ‘Ah!’ in reply, so maybe it’s only me that finds them hilarious and totally absorbing.
Tonight, though, I can talk about Nelle and Will and our pub chat and the class tomorrow and how I might cultivate them into the mum mates I’ve always dreamed of… Well, I won’t say that last bit. I haven’t exactly been honest with Ted about my disaster of a social life. To say it out loud would be to make it real, I suppose, and to admit to the fact that the effervescent, bold woman he met four years ago has gone. Maybe it was a mix-up in the maternity ward, but instead of the wrong baby, Ted brought home the wrong mum. This one’s shy and timid and… dull. I know life’s not exactly a laugh a minute for him: work all day, hear your wife drone on about the newsagent not stocking her favourite pick and mix any more, get woken several times in the night by the World’s Angriest Baby, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. I suppose I don’t want him to have any more proof that I’ve turned into a friendless frump.
Ted throws his suit jacket onto the sofa. Again, I don’t make a peep. I’ll hang it up in a second. He stretches his six foot four frame up, his hands almost reaching the ceiling in our little cottage. Back in our London flat, it was all airy industrial rafters and tall white walls. But then again, I’d take a lower ceiling for breathable air and a garden of our own out here in the burbs. He makes a kind of frustrated grunt as his shoulders drop down again.
‘Ha! You sound like the baby when she can’t roll over!’ Oh, why did I say that? This was going to be a non-baby conversation.
‘Hmm?’ His head has dipped down, his back slightly hunched. Which means he’s checking his emails. Again. And not listening. Again.
I head to the kitchen to start making dinner, pulling out whatever from the vegetable drawer and chopping wildly, with more energy than my body really has. ‘Stir fry OK?’ I call out.
‘Hmm,’ he replies. Fine. ‘Actually…’ Oh, I really hope he’s going to suggest a takeaway. I’d kill for a Thai red curry today. And to not have to cook something myself, more importantly.
‘Tomorrow night I won’t be in for dinner. Client event. And do you know if my really fancy suit is clean?’ He’s rifling through his laptop bag now, leafing through memos and printouts, not really looking at me, because he knows the answer. I won’t kick up a fuss that he’s out late and I’ll dig out his suit and smarten it up. Of course I will. What else would I be doing? Just keeping his firstborn child alive. Just keeping his house ticking over, on my tod. Just struggling to remember who I really am. A finder of lost suits. A milk machine. A speed-eater of digestives.
Think positive, I remind myself, as I chuck strips of onion and pepper into the wok. Be mindful. You are now also A Mum with Friends. You are borderline Instagrammable! Tomorrow is going to be brilliant fun, with real-life adults. The kids will muck about with tambourines. You won’t even watch one Homes Under the Hammer. That’s progress.
‘I’m trying a new class tomorrow, with Cherry. And Nelle and Will – some friends.’
Ted sets down his printouts on the kitchen table. ‘Right. Will… as in a man?’
‘Yup, he’s a stay-at-home dad now, but he used to work as a buyer for Selfridges. He’s got twin
toddlers. They are… live wires. And Nelle is locally born and bred, and runs a party-planning business with her family. She has a sweet little six week old. Just some mum mates of mine. Mum-and-dad mates.’ I could expand and say that Will moved here with his husband, but I’m enjoying the idea that Ted might feel just a teeny bit of jealousy at the idea of me hanging out with another man. It’s silly, but then so is being so ridiculously happy at meeting two fellow flesh-and-blood parents: I’m keeping my voice level, when all I really want to do is whoop and air-punch.
‘OK.’ Ted is rubbing his chin. ‘Right. We should all hang out one weekend, or something.’ As I open my mouth to chirrup that that would be a lovely thing to do, he keeps talking: ‘While you’re cooking, I just need to answer a few emails upstairs, yup?’
His great big thumping steps going up the stairs answer his own question. And because our house is such a true, old, rickety cottage, each step makes the floorboards shift and complain, finished off by the metallic twang of the baby gate as he closes it behind him a little too forcefully.
I hold my breath.
‘Waahhhhhggggggghhhhhhhhh!’ That noise is nothing to do with the wonky beams or the tilted floors. That is a noise of our own creation. Specifically, our DNA… but Ted’s stupid gallumphing about.
‘Baby’s awake!’ he yells down from the landing.
No shit, Dad of the Year, I think darkly, taking the stir fry off the hob. And now the jiggling and singing and rocking to sleep will begin all over again and I can wave goodbye to forty-five precious minutes of my child-free evening.
If someone had told me motherhood would be so much like Groundhog Day but without any sort of laughter or pathos, I might have had a rethink.
* * *
The promise of matey bonding time has me springing out of bed this morning. The 2am feed, the 6am feed: I almost whistled through them both. Breakfast is doled out with the merry patience of Mary Poppins on pay day. Cherry smacks the plastic top of her high chair, sending a few lumps of wet baby cereal arcing through the air like she’s manning a catapult. Well, it’s probably been three minutes since I wiped the floor. It could do with a clean. Spit spot, and off we go.
