Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Ted almost makes me leap out of my plastic seat.

  ‘Oh, um, nothing. Just… Will saying I’m a call girl. Everything OK?’ I blunder on speedily.

  ‘Yes, fine. A call girl?’ Ted’s eyebrows begin to fuse together.

  I wave his frown away. ‘Just a silly joke. How is the little squeezer?’ I poke my finger into Cherry’s sweaty grip and try not to wince at how sticky it is from the ball pit transfer.

  ‘Maybe hungry?’ Ted says, half-convinced. ‘She’s gnawed on me a few times. Is this the right time for lunch?’ He flips his wrist, his fancy computer watch coming to life.

  I smile and shrug, noncommittally.

  Ted blinks. ‘I could get her some toast. And I think they’ve got a fruit bowl on the counter. A banana?’

  ‘You didn’t bring a pouch, then?’ I keep my voice level and light.

  ‘Shit, no. I got the nappies, though.’ He says this as if it was the parenting version of The Da Vinci Code to bring spare nappies and he cracked the complex puzzle before finishing his Weetabix.

  ‘Toast and banana it is, then.’ I sit there, glued to my chair with stubbornness. I’m not going up to order it, no sir. When I take Cherry out solo I have to juggle her, shopping bags, fiddling my credit card out of my purse, a tutting queue in any average cafe – so he can experience a taste of that today.

  ‘Come on, gorgeous girl,’ he says, standing up and repositioning Cherry face-out at his front, one arm safely beneath her bottom and one under her arms. This is her favourite way to view the world – at adult height and not nose-to-cleavage like she is in the Baby Björn, missing all the real action. She loves to nose at people and trees and cars and lampposts. She wants a front-row view.

  I subtly turn a little so I can just about see him at the snack bar without it being obvious I’m keeping tabs. He plonks Cherry gently down on the counter, ignoring the disapproving look of the fifteen year old on the till and the fact that she is now in grabbing distance of a pot full of sugar packets. In a flash they are everywhere – mostly on the floor. Something behind my knees flinches and tries to send me standing and dashing over there to help with the clean up. But nope. Not today. Ted keeps one wide hand on Cherry’s tum and crouches down to fish the packets up, handing them over with an apologetic smile to the teen. Whose face does not crack even by a millimetre.

  As the surly sixth-former shuffles off to prepare Cherry’s, ahem, gourmet and totally balanced lunch, I watch Ted do his silly little ‘dislocated thumb’ trick for Cherry, to her droolly delight. Do they pull dads aside at the hospital to teach them that? Is it statutory, like having to prove your baby is securely clicked into their car seat before they let you take them home? ‘I’m sorry, sir, but unless you can pretend you can detach and reattach your thumb at will, you cannot be trusted to parent this newborn.’

  Cherry is loving it on its twelfth go, her arms waving ecstatically in his direction, whether in an attempt to clap or get a nibble of his hand, I’m not sure, but either is a genuine sign of love from our girl. It fills my rib cage with a pure kind of warmth, a sense that everything will be OK if we can just hold on to silly moments like this. OK, he might not get some things right, but Ted is trying. He is really trying and they are having their time, some real quality bonding for the first time in a good while. The backdrop isn’t the Boden catalogue shoot I’d hoped for, but who cares when you can see the flash of pure happiness in your daughter’s bright eyes?

  I’m not the only one appreciating the scene. A lady, probably in her fifties, audibly coos as she trundles past me on her way to the till herself, her eyes on my family. I feel my heart grow in my chest. When she’s moved off, I think, I will take a sneaky little pic when Ted’s not looking. Maybe put it in a nice frame for his birthday in a few months’ time. Something to have on his minimalist desk at work.

  The lady smiles and winks at Ted as she lines up behind him. ‘What a lovely baby!’ She wrinkles her nose at Cherry. ‘Aren’t you a poppet?’

  All the tensions of the last week seem that bit further behind me, like I’m on a raft drifting away from the desert island where I was alone and having to fend for the two of us with nothing more than a flip-flop and two coconuts. It’s in the past now. Ted is back and we’re a unit. We’re in this together. Two parents, one baby. Somehow when you’re in it with someone else, you can laugh about sick trickling down inside your bra or about this small person who gets so angry at the injustice of you trying to gently remove faeces from its bum. Because it’s not just you in this bizarre, baffling alternative universe. You’re finding your way through together. Whether it’s a romantic partner or your own parents or a best friend: parenting is like tackling a flat-pack wardrobe. Unsafe and exhausting if attempted alone.

  Cherry and Ted’s admirer is still at it as she waits for her coffee. The teen hands over a tray to Ted with toast, banana and a bottle of water on it. I can see Ted looking puzzled at his now-full hands and at Cherry sitting where she is. How is he going to handle both? I’m already enjoying watching the cogs turn.

  ‘Oh, here, let me!’ The lady does not wait for an acknowledgement, let alone an invite, and reaches out her arms towards my baby. She’s going to put her hands on my baby! This stranger! WHAT?! My fingers flinch as if I could activate bear claws.

  Ted dumps the tray on a spare table behind him and steps in her way. ‘Oh, ah, that’s kind but I’ve got it covered. I’ll get her settled in her high chair and come back for the food. But you’re very kind!’ he over-enthuses at her disappointed face. Atta boy, Ted. Compliments are all jolly and happily received but if I don’t know your name, let alone your criminal record status, you’re not entrusted to pick up the most precious, delicate substance the world has ever seen. Thank you.

  She recovers and hoists her handbag further up her shoulder. ‘Fair enough. Good on you for babysitting. Good dad, you are. Mum putting her feet up, is she?’

  Ted simply smiles magnanimously.

  And I think I nearly black out. Rage level: Hotter Than The Sun.

  Cherry hoovers up her smashed banana on toast and I quietly thrum with anger. I can’t say anything to Ted about it because he’ll know I’ve been snooping on him. But REALLY? Babysitting?! I feel every cell of my blood as it rushes around my body, jacked up on adrenalin and outrage.

  I breathe out in a weirdly controlled way through my nose. There’s only one way to dissipate this anger: Metro lady, you are getting your piece, and fast.

  ‘I think Cherry could handle another ball pit session, yeah?’ It’s not really a question; it’s a politely phrased order. Ted leaves the chaos of the lunch tray without so much as tidying it into one heap at least. He wipes some buttery crumbs from Cherry’s chin with his index finger. ‘Once more unto the breach, eh, baby chops? I think Daddy is brave enough for one more session and then it could be Mummy’s go, maybe?’

  My lips are sealed together with fury at the world but I don’t let it show. OK, it’s not strictly Ted’s fault I’m so cross – and I’m not going to direct it at him – but it’s got to go somewhere before I burst a blood vessel. And he didn’t exactly set that biddy straight.

  Maybe Cherry’s penchant for getting angry is not such a mystery after all – maybe she just takes after her mother.

  As soon as they’re deep into the slithery, rainbow-coloured balls, I start to type as fast as any human has ever typed with two thumbs on a tiny screen.

  LET’S GET SOMETHING STRAIGHT – IT’S NOT ‘BABYSITTING’ IF THEY SHARE YOUR DNA

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve been taking Big Baby to the supermarket, or pushing her around the park, or wiping up a puddle of sick from a GP’s surgery floor and someone has said, ‘Oh, babysitting today, are we?’ I can’t count them, because it never happens. Because I’m the mum, and this is the natural order of things, right?

  But the minute my OH so much as raises a wet wipe, someone is patting him on the back for ‘babysitting’, ‘helping Mum o
ut’, being ‘so hands on’ and he’s basking in the glory of a job well done. Positively glowing like a Ready Brek commercial. But it is his job, too. He helped make this beautiful mess so he’s totally, legitimately responsible for half the clean up. Not because he’s generous; not because he’s doing me a favour; but because it’s his job. I sure as hell didn’t conceive this lovely tot on my own. No angel in my bedroom that night – it was most definitely OH.

  Yes, he’s working hard to earn a regular wage while I’m on the rice-and-beans statutory maternity pay, and I would never diminish that. He’s juggling stress, physical tiredness and the expectation of his superiors. But while he’s at his desk or in a plush meeting room facing all these small battles, he’s also able to grab a lunch of any denomination he fancies. He can go to the toilet alone. He can drink hot beverages. And when he powers down his computer and waves Nigel the security guy a cheery goodnight, his job is done and he’s off the clock.

  In my day job, there are some similarities: I’m still stressed, I’m tired from a broken night but I’m being loudly micromanaged by an overbearing, if totally perfect, infant. My lunch is whatever I see first in the fridge. I will realise at 3pm that I’m dying for a pee because I meant to go at 12 but then washing and feeding and changing all happened in a blur. And there’s no logging off for me. It’s 24/7.

  So when we’re both at home on the weekends, I’m squarely of the view that everything domestic or baby-related gets split 50/50. Not because my OH is a ‘good bloke’ or a ‘modern man’ but because that’s fair. The DNA makeup is split 50/50 and that’s just how the chore roster should be too.*

  And it can’t just be frustrating for the female parents (if it so happens that the stay-at-home parent is female, which I know is not always the case); dads must be gnashing their teeth at every little backhanded compliment, too. The implication that it’s a major achievement for them to provide the basic domestic care for their children, like they’re cavemen smacking their heads against their spears because they can’t figure out which way round the nappy goes. Like making fairy cakes would give them an aneurism or knowing all the extra verses to ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ requires a PHD in Music Theory. The jobs in everyday parenting aren’t hard; they are just CONSTANT. And no one should be expected to do them alone if there’s help available.

  So the next time you see a dad pushing a swing or putting beans in the trolley with a few children by his side, don’t be tempted to commend him. Just remember: he’s no hero, he’s just doing his job.

  * Except for the bins, because I will never, ever take them out.

  I read over my brain-dump a few times, my eyes flicking up between each paragraph to check Ted isn’t heading back here.

  I’m not going to chicken out. I’m going to send it to the Metro. Now. Job done. It might not be what they’re after at all or they could hate the tone or just generally think it’s pants, but it’s real, all right. It’s raw. It’s First-Time Mum agenda.

  I place my phone face-down on the table as if putting my alter ego to bed for the day. She’s blown her gasket, she’s worked through her anger, she needs to recharge. And, so does my actual phone. I’m now at 12 per cent. Using a mindfulness trick of counting my breaths in and out, I try to find a little calm. I try to focus on the positives. Here I am, having time to think. Having time to write a feature for a London newspaper. In my PR days, if someone we were representing had this kind of exposure for free I would be dropping hints to my boss about a raise. Causing a news-worthy stir is what it’s all about. Starting a conversation. And even if First-Time Mum is my mouthpiece, rather than stepping into the spotlight as myself, I have got a chance to say some important things.

  And, as Will pointed out, maybe make even some money. There are some big mummy bloggers and Instagrammers out there who’ve done well for themselves by showcasing their lives: some glam and some more down-to-earth. Obviously I’m not going to be snapping Cherry and me in matching rose-gold Adidas anytime soon, and I’d be nervous about exposing her too much to the internet (her real name, her actual picture), but if I could support us more financially by talking anonymously about our experiences… well, that feels like a worthy pay-off. If she ever randomly found out as a teen, a little nest egg for university or a car might redress the balance. Not that she will know. Not that Ted will ever know, for that matter.

  But if I could keep blogging, if I could work out how you sell ad space and if I write more pieces, all under the radar like this, that would be a way for me not to have to go back to my old job. No blanching in boardrooms, no crying in loos after a simple conversation. I’d be safely behind a laptop, but I’d be paying my way. I wouldn’t have to leave Cherry behind while I join the commuter hordes again. I could just tell Ted the money’s coming from freelance PR. And it would be, technically: I’d be the PR for First-Time Mum. And apparently she’s a hot ticket right now.

  Look how well it’s worked out today, for starters – family time, with an article squeezed in during soft play time. Perfect! I’m having it all!

  I get an all mighty shock as Las Ketchup starts booming from the speaker right over my head. ‘It’s twistin’ time, everybody!’ the pre-recorded voice croons. ‘Get up on the dancefloor, boys and girls, mums and dads! Let’s booooooogie.’

  I watch Ted do some exaggerated hand jives from Cherry, who has turned an angry shade of purple at the noise. Oh dear. It’s all a bit much for her, little chubby love. But soon Ted clocks that everyone else is heading for the central area – toddlers pushing past him clumsily and parents following in their tracks – and, doing the dutiful dad bit, he clambers to his feet and picks her up. He beckons to me and mouths over the noise, ‘Shall we?’

  The thought of my new mumpreneur future softens a little of the baked-on anger from earlier. And for a minute I’m reminded of the first New Year’s we spent together, just a few months after we met, where Ted had called me to the dancefloor. Still in that stage where both of us were pretending to be ultra cool and sophisticated, I’d booked us tickets to see the New Year in at a bar near Old Street. I hadn’t been before but some of the office girls have been raving about it. Turns out they loved it because it was ‘so vintage’. Or at least the DJ was. He played the very stinkiest Eighties and Nineties cheese, I think in order to be ironic. But he’d gone that step too far – with a Steps medley, in fact. The hipsters were shunning the dancefloor in disgust.

  Ted took one look at the yawningly empty space as the last beats of ‘Deeper Shade of Blue’ faded and midnight approached. ‘The Final Countdown’ crashed around our heads. He took my hand and said, ‘Shall we?’ as if it was a tea dance at The Ritz – and we owned that floor. Just the two of us, jumping around to the synthy sounds and even air guitaring at one point. And I remember feeling this click inside me, not like a lock closing but like a tricky maths formula falling into place. Oh, you’re not cool, I remember thinking, you’re real and you don’t mind occasionally looking like a berk. Yes. You’re the one for me.

  That night was one of the best nights, ever. I haven’t thought about it in so long. I even arranged for our string quartet to play ‘The Final Countdown’ as I walked up the aisle to Ted. It made everyone in the room laugh, as if it was his last chance to leg it, but he and I locked eyes and we knew. We knew it was playing the moment we fell properly in love.

  I nod quickly and kick our bags under the table.

  But my breath catches in my throat as I see Ted turn and start to gingerly climb out of the ball pit’s low, cubbyhole entrance. Spreading up the back of Cherry’s T-shirt is an unmistakable korma-brown colour.

  Poo-splosion.

  And from the look of how far it’s got around to her sides and up to her neck, I would say it’s not happened in the last thirty seconds. And if it’s had time to spread through her clothes it may well have got—

  ‘SHIT!’ I yell hopelessly at Ted, as the tinny music drowns me out.

  He frowns and cups one hand behind his ear.
/>   ‘POO!’ I yell. ‘Poooooooo!’

  He shakes his head. I’m not getting through at all.

  I swipe my arms drastically like an air traffic controller and then hold one hand palm up, praying he will read this as Stop in Your Goddamn Tracks for the Good of Mankind.

  Sprinting to the snack bar, I resist the urge to grab the teen by his collar but instead shout right into his face, ‘Poo in the ball pit. Shut it DOWN!’

  Like a well-trained autobot, he turns straight to the stereo controls under the coffee machine and in a second the music has abruptly stopped. Then he speaks into a little mic and his reedy voice comes over the PA.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a… faecal situation in the ball pit. Please evacuate the surrounding area. If you have been affected, please remain where you are and a member of staff will be with you shortly.’ He rushes out the next bit. ‘Twist and Bounce cannot accept any liability for ruined clothes, shoes or accessories, or any subsequent illnesses. No refunds will be given at this time. Thank you.’

  I turn to see Ted, frozen to the spot, his face as lacking in colour as Cherry’s outfit is now stained with it. And then she starts to cry.

  * * *

  I’m not sure which moment that followed was the absolute pinnacle of humiliation for me: watching the assistant manager daub my husband all over with anti-bacterial wipes before she’d let him fully out of the pit; watching him strip a wailing Cherry naked while still knee-deep in plastic balls, passing the wet and soiled clothes out to me to go straight into a bin bag; or maybe it was the fact that during the entire charade, we were watched by about twenty other families, silent, peeved and judging us for all they were worth. They were on pause until the place was sterilised, so I suppose they had to get their kicks somehow, but I felt like the mother of the chimp who throws faeces at the zoo. Not one for the family album. And maybe not a story for the blog either.

  My face burnt as we left, heads down and speed-walking to the car, Cherry wrapped in a travel blanket as I couldn’t face spending another ten minutes in there trying to manipulate her into her spare set of clothes.