Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Chlo! Lovely to see you,’ Will says, as he hops up to give her a peck on both cheeks.

  Chloe looks around the room and blinks, her face not giving away a shred of emotion. ‘Is Teresa not here?’

  ‘Oh, no, she cancelled yesterday. Did she not tell you?’

  The mum-mum chews the corner of her mouth, taking off some of the subtle gloss from her bottom lip. ‘No. Hmm.’

  ‘Well, we’re so glad to have you. Take a seat and I’ll fetch you a tea.’

  ‘I can do tha—’

  ‘You’ve made buckets of the stuff, Stevie. It’s definitely my turn. And, besides, I can see Mills eyeing up that clay you were showing the others. Shall I fetch you an apron, poppet?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’ Chloe coos at him, now positively melting in relief that there is, in fact, someone here that she can clearly tolerate. ‘That dress is vintage.’

  Then why wear it to a crafternoon? the First-Time Mum in me seethes. Bloody show-off.

  Esme pulls at my hand. ‘Steve, Steve, come and help me.’

  I could not love her more.

  I’ve given Chloe two of the best openers I can muster – some of the best conversation starting I’ve done in six months, in fact – and she’s replied monosyllabically to both: I complimented her on how verbal Mills is for her age and asked, ‘Is she in any kind of childcare? I hear that’s so good for language skills.’

  ‘She’s with me. At home. Sometimes the nanny helps out,’ was all I got in reply.

  Fine.

  After she shuts down my asking about Cornwall and where she’d recommend there for a family holiday – ‘We go to my parents’ second home in Polzeath, so I’ve never been anywhere else. Sorry’ – I decide I’ve made my effort and I’m going to find my level with the children instead. Chloe has clearly decided this is not her kind of social gathering, so she feels like a lost cause in trying to spread the word amongst her similarity snobby mates. And someone with hand-painted wellies is not going to give a fig whether a paint-your-own pottery painting is twelve pounds a head or fifteen.

  I’ve moved to the decoupage table with the twins, Eloise and Mills. William, poor soul, though a keen joiner has been forgotten about in the all-girls chatathon that is four two year olds, and has decided to make faces at Cherry instead, which she’s enjoying studying with her bright, intelligent eyes, and which suits me just fine. She’s done one thankfully solid poo so far today and only lost a bit of a mouthful of milky sick after her lunch, so we’re achieving. We really are.

  Eloise is laying thin strips of blue and green tissue paper on her trinket box, letting the long strands at the ends stick out at all angles. The twins have me ripping up strips of their desired colours at will, which is pleasing but mindless work, so I decide to join in the chat.

  ‘I love your pattern, Eloise. It looks a bit like mermaid hair.’

  Four sets of eyes turn to me.

  ‘What’s that?’ Olive asks, coming to stand right in my personal space. As I’m sitting on the floor, back resting against the sofa, she comes up beyond my shoulder height and is oddly imposing.

  ‘Well, you know mermaids have long hair in all colours, a bit like seaweed. That’s what Eloise’s box reminds me of. And it’s lovely.’

  She colours and giggles.

  ‘Can we all do mahmaid hair?’ Esme pipes up.

  ‘Of course!’ I reach for the ocean palette of colours and start tearing.

  ‘We could make YOU mahmaid hair!’ Olive yells happily, right in my ear.

  I see Will’s eyes widen from across the room. ‘Well, no, I actually meant to stick on—’

  ‘But we’re boooooored with stickin’.’ Esme now comes to stand at my other side, also unnervingly close. I feel like the Krays are interviewing a new getaway driver.

  Olive looks to Mills and Eloise, who silently nod in agreement.

  Got to make this work for Nelle, my cheerleader pipes up. Besides, it’s just a bit of paper twisted in your hair.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I am bending over Nelle’s bath while she busily scrubs shampoo into my roots.

  ‘PVA is great for surfaces where you can peel it off, but hair follicles not so much, huh?’

  I feel another tiny yank at my scalp. ‘I really could… sort this at… home.’ I struggle to talk through the water and bubbles running down my face.

  ‘Nonsense! I got you into this mess – I’d hate myself if I didn’t send you home looking peachy again. Just’ – she pauses for a second – ‘don’t blog about this, OK?’

  I burst out into laughter and swallow a mouthful of suds as a result. ‘Some things… not even First-Time Mum would share. Like getting a… mermaid wig glued to your head!’

  Through my screwed-up eyes I can see the water running with splashes of blue and green into the plug hole as the dye runs out of the little bits of paper still tangled into my hair; the paper I thought would be innocent fun to let the girls place on top of my head. The paper that had devilishly absorbed the glue from their hands, and which had probably been peeled from some of their art projects in the frenzy, too.

  I should be humiliated. Maybe someone else would be angry, in my shoes. But actually, I think the whole afternoon was a great laugh, PVA conditioning treatment included. Probably one of the best bursts of fun I’ve had in a long time, now I think about it.

  When Nelle finishes rinsing me and hands me a towel, I wrap it around my head and sit back on my heels. Cherry is strapped into a bouncing chair on the landing and I give her a little wave, just to confirm she hasn’t been abandoned. ‘I can pick the rest out later, thanks. I don’t think I’ve got the core strength to bend over that bath any more! Shall we get on with the cleaning up?’

  ‘Oh, sod that, Darren can do it when he gets home. He’s just as responsible for trying to pick up this business as I am. And we’ve definitely done our part today. You were a star, keeping those little ones engaged. I actually loved having a grown-up mum chat with Louise. That was a treat. And you gave it a shot with Chloe, at least.’

  I pull a grimace. ‘She was harder work than eating toffee through braces. I have to admit I gave up after a bit – sorry. I found my level with the two year olds.’

  Nelle leans back against the towel rack. ‘It wasn’t you. Not at all! She seems… very closed off. A bit of a cold fish, if I’m being mean.’

  Will thumps his way up the stairs. Maybe another thing they teach dads on day one of official parenting – how to make as much noise as possible coming upstairs. Honestly. ‘Wait, wait for me if you’re being mean! I want in. What are we talking about?’ He fills the doorframe with his height.

  ‘Er…’ I scratch at my prickly scalp.

  ‘Chloe,’ Nelle states.

  Will narrows his eyes ever so slightly. ‘I know she wasn’t very chatty, but when she’s more relaxed she’s actually lovely.’

  Nelle folds her arms. ‘Well, what’s not relaxed about sitting in my living room, drinking tea while someone else entertains your child? She could have joined in a bit more. At one point she even started scrolling through her phone.’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t really defend that. Bit rude. All I know is that I’ve been with her at a few playgroups where she’s been a lot chattier, when she knows more of her friends.’

  ‘Her mum-mum friends,’ I add. ‘And, you know, horses for courses. We tried and it wasn’t her bag. Fair enough. But the others seemed keen, so that’s positive.’

  Nelle nods. ‘They did have a good time, I’m pretty sure of that. And they all took home some wonky little treasures to keep for ever and ever. Bernie kept trying to pay, bless her, so I said they could both fill out an email questionnaire for me instead, and that will be a real help. Try and make a template out of today for other keepsake parties.’

  ‘I keep thinking about something Louise said when she was leaving,’ Will chimes in. ‘“That was amazing fun. It could only have been better if I hadn’t had to get my hands dirty – give me a
sun lounger, a book and a glass of something fizzy while my kid is up to his eyes in glitter and clay and I would gladly remortgage for a slice of that action.” Something like that. Maybe there’s another angle to the parent pound, one we’ve missed so far. You’ve got to entertain the children BUT also give the parents what they want, you know, as people.’

  ‘Ahhh.’ Nelle runs her hands through her short hair. ‘Interesting. Treating parents like people…’

  Cherry yelps and jiggles herself in the bouncing chair. It’s almost 3pm, so it’s well past her mid-afternoon feed slot. I’d better find somewhere to park myself before she works up a full head of steam. ‘Do you mind if I feed her downstairs quickly? Then we’ll scoot and get out of your hair.’

  Will nods. ‘The girls are silenced with a baby biscotti each but then we’ll do the same. I’m a bit worried I’m next for the Ariel treatment.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Nelle waves her hands. She takes my hand and pulls me towards Will, circling both our necks with a fierce hug. ‘Thank you both. Thanks for everything. Even if we don’t get anywhere with this, even if the business stays down in the dumps, it’s been so good to be in it with you guys. Wait, did I say that right? I didn’t mean that I like seeing you dragged down into my misery, just…’

  ‘That a problem shared and all that,’ I say, in the midst of our huddle. ‘The longer I spend as a mum, the more I’m convinced no one’s supposed to raise a baby alone, let alone hold down a job and a relationship, too. It’s a team sport.’

  ‘Amen,’ Will agrees.

  Just then a squeaky shout of, ‘That’s mine!’ reaches our ears, followed quickly by some heartbroken sobbing. The noise clearly gets on Cherry’s last hungry nerve as she pipes up with her own wail, and that in turn starts Joe thrashing and mewling from his sling.

  With a raised eyebrow Will turns to head back down to his girls and referee whatever dispute is going on. ‘And sometimes that sport is WWF wrestling.’

  Buoyed by our team talk, I walk the long way home with Cherry in her pram so that we hit the greengrocer and butcher. Maybe I will dig deep for some extra energy to make Ted and me a proper dinner tonight, from scratch. He used to love my Greek-inspired grilled lamb chops, with a Greek salad on the side, before pregnancy put me right off the idea of any red meat so much as touching my lips. I haven’t cooked it in so long, but I must be able to remember it.

  Cherry was amused by gumming a whole lemon while I pointed out the chops I wanted, and the greengrocer even had some fresh dill, which was a winner. Cherry went down easily for the night after her mega-stimulating day of toddler entertainment – just fifteen minutes of mild protest from her cot. Now that I know that she can fall asleep on her tod without always having to be cuddled and bounced, I’m trying it out more and more. It doesn’t always work, but it’s a light at the end of the tunnel. And tonight, life almost feels like the dream I had for my maternity leave – a contented baby, homecooked meals and awaiting my beloved husband to come back and catch up on the day with me.

  But by the time I place two warm plates of my best Mediterranean cooking on the table, the colours of tomatoes, peppers and red onion all bright and fresh and inviting, Ted is already craning over multiple screens at once – one his work iPad, the other his ‘real’ iPhone. Apparently nothing beats an Apple product. He looked at me to say hello coming through the door and dumping his bag, but beyond that he’s been scratching his stubbly beard over emails and spreadsheets while I witter on about today’s crafternoon. With such a closed-off recipient in front of me, the warmth and confidence I’d walked away with today seems silly and thin out of context. I might as well go back to discussing the fake hanging flowers outside the GP’s office.

  ‘Is something going on at work?’ I ask, as he finally turns his focus to gobbling down the food.

  ‘Hmm? Oh… no. No, it’s all going really well, actually. Very well. Keeping me busy!’ He smiles and shrugs like he’s giving a banal answer to an uncle at a family do, rather than an honest one to his best friend.

  The last crumbs of my good mood disappear along with the last mouthful of Ted’s lamb. It’s taken him less than five minutes to gobble up something it took me forty minutes to prepare. And he hasn’t even said so much as a ‘Yummy!’ About it. Charming. Tomorrow it’s back to jacket potatoes in front of Masterchef.

  ‘So, anything else going on, then?’ Let him carry a conversation for once. I’ve done all the small-talk I can for today.

  ‘Well,’ he inspects the ceiling for a moment, ‘I did hear about this great cheese festival coming up, in Aylesbury. Rob was talking about it at work ­– he went last year with some mates. One of those foodie things where it’s totally acceptable to eat way too much because it’s artisanal. Wine and beer, a bit of live music. Could be really fun. What do you think?’ He hands over his phone with the site ‘Live For Cheese 2018: from here to fromagerie!’

  I tap the About Us and Facilities tabs, scrolling past the pictures of smiling, glassy-eyed twenty-somethings dropping whole wedges of Brie into their mouths and swilling back beer.

  ‘What are the changing facilities like?’

  ‘Um… hang on a sec.’ Ted takes back his phone and swipes around a bit. ‘Dunno, doesn’t say. But I bet they’ll have somewhere.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I spear a last half-moon of cucumber. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Well, I could find that out, ping them an email. We haven’t been to a food festival in ages. We used to go to that French one on the Southbank all the time. I could definitely make room for some serious dairy and bread, then wash it all down with a beer. And some wine. Bit of whisky…’ He winks.

  ‘And so while you get sloshed on all that I’m going to be the one responsible for Cherry, I suppose? And sober enough to drive us home, too? Nice.’ I can’t even remember what a good mood feels like now, and I’m sharpening each word as if to slice through Parmesan. Which, no doubt, Ted would enjoying snaffling down between shots, as I change a pooey nappy on a wet Portaloo floor.

  His eyes retreat back to his phone. ‘Maybe we don’t need to take Cherry just this once? There are these babysitting apps now, I read about, we could—’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ I spit out. ‘A stranger looking after my baby? How can you even think of something like that?!’

  Ted pushes his chair back, grabs the plates and lets them clatter into the sink. ‘I’m not talking about handing her over to the first person I see at the bus depot! You can check references, first aid certificates, all that, and then talk to them before—’

  ‘No.’

  He folds his arms. ‘Right then. Let’s forget it, then. We can take her with us.’

  ‘If – if – it turns out to be baby friendly. With somewhere to warm food. And somewhere for me to sit and feed her, of course. And…’

  ‘It sounds like you’re finding excuses not to go now. If you don’t fancy it, that’s fine. I was just suggesting something fun for us all to do together.’

  I puff out my cheeks. ‘But what’s fun for you at things like this is a different experience for me altogether. I have to think about how Cherry will sleep – with all that noise and crowds of people, she’d never drop off on a pram walk. How I’ll get a good lunch in her. What if she has another poo explosion and I’ve got to somehow wrestle her out of shitty clothes, clean her up and re-dress her in a smelly toilet cubicle? You’d be sampling Stinking Bishop or whatever and I would just be stinking. And stressed.’

  Ted rubs one foot against the other. ‘OK. OK. We’ll cover all that. We’ll pack five bags of back-up stuff, we’ll bring a pack horse if we have to, and you can tell me what I have to do to help.’

  I feel my energy evaporate through my shoulders. Suddenly I just want to go to sleep. For twelve straight hours, rather than three. Funnily enough, the idea of packing up half our lives for a single day trip and barking out orders all day doesn’t really make me feel relaxed.

  Ted’s work phone vibrates, sending a shudder through t
he kitchen table. Just before he picks it up, I see the green box that says From: Maddie Forrester Re: Hong Kong. Ted takes it to the sofa to do more rapid-fire replying, and it seems our discussion is over.

  I don’t want to have to tell you how to ‘help’, Ted, I imagine saying to him, with the bravery I can only muster through the written word. I just want you to do half of what’s yours by rights. And that’s all.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Can I not do this bit online?’ I half-shout over Cherry’s cries so that the bank clerk behind the glass has a chance of hearing me.

  ‘Sadly not.’ She smiles sympathetically. ‘Some bits we need to have you here in person to do, in order to open a new account. But it will just take ten minutes, once we book in the appointment with a customer services manager.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I nod while she clicks through some calendar options on her computer.

  ‘Friday at three?’ I run through the timing variations of Cherry’s nap schedule. Oh, to have a baby who takes regular three-hour naps to work around, and not scrawny, hard-earned thirty- minute ones that could come at 2 or 2.45 or 3.27 on any given day.

  ‘Let’s say four, if you have it.’ And I’ll just have to hope she’s well rested because clearly this bank decor is not going down well. Or maybe it’s the stuffy, hot air or the bright lights. Or maybe Cherry just woke up in a stinky mood today. Or maybe her stomach is rolling ahead of a major reflux session. The thing is with babies who can’t talk yet is that you’ll never really know what the problem is: you just have to try every godforsaken thing until you accidentally hit on the solution.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she says, and I grab the forms to fill in and leg it, taking my human police siren with me.

  The fresh air startles Cherry into pausing for breath and I decide to keep up momentum and head to the park. Something must be able to cheer her up over there. A big dog, or some school children on their way home, even another drooling baby to stare at would do the trick. Sometimes, when Cherry’s reflux bothers her, distraction is the only way.