The Bad Mother's Pregnancy_Romantic Comedy Short Story

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Here here,’ said Deirdre, bending on skinny, brown limbs to mop Althea’s brow with lemon-scented water.

  Tina muttered into her medical bag, something about her midwife qualifications. But to her credit, she kept quiet after that and accepted a glass of wine.

  For the next few hours, nothing much happened. Althea paced around or dozed on someone’s shoulder, wailing every few minutes and commanding her body to open and release.

  At 1 am, Althea said, ‘You may as well go home, Jules. The baby’s not coming for at least another day. You’ve got work tomorrow. Get some rest.’

  Tina Porter perked up then, sensing a use for herself. ‘Althea, you really shouldn’t be labouring for much longer,’ she said. ‘You’ll exhaust yourself, and that could lead to all sorts of complications. If you think you’d like things speeded along –’

  ‘Look, no offence,’ said Althea. ‘But don’t put your schedule on me, yeah? You might be paid by the hour, but I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘But we should consider hurrying things up,’ said the midwife, checking her watch. ‘I’ve known women simply too tired to push. Perhaps if you walk around –’

  ‘Listen,’ said Althea, pointing a stern finger. ‘Glastonbury 2000, I stayed up for the WHOLE festival. Three days on nothing but magic mushrooms, tequila and noodles, yeah? My body has stamina. Don’t bring me down with your time-keeping agenda and negativity. You can sit and be quiet, or you can bugger off back to the hospital.’

  Tina’s lips pulled tight and her frown deepened. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘I’m sensing bad energy,’ said Deirdre in a crackly voice, standing on popping limbs. ‘Better get the crystals out.’

  As I left, Deirdre was placing rose quartz around the room. Most of the hippy musicians had passed out, except for one lone flautist playing a haunting version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?’ I asked Althea.

  ‘Oh it’s fine,’ said Althea. ‘I’m in the zone. It’s all good. I might have a little nap actually.’

  As I closed the front door, I heard Tina asking if there was any ‘ordinary’ tea.

  Friday 27th February

  208 days until everything changes

  Baby Wolfgang has arrived!

  Althea was right – it took a good few days. And a lot of soiled beanbags.

  I knew things were happening today because all the hummus had gone when I arrived. This counts as a crisis in Althea’s household, so she must have been in a lot of pain not to notice.

  When I got to Althea’s house after work, the musicians were playing a wailing wall of sound to Althea’s increasingly loud moans.

  Deirdre was dabbing Althea’s hair with a lavender pack and calling on her inner womanly spirit.

  A second midwife had replaced Tina and stood terrified in the corner – a young skinny girl with limp, blonde hair and a mousy face.

  At one point, the new midwife stepped forward and gave a timid: ‘Well done, Althea. You’re nearly there.’

  ‘STOP GIVING ME YOUR TIME BULLSHIT!’ Althea shouted.

  The young midwife quickly retreated.

  An hour later, after several especially long and loud bellows of ‘OM SHANTI’, a little pink, red and white baby was born.

  It was amazing.

  A real miracle, despite all the fluids.

  Deirdre wrapped the little baby in a spare tie-dye scarf and passed him to Althea.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ Deirdre declared, voice soft and kind. ‘But more importantly, a child of the world.’

  ‘Isn’t he lovely?’ said Althea, smiling her huge, gappy smile. ‘Isn’t he lovely?’

  ‘He’s perfect, honey,’ said Deirdre, tears in her eyes. ‘Another blessing from our great creator.’

  ‘He’s very large,’ the young, skinny midwife commented. ‘Would it be okay if I –’

  ‘NO,’ said Althea.

  ‘Okay,’ the midwife squeaked.

  ‘This is just the most amazing thing,’ said Althea, gazing at her new-born, eyes full of love.

  It was a beautiful moment.

  Was honoured to have been there.

  Hope my labour will be so full of love, although ideally finished within twelve hours.

  Tuesday 3rd March

  204 days until the bomb drops

  First scan at the hospital today.

  I had the morning off work, and Nick cancelled a meeting with his agent.

  Nick was so excited on the train, approaching female strangers and telling them he was going to be a father. The strangers giggled and blushed and told me how lucky I was to have such a lovely boyfriend.

  Wanted to say yes, Nick is very charming and good-looking on the surface. But try living with him.

  Anyway.

  By the time we got to the hospital, Nick had stopped being charming and was jittery with nerves.

  ‘What if there’s something wrong with the baby?’ Nick asked. ‘I mean, we both drank shit loads over Christmas.’

  Then he Googled how marijuana and alcohol affect sperm and turned white.

  When the sonographer led us in, Nick blurted out, ‘Look – can you tell us at this scan if the baby has decreased mental processing and attention issues?’

  The kindly female sonographer smiled. ‘Is Daddy getting worried?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Nick, running a stressed hand through his hair. ‘It’s all hitting home a bit. You know – that this is real.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the sonographer. ‘But we won’t know much about the health of the foetus until the second appointment.’

  I said, ‘I’m worried too. We both went on a few alcohol benders over Christmas. If we’d have known …’

  Nick put his hand up, like he was in a classroom, and said, ‘And I sort of … you know, smoked a bit of puff.’

  ‘Recently?’ said the sonographer.

  ‘Yes,’ we both said, and Nick muttered, ‘Over Christmas and sort of over New Year too.’

  ‘Oh, it’s unlikely the baby would have been affected,’ said the sonographer. ‘There would have been no umbilical cord at that time, so nothing would have gone through. Hop up on the bed.’

  What a relief!

  Practically floated up onto the paper-lined mattress.

  Then the sonographer squeezed clear jelly on my tummy and rubbed the scan thing around.

  A blurry grey picture appeared on a screen by the bed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Nick shouted. ‘Jules! Look! Our baby. Our baby.’

  I couldn’t really see much. Just white blobs and something that looked like a big, freaky alien head.

  A bit unnerving really and so … surreal.

  I mean – there’s a baby in there! An actual baby.

  ‘Your baby is due on the 23rd of September,’ the smiling sonographer told us.

  EXACTLY the same date as the NHS online due-date calculator!

  Weird that the internet could be so alarmingly accurate.

  The sonographer said it was very unusual for an online due-date calculator and a dating scan to give the same day. She’s had rows with parents before, apparently, about the ‘correct’ due date.

  Nick clutched my hand, and we smiled at each other.

  It was a special moment.

  Only slightly marred by our questions about drug and alcohol use.

  Second Trimester – Weeks 13 – 27

  Women often call this period of pregnancy the ‘glowing’ time, but for many, the debilitating physical symptoms continue.

  Your morning sickness may go (or not – some women have it throughout pregnancy), but you will now experience new symptoms such as poor temperature regulation, heart palpations, sore feet, aching muscles, body odour, thirst, panic attacks and migraine.

  You may also feel very hot, cold, hungry or uncomfortable at night and suffer disturbed sleep.

  As the baby grows, many women experience sciatica, backache, cramps an
d indigestion. Some women also complain of flatulence, which is caused by the growing foetus pressing on the intestines.

  Don’t worry – it’s all perfectly normal!

  Tuesday 17th March

  190 days until the end of life as we know it

  The baby is now officially the size of a small plum (it’s always fruit, isn’t it?), which is pretty bloody small, considering how big I am. Why, if the baby is so tiny, does my stomach look like (to carry on the fruit metaphor) a small watermelon, with two medium cantaloupes bobbing above?

  The natural conclusion is that I’ve put on weight – probably too much weight. But I’m always starving, so what am I supposed to do?

  Last night, I was too hungry to sleep. Tried to satisfy myself with a healthy (ish) Heinz tomato soup, but still had a rumbling stomach, so made myself eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and two rounds of toast.

  Nick came home late from the pub (where he’d been allegedly talking to theatre directors, in order to secure a West End role), and ended up having a bacon sandwich with me.

  We sat by the panoramic glass window, holding hands and bonding over our fears of parenthood as we watched drunk businessmen stumble towards the tube station.

  ‘I don’t mean to keep hiding from all this,’ said Nick, ‘but I’m scared I’ll fuck up this child’s life.’

  ‘We’ve got to step up and do the best we can,’ I said.

  Nick looked frightened. ‘I’ll try my best. I’m just not exactly sure what my best is.’

  ‘We’re going to have to make a lot of changes.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Nick. ‘I like things the way they are.’

  ‘I don’t feel ready either, Nick,’ I said. ‘But this isn’t about us anymore.’

  Nick was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘I have an audition tomorrow. For something long running. If I get it, it would mean moving up north. Property is cheap up there. We could get a family home.’

  ‘Nick, that’s … great,’ I said. ‘I mean, it would be sad to move away from everyone, but it would be a positive step. A move forwards. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Because I probably won’t get the part.’

  ‘But you haven’t not got it yet,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nick. ‘Yet.’

  ‘There’s no point thinking the worst,’ I said, putting my hand over his. ‘I’m sure you’ll get it. And if you don’t … well, remember what your agent said. It’s just a numbers game. The more you try, the more likely you are to get a good part.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I know that’s the logic. But it never feels like that. It feels like I’m failing all the time.’

  ‘You’re not failing, Nick. You’re doing great,’ I lied.

  We always play these roles. The insecure actor and the supportive girlfriend.

  Sometimes I think I’m a better actor than Nick.

  It’s getting harder and harder to believe that he really is going to get something long term – something that counts as a proper job.

  Saturday 28th March

  179 days until Nick and I become responsible adults

  Nick didn’t get the part in the long-running TV series.

  He had two more auditions this morning, so I visited Mum, Dad, Brandi and Callum at the Great Oakley Arms.

  Even though it was blowing a gale today, Mum had squeezed her bulging body into a tight, low-cut vest dress – her only nod to the freezing temperature being a pair of beer-stained Ugg boots.

  Dad, on the other hand, was dressed for the weather in his windproof cargo trousers and zip-up fleece.

  Three-year-old Callum wore his Spiderman outfit.

  I was hoping for some sensible ‘new parent’ advice – especially from my little sister Brandi, who became a mum only three years ago, aged sixteen.

  Brandi lives in her old bedroom above Mum and Dad’s pub, although now there’s a bed for Callum in there too.

  Brandi’s life hasn’t changed much. She still bleaches her hair platinum blonde, wears far too much makeup and goes clubbing, on average, three nights a week. This gives me hope that motherhood isn’t the big change everyone says it is.

  Asked Mum, Dad and Brandi what life would be like with a new-born.

  Dad’s eyes lit with sentimental joy. ‘Oh, it’s marvellous,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like it in the world, the love you feel.’

  In perfect unison, Mum and Brandi chimed over him, ‘It’s bloody awful.’

  ‘New-borns are a lot of work,’ Dad conceded, ‘but they’re worth it for that one little smile.’

  ‘Callum didn’t smile until he was three-months-old,’ said Brandi.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Dad. ‘Little Callum was smiling within the first month.’

  ‘That was wind,’ said Mum.

  Callum, who was bashing his Incredible Hulk figurine against a Transformer, said, ‘What’s wind?’

  ‘It’s the reason Nana Joan farts so much,’ said Brandi.

  ‘Fart, fart!’ Callum shouted.

  At three-years-old, he’s just discovered the hilarity of toilet words.

  ‘Callum,’ said Mum. ‘Nice words, please.’

  ‘He can say fart,’ said Brandi. ‘It’s shit he can’t say.’

  ‘Shit, shit!’ said Callum.

  ‘I just don’t feel ready for this baby,’ I admitted.

  ‘You’ll get through it, love,’ said Mum, in a stoic voice. ‘I mean, what else can you do?’

  ‘Bringing up you girls was the happiest time of my life,’ said Dad, all wistful and nostalgic. ‘The sleepless nights. Hand-washing all those terry towel nappies. Nits. Chickenpox. Diarrhoea. Sick in the back of the car when you’d eaten all that sweetcorn. I’d do it all over again if I could. You’ll be right as rain, Juliette. You have Duffy blood. We were born to triumph over toil and trauma.’

  But actually, I pretty much avoid toil and trauma wherever I can.

  Maybe a new-born baby isn’t as bad as Mum and Brandi made out.

  I mean, look at all those angelic, smiling babies on the Pampers packets. They can’t possibly cry that much.

  Saturday 4th April

  172 days until our baby arrives

  Had our second scan today. The one where you find out if it’s a girl or a boy.

  Nick was so excited he couldn’t sleep last night and had to borrow a sleeping pill from our stockbroker neighbour.

  ‘Once we know the sex, we can finally choose a name,’ Nick said this morning.

  I know some people wait to find out the sex, but neither Nick nor I are patient people.

  Unsurprisingly, we couldn’t agree on baby names.

  I like pretty, simple names for girls and classic names for boys. Nothing too flouncy or show-offy.

  Hannah. Chloe. Harry. Benjamin. That kind of thing.

  Nick likes Shakespearian names like Othello, Macbeth and Cordelia.

  Nick’s Mum, Helen, text-messaged some name suggestions too – Hyacinth for a girl and Brigadier for a boy.

  Was very nervous before the scan, because I knew we’d find out about serious medical things. I’ll love my baby no matter what, but no one wants health issues for their child.

  Birth defects are a distinct possibility in our family because we’re almost all deficient in some way.

  Dad has a poor sense of smell, and can’t tell the difference between boiled potatoes and stewed apples.

  Mum has type II diabetes, yet orders the KFC family combo just herself.

  Brandi was born with flat feet but still wears 4-inch heels.

  My big sister Laura is perfect, but that could just be a genetic fluke.

  And me … well, the list is endless.

  Just to heighten my nerves, the sonographer (a man this time) took ages messing around with the equipment, moving the TV screen, hunting for notes, etc.

  He finally put the scan thing on my tummy, but then an assistant popped her head into the room and offered the sonographer a cup of te
a.

  It was a simple yes or no question, but the sonographer turned it into a long stream of consciousness: Do I want decaf or caffeinated tea? I shouldn’t really have real milk with my IBS, and I’m not sure about those little plastic tubs of pretend milk – they must have lactose, and probably sugar too.

  Once the sonographer eventually placed his tea order (decaf tea, a teaspoon of milk and a small slice of lemon if there’s one going, normal cow’s milk, just a teaspoon).

  Eventually, he gave us the good news – there were no apparent health problems.

  Felt so relieved, until the sonographer said we weren’t ‘out of the woods’, and gave us a laundry list of things that couldn’t be picked up by a scan.

  Still feel EXTREMELY guilty about my alcohol consumption before I knew I was pregnant.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the sonographer, ‘alcohol can contribute to a lot of problems. Do you want to know the sex?’

  He smiled at our stunned, upset faces.

  ‘Um … we decided that we would like to know,’ I said.

  ‘You’re having a little girl,’ the sonographer announced. ‘Almost certainly. Although with a girl … there’s always that window of doubt.’

  ‘So it could be a boy with a very small penis?’ I joked.

  It was a bad joke because the sonographer took it literally and said, ‘Yes, quite’, and Nick looked really offended.

  Cried when we left, and Nick was kind – putting his arm around my shoulder, saying, ‘Look, don’t worry about it. I drank loads too.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘We’re having a girl. A lovely little girl.’

  Tuesday 14th April

  162 days until my little girl comes

  Nick has been pretty good this week, only coming home drunk once.

  See this as progress.

  And I’m making progress too. The morning sickness has eased off, and I’m finally getting my head around motherhood. I think all these evenings in are making me sensible. I’ve even bought myself some maternity clothes.

  Quite cheerful about pregnancy gear, because now I have a legitimate excuse to wear an elasticated waist before retirement age.

  Brandi offered me her old maternity clothes, pre-Callum, (oversized sports vests and shorts, colourful bikinis) but they’re way too sexy and revealing for an office environment.