She's Having Her Baby

by Lauren Sams

  The biggest adjustment was the constant presence of Lucas. He was always there. I hadn’t quite realised how time-consuming children were. Incapable of busying himself for longer than ten-minute stretches, Lucas required stimulation from the moment he woke to the moment he went to bed (at 7.30 every night, thank god). There were trips to the park, playgroups, play dates, music lessons, Gymboree sessions, art classes and Mandarin lessons. At home, he cycled through toys the way Jolie’s fashion team went from culottes to harem pants to crotch-drops to cigarette trousers and back to culottes. One hour, his scooter might be everything to him; the next, it was like garbage. Luckily, the kid had so many toys that he could afford to keep shifting them up and down the love–hate continuum.

  ‘How long do you have before you … you know?’ Ellie turned to me, forgetting Lucas and his time-out for a second.

  ‘Three weeks. Well, a bit less, really.’

  ‘Oh. That’s longer than I thought, actually. Ages.’

  I felt my eyes widen. ‘Really, Ellie? It’s ages, to make the biggest decision I’ve ever had to make?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Sorry,’ she said in a way that suggested she wasn’t, really. ‘It’s kind of late, right?’

  I nodded. I had called a well-known, discreet clinic a few days before and told them about The Situation. The sense of panic in the receptionist’s voice when I’d finished didn’t escape me – I was up Shit Creek, no paddle in sight and barely a bar of reception for my SatNav. ‘After sixteen weeks, we advise you to come in as soon as you make the decision,’ she’d said. ‘It’s still a very safe, very reliable procedure, but you only have a few more weeks before we can’t perform the operation.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll change your mind about kids,’ Ellie said gently.

  I paused for a minute to listen to Lucas in the playroom. He was singing the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ but had substituted every word for ‘fuck’. I was concentrating on not laughing so as not to incur the wrath of Ellie.

  But she was right – being around Lucas could help me change my mind. If my mind was up for being changed. Which it most certainly was not. It wasn’t even the kids – or kid – who were the problem. I didn’t mind kids, in general. They could be funny and cute, and occasionally I quite liked them. When they weren’t spitting in my face or stealing my birthday cake. I was definitely sick of the way people like Ellie and Simon seemed to live their lives for them, but the kids themselves weren’t all that bad. Lucas, for instance, had quite sweetly taken to calling me ‘Aunt Gawgee’. It was adorable. But I was also exhausted by him and terrified that having a baby of my own would leave me like Ellie. In other words, a shell of what I once was. I liked that person. I didn’t want to see her go.

  ‘Or, you know, you could just give the baby to Nina.’ I couldn’t tell if Ellie was joking or not, but regardless I had to admit that the thought had crossed my mind. Approximately once every twenty minutes. But it had been over a week since The Appointment and Nina hadn’t so much as updated her Facebook, let alone messaged me. Ellie had graciously gone over to pick up my clothes and it had taken all my strength not to attack her with questions when she returned. Was Nina OK? Did she mention me? Was Matt there? What did he say? How did they look? Exactly how much did they hate me and how long would it last?

  ‘Wouldn’t that make things nice and neat?’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘It would, and it wouldn’t,’ said Ellie. ‘You know, being pregnant is a very transformative experience, George. Honestly, when I heard about this whole surrogacy thing I wondered if you’d be able to give up the baby at the end. A lot of women change their minds. And understandably so.’

  Arrrrrrrggggghhhhhhh. When had my awesome, cool friend Eleanor Hughes become so insensitive? When had she turned into such a total drag? When had her glass become half empty? She didn’t used to be like this. There was another Ellie: Ellie BB. Before Baby. I had met Ellie at uni, when she’d been fun with a capital F. Always the first to suggest an adventure, the last to leave at night, Ellie wasn’t just the life of the party, she was the party. I had loved her so much, I’d invited her to join the gang of two that was Nina and I. Ellie was up for it. Seriously, she made Nina and I look positively lame sometimes. Like the way Keith Richards must have made Mick Jagger look like a total grandpa. ‘Oh, you know Mick, he’s a right square. Wouldn’t even snort his Dad’s ashes. Wanker.’ Ellie was a riot. She had great taste in music and this uncanny knack of knowing just when it was the right time to play ‘Kokomo’ or some other song that normally people would find queasy and cringe-y, but with enough alcohol and dimmed lighting, they bloody well loved. For her twenty-fifth birthday, we’d all gone skydiving. For her thirtieth, the three of us had flown to Melbourne to shop and drink. But for her recent thirty-fifth, we had brunch. Brunch. For her birthday. We didn’t even have mimosas, for Christ’s sake.

  When she became a mum – actually, even before that, when she fell pregnant – Ellie completely changed. No more nights out. Now, if and when we did hang out, it was on weekend mornings at parks, surrounded by snot-covered children and their warning-system parents. What I wouldn’t give to be able to turn up to Ellie’s old apartment in Newtown with a bottle of champagne and the whole night ahead of us to do exactly what we goddamn wanted. Except, the thing was, I think Ellie wanted to spend her Saturdays at playgrounds instead of getting a mani-pedi and recovering from a hangover like a normal person. I think her idea of a raging Friday night now really was pizza, 1.5 glasses of shiraz and the new Walking Dead episode. But it wasn’t just that that bugged me: it was the way that now everything orbited around Lucas. I had blocked her Facebook posts because they were literally by-the-hour updates of Lucas’s day.

  6.20 am Argghhhh! Lucas,

  don’t you know it’s Sunday?

  #lifeofamummy #upandatthem

  6.50 am The joys of waking up

  early: got the park to ourselves!

  #butwhendoesthecafeopen?

  8.05 am Oh no Mr Lucas,

  it’s not time for a nap yet!

  Just because YOU woke up

  early … #sleeptrainingsucks

  #butitwillbeworthit

  I was desperately close to defriending my only friend.

  ‘Ellie. Be real. I would never have done that.’

  Ellie looked at me witheringly. ‘It happens,’ she said, as if it were a foregone conclusion that I’d take one look at the amniotic-fluid-covered alien that was going to exit me and think, ‘Ooh, yep, this one’s mine.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Anyway, there’s not much point discussing all that, is there? Not now.’

  Ellie nodded. ‘Mmm.’ She stood up and collected our empty tea mugs, taking them back to the kitchen with her. I sat on the couch, in the same place I’d been for the last seven days, save for the eight to ten hours I spent at Jolie, and stared at Ellie’s bookshelf. Once filled with Didion and Shriver and political memoirs, it was now replete with Hairy Maclary, Where is the Green Sheep?, The Art of Raising Gifted Children and Attach Thyself: Your Children Need You More than your Office Does.

  I tugged at a pale pink spine that stood out to me. Expecting Love. On the cover, a bespectacled woman with the kind of haircut that was generally favoured by army cadets smiled sagely. In her arms, a sleeping, naked baby. ‘The only parenting book you’ll ever need,’ read the cover endorsement, from none other than Oprah. Who, I noted, did not have any children.

  I was fanning through the pages when Ellie came back.

  ‘Is that Expecting Love?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘God, what an amazing book. I was a mess before I read it – but Gemma Knight explains everything about babies so clearly. Especially the sleeping and feeding stuff. It was a godsend. If you, ah … if you end up staying … this way, you should read it.’

  I smirked and opened to a random page.

  Parents often tell me that during the first few years – say, the first decade – of a little one’s life, their number one complaint is
lack of sleep. It is astonishing that new parents still believe that babies should be able to sleep through the night without their help. Here is a short biology lesson that should clear things up. In the womb, babies sleep very well. Conditions are ideal: darkness, warmth and best of all, their mother’s constant companionship. Outside the womb, the world is a scary place for babies. It is terrifying, in fact. Babies wonder: Who are these people? Why is there so much light and noise? Why am I being placed in a large, empty space to sleep, when I am used to sleeping snugly in my mother’s belly?

  These are all excellent questions – but honestly, they are questions no baby should ever have to ask.

  The best way to get your baby to sleep is to mimic womb conditions. I know – it sounds a little silly. But it’s not forever. Most parents make the transition from Womb Simulation Sleep to Independent Slumber successfully after five to seven years. You may even be one of the lucky ones and have your child graduate to Independent Slumber at four (although this is not recommended)!

  Introduction to

  Womb Simulation Sleep

  Keep your house – not just your room, the whole house – as quiet as possible. If you live in a noisy area, it may be time to think about relocating.

  Draw the shades to make it completely dark. Babies cannot sleep with any light penetrating their immature vision. It is, in fact, quite dangerous for babies to be exposed to light while sleeping, as it disrupts circadian rhythms necessary for proper rest.

  Make ‘shushing’ noises approximately every twenty seconds.

  Bloody hell. I closed the book and tried to exhale but found my breath was caught somewhere between ‘circadian rhythms’ and ‘Independent Slumber’.

  ‘Wow, this is … full on.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘I know, some of it can be a little intense. I mean, you have to do what works for you, too, not just what the experts say. Because the experts won’t be there in the middle of the night, when your baby just won’t go to sleep, no matter how many times you sing “Rockabye Baby”.’

  If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard Ellie say that, I could afford to clone Harper Beckham for Nina.

  ‘Some of the things Gemma recommends aren’t for me,’ she continued. ‘Like, she’s quite big on breastfeeding until they’re toilet-trained – she says it makes the whole thing less traumatic for them – but my supply just dried right up after two years.’ Ellie shrugged, like ‘whatcha gonna do?’, and I tried to settle on an appropriate facial expression in response. ‘Sorry, George. I shouldn’t be talking about this stuff unless you want to,’ she said, in a rare display of sensitivity. A flicker of my old friend returned. ‘So you’re feeling OK? No morning sickness?’

  ‘Ah, no. I wish I had had morning sickness, because then I would have known I was in this mess. Apparently those massive pimples I had a while back were the only sign.’

  ‘I was like that, too,’ she said. Here we go. The token ‘How are you?’ question to get the ball rolling and – bang! – now Ellie had conversational permission to barrel on about herself again. I’d noticed this happening with every pregnant woman who spoke to Ellie. The old empathy switcheroo, I called it. ‘I was completely fine – to the point where it actually worried me, you know – until about six months in. And then, it all started.’

  Of course Ellie would have worried that nothing was going wrong. Ever since she’d got pregnant, she’d acted like she’d been implanted with an Added Anxiety Chip. Seriously, where had my friend gone? Ellie used to be the poster girl for carelessness and not-giving-a-fuck.

  Ellie rabbited on about every pregnancy complaint she had ever experienced (google ‘every pregnancy complaint ever experienced’ and you’ll see what she endured) as if I hadn’t already heard about it forty times already. As usual, I nodded politely, but this time I found myself wondering what I might suffer during my own pregnancy that could possibly trump Ellie’s experiences. It seemed that the whole accidentally-got-pregnant-to-my-ex-instead-of-being-a-surrogate-for-my-best-friend wasn’t nearly enough.

  ‘Anyway, enough about me,’ she said, finally done with the story of how her waters had broken all over her cat. Every time I heard it, it changed ever so slightly. This time, Ellie had drawn a direct link between her bathing poor Rocco in bodily fluids and Rocco’s intense dislike of Lucas. She probably wasn’t too far off the mark, actually. ‘You’re in a really bad place, George. Let me help you.’

  And there it was again, that glimpse of my old friend Ellie. The one beneath the mountain of baby clothes and organic rusks and hideous online forums where women competed for the title of Most Horrific Birth Story.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘First things first,’ she said brusquely. ‘You’ve got to talk to Jason. It’s your decision, ultimately, but he deserves to know. It’s the decent thing to do.’

  I paused. Telling Jase would make it real. Really real. I wasn’t sure I could cope with that. And what if he wanted to get back together and have the baby? Or have the baby but not get back together? I was fairly certain things were over between us and that it was probably for the best. It was weird that I wasn’t missing him. It was weirder that it didn’t bother me that I wasn’t missing him. Jase had been right; if I’d cared about him like I’d said I did, I would have brought up the baby stuff sooner. And I never would have lied to him about the surrogacy.

  But Ellie was right, of course. I’d have to tell Jase eventually. It would be easier to do before I started to look like Octomum.

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Good. Because he’s coming over in half an hour.’

  14

  Week 17,

  DAY 5

  Considering the strange conversations I’d been having lately, this one was just another in a series. Or so I told myself. Yes, Nina, I’ll have your baby for you. Hey, Jase, BTW, I’m having a baby for Nina and Matt. Oops, sorry, Nina, I’m actually up duff ATM. Maybe check in with me later? What more damage could I possibly do by telling Jase that I was currently with child? His child, if you wanted to be technical about it. Which, I guess, he probably would.

  Lucas ran to the door as soon as he heard the knock. He tore down the hall in nothing but his underwear and Superman cape, yelling, ‘Lucas open! Lucas open!’ maniacally. Apparently toddlers are really big on opening doors. Who knew?

  ‘Yes, Lucas, you can open the door,’ said Ellie, glancing behind her to check I was following. I nodded. I could do this.

  ‘Lucas open, Lucas open!’ he said as he opened the door.

  Jase stood on the other side of the door, looking for all the world like he hadn’t just suffered a traumatic break-up at all. He looked good. Tan. Fit. Really fit. How was it possible that he looked even more buff than he normally did? Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones or distance helping the heart grow fonder: I was seriously digging Jase.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ he said. God, had his voice always been this sexy? ‘Hey buddy,’ he said to Lucas, ruffling his blonde curls. ‘I like your cape.’

  ‘It’s not my cape, it’s Superman’s cape,’ Lucas corrected. He shook his head like, ‘Ugh, adults’.

  ‘Oh, right. My mistake.’

  ‘Come in, Jase,’ Ellie said. ‘You want a drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Hi, George.’

  I smiled. ‘Hey.’

  Ellie looked at me pointedly. ‘Come on, Lucas, let’s get dinner ready. Aunty George needs to talk to Jason.’

  ‘Fish fingers?’ asked Lucas, hopefully.

  Ellie laughed nervously. ‘Yes, Lucas, Mummy’s homemade fish fingers. Not out of a box,’ she said, justifying herself to two people who wouldn’t notice if she gave her son two-minute noodles laced with bourbon for dinner.

  Jase and I sat down in the living room, surrounded by Lucas’s detritus. Wiggles DVDs, stacks of books, crayons, craft paper, Lego and plastic balls in just about every size, shape and colour you could possibly imagine covered the floor. It looked like a halfway h
ouse for delinquent toddlers, not the home of two professionals in their mid-thirties and their son. There was practically no evidence that adults lived here.

  ‘So … I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. Ellie rang me this morning but she didn’t really say why we had to talk,’ he began. ‘So before you say anything, I –’

  ‘I’m pregnant, Jase.’ It came out before I had a chance to think about it.

  His mouth dropped open a little. ‘Oh. Wow. That was, ah … that was quick. I thought these things took ages.’

  I nodded, trying to form the next sentence in my mind. ‘Yeah. It, ah … it’s not Nina’s baby.’

  Jason’s eyes narrowed, his mouth curled in a ‘huh?’. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s yours. Ours.’

  You know that expression ‘his face fell’? Well, Jase’s face really did fall. In an instant, his jaw lowered, his cheeks drooped, his eyes hung.

  ‘What?’ Jase’s regular, calm voice resonated with a boom.

  I nodded. ‘Um, yeah. Seventeen weeks.’

  ‘But … but you don’t look pregnant.’

  ‘I kind of do, actually. If you look closely.’ I pointed to my midriff, which was indeed starting to show signs of swelling.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That I’m pregnant?’

  ‘That it’s mine.’

  ‘Yes, Jase! Bloody hell. Of course I’m sure it’s yours. I haven’t been sleeping with anyone else. We only broke up six weeks ago!’

  ‘Two months,’ he said. And something in the way he said it told me what he’d been about to tell me. He’d found someone else.

  Emboldened by the fact that I had no more fucks to give, I went for the answer I already knew. ‘Are you seeing someone else?’

  He bit his lip. And nodded.

  ‘Oh, good. Good for you.’ I tried to keep my voice as light as possible. Fine, I thought. It’s not like I was harbouring some white-picket-fence fantasy. No problem, let’s all move on. Jase: not the guy for me.