by Poppy Dolan
I am not amused. ‘No, she’s just a new friend.’
‘Friend! Friend! Football friend.’ Lydia does her best Inbetweeners impression, which is pretty poor. The sad thing is, I recognise it.
I chew my way through the very dry, unidentifiable cake as a distraction.
‘OK, sorry. Just don’t go promoting her to new bestie. It was hard enough competing with Pete and he’s got a willy, which is beyond even my great talents.’
Giving her arm a reassuring tug, I set her straight, ‘You will always be the top lady in my life, even when you feed me cake that is crying out for eggs and butter. And chocolate. Look, got to dash to make this romcom but let’s have breakfast on Sunday, OK? We can debrief again.’
‘So you’re going back to the class?’
‘Yeah, why not? My pastry skills are a bit hit-and-miss and it was good to meet a few new faces too. And if you really hit it off with Joe, I will gracefully accept the toast in my honour at your wedding. And a large, large gift of thanks.’
Lydia laughs and rubs her boot against the back of her electric-blue leggings in that way she has. ‘Deal, muchacho. What’s the movie? What to do when you’re knocked up? Something like that?’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. I poke her bony hip. ‘Close. What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s Cameron Diaz season at The Ritzy and Being John Malkovich was too much like hard work for a Tuesday night.’
OK, so maybe given that our reproductive plans are in an area so grey that if it was a B&Q paint colour it would be called ‘Umm, errr, not sure, bit of both’, this movie was not the best choice. But whether Pete thought I’d like its blatant girliness following last week’s ‘bang bang boobs’ theme of a spy thriller or he was trying to squeeze a Conversation out of me, I’m not sure. He’s thoughtful, but not as devious as someone like, for instance, me – who, when I was a teeny bit keen on getting married, took Pete to a Richard Curtis marathon in an open-air showing, with a picnic. Of champagne and strawberries. And oysters.
And Pete, lovely dependable Pete, posits his traditional post-movie analysis as we stroll hand in hand out of The Ritzy. Pete likes to have a lively debate about whatever we’ve seen, but it must last for no more than seventeen minutes and if I use the word ‘reimagining’ I know he’ll start daydreaming about the best bus route home instead. So he cracks on with, ‘What do you expect?’
‘Hmmm?’ For a second I think I’ve somehow silently started a seething argument, but his face is as open and calm as ever.
‘When you … you know, expect. One day.’
‘Ahhhh, ummmm. Wait, what?’
‘Well, what do you think it feels like, to have a person grow inside you?’ Pete’s eyes are all wide with wonder, like an eclipse had just happened randomly in the skies of Brixton.
I think he’s picturing cells dividing, a tiny heart beating, translucent skin housing tiny veins. I’m thinking John Hurt in Alien.
‘Well, Simone at work was sick every day. Every day. So I might have loads of morning sickness like that. Or I could go off certain foods. You might not be able to cook … anchovies or gooseberries in the flat.’
‘Gooseberry and anchovy tart can come off the menu, OK.’ Pete’s using his polite voice but I can tell this isn’t the answer he was ready for.
‘But, you know, epic, I suppose. Making a life. From scratch. In your tummy. Can’t really imagine it, to be honest. The whole idea feels … weird.’ I shove my empty pick–and-mix bag in the bin as we trot through the chilled September air towards our bus stop.
‘Weird,’ Pete says breathily, almost to himself.
‘But good.’ I try to save this cluster bomb of a conversation that I alone have detonated. Why can’t I just go teary and say ‘magical’ like a normal girl? ‘I mean, an amazing honour that we—’
‘There’s the bus!’ Pete grabs my hand and we start to leg it, leaving the stilted exchange behind us on the pavement. And I just let it sit there.
This is not the kind of relationship hiccup I can share with Lydia. She is always surprisingly defensive of Pete, as if they are natural allies in the experience of Enduring Eleanor. It’s sweet to see, but not always what you want in a best friend. I don’t tend to talk babies with her anyway; in her world of margarita dinners the topic of to sprog or not to sprog doesn’t really fit the bill. And it goes without saying it’s not the kind of thing I can tell Mum over a bourbon biscuit; ‘Oh yeah, had a really uncomfortable conversation with Pete the other day, about how I imagine a baby in the womb to be like an alien about to rip through your stomach wall at any moment.’
So somehow it all comes tumbling out after my evening class as Hannah and I are having a post-baking wine. Any kind of cooking feels wrong without a drink to sip on mid-whip or mid-fold but bringing a half bottle of wine in a brown paper bag would probably be seriously frowned upon. So we retreat to a quiet little dingy boozer just behind the college and plump for the only bottle of white on the menu. All Hannah does is ask how I am, non-baking-y, and a whole lot of verbal mush follows. I think maybe it’s her calm teacherly demeanour; she listens without a flicker of judgement. Or maybe I just don’t actually let her get a word in edgeways. In the verbal compost heap is something like: ‘Husband … mother … yearbook … birthday … ovaries … shrivelling … alien.’
She blinks like I’ve just blown a handful of icing sugar in her face. ‘You’re married then?’
‘Oh, yes. To Pete. He’s really lovely, which makes this even harder because I really feel I’m letting him dow—’
‘Eh eh eh!’ Hannah uses some kind of a dog training noise on me so I shut up. ‘Hang on, you didn’t say anything about being married in class. And you’re not wearing a ring.’ She points at my naked wedding finger as if it’s eggshell in her meringue mix.
I scramble for my handbag. ‘Ah, no, wait. I take them off so I don’t get them all mucky or loosen the pearls. See?’
There is a brief five-minute break while Hannah inspects my ring and coos. She says it’s unique, and not in the condescending way most people do.
‘It’s just … you didn’t seem very married, I suppose.’
This elicits a weird mix of pride and panic in me. Like I’ve just been able to fit into a size eight skirt, but then realise it’s because one of my legs have fallen off.
‘Er, I don’t know what to say to that.’
Hannah takes a huge gulp of Vin de Maison and blinks rapidly again, ‘God, I didn’t mean that in a judgey way. I just didn’t notice you mention Pete, or anyone at home. And you were kind of flirting with Joe.’ She finishes with a nervous, timid laugh.
‘What? No!’ I hold my wedding ring on my finger like Hugh Hefner is about to whip it off me and force me into a sleazy Bunny life.
Hannah’s shoulders nudge her ears. ‘OK. Sorry.’
As my cheeks go berry-compote-coloured, I babble out an explanation, ‘Aha, you see, it’s for Lydia. My best mate. She spotted Joe at the sign-up night and she fancies him. But I have to suss him out a bit first. Because we are dysfunctional and unnaturally close.’
Hannah nods in understanding. ‘Symbiotic. Like the birds who pick ticks off hippos. I’ve had a few female relationships like that. Hmmm, I see now. So, if we clamber back on the topic; you’re happy with Pete, he’s a great husband, you like the idea of having a baby with him, but just not the idea of having a baby?’
I nod into my glass.
‘And you can’t talk to Pete about it?’
I talk through my guilty grimace. ‘I could talk to him about anything, normally, but this … I feel like such a hypocrite, a disappointment. A flaky mess. He’s seen me go completely melty over our friends’ babies. And I do! I just melt into a puddle when I get to hold one of those tiny newborns, smell that sweet, almost custardy smell of their skin, put my little finger into their tiny fists.’ I roll my eyes as they begin to water. ‘I think my biological clock has stuck half-past-baby. But.’
‘But?’
‘But then I give the baby back, enjoy sinking my next three G&Ts, go home with Pete, eat a stupidly massive takeaway and wake up the next morning late and lazy. And I love wriggling around under the duvet and knowing I have nothing more serious to do on a Sunday than get the papers, maybe paint my nails and eat a bagel. When we have a baby, all that will change. I know it’s crazy selfish, but I don’t want to say goodbye to all that. Not yet.’
‘OK. So don’t. Not yet.’
I shut my eyes and exhale. I wish I had another slice of the red velvet cake from tonight’s class.
‘But what if now is the right time? What if I wait for another two, three years and then they tell me all my stuff has shrivelled up and it’s too late? And what if Pete can’t wait that long? And what if my mum’s head explodes if she waits all that time? It’s not until I do it that I’ll know if I should have done it. But it’s such a big, big, irreversible step. A baby isn’t a leopard-print jacket I can take back to Zara because I realise it’s too much for me. And, you know, I could potentially warp a perfectly harmless little person, all because I’m hardly mature enough to take care of myself.’
Hannah swirls the last centimetre of wine in her glass and bites her bottom lip. ‘You need field evidence.’
‘Huh?’
‘When I do ecosystems with my class, we study how different animals live. But as we can’t actually do what the animals do to understand them – live in the woods, eat bugs – we observe, study, collect things out in the field. Mind you, some of my grubbier boys could survive quite nicely in a fox hole, I reckon. Anyway, you need to see how other people do it, how they feel about babies, motherhood, all that. What about your babied-up friends?’
I wince just a bit, ‘They might think me a big, hollow monster for not flushing my pills down the loo at Pete’s first mention of the “b” word. And I don’t want it getting back to him in any way.’
‘So you need to talk to mothers you don’t know?’
‘Yup.’
‘Blog.’
‘I know; blerg. It’s such a mess.’
‘No, luddite: blog. You should start a blog. Get how you feel out there and ask for feedback from mums. Get on the Mumsnet message boards; they’re overflowing with opinions on everything. Literally, everything. At the very least you’ll feel better getting this stuff off your chest.’
A blog. I could blog. I can type, and I have a laptop. It sort of makes sense, and in Julie and Julia it all went very well. Maybe someone will make a book and a film out of my baby ramblings? Dibs on Rachel Weisz to play me!
Hannah breaks my daydream of Rachel Weisz sitting on my sofa, wearing my clothes and drinking out of my favourite mug, laughing gaily with a Channing Tatum ‘Pete’.
‘What do you think?’
‘Oh God, but what if someone I knew read it? What if someone at Mum’s bridge club suddenly discovered the Internet?’ A big shudder passes through me.
‘Keep all names out of it. Think … Belle de Jour. But with babies. Actually, don’t think that, that’s gross. But anonymous would work, and probably get more people interested. A bit of mystery never hurts. Are you game?’
‘Anything’s better than coming out in a cold sweat when I walk past a Mothercare. Why not? Blog it.’
Chapter Six
None in the Oven
To procreate or not to procreate? Seriously, can someone tell me?
I’m in a pickle, t’internet. I want a baby. But I don’t want a baby. Yup, exactly. Now you know why I need you guys.
So, in a crazy hormonal nutshell, this is the situation: I love my husband, I love babies, but I love being an independent adult with free Sundays and expendable cash. Am I clever, kind, patient and wipe-clean enough to raise a whole human? Do I change everything I know and love right now or do I wait, enjoy myself a bit more and risk leaving it too late? Do I stay or do I go?
If anyone could share with me how long they waited, whether it was the right thing, what they would change, or maybe just the name of a good anti-psychotic medication, I’d be forever grateful.
Yours,
Sprogless in Dulwich
Comment
Hi Sprogless. We’ve all been there, making such a big life-changing decision. I sometimes miss the odd thing from life pre-baby but, really, I wouldn’t change a thing now I’m a mum. The truth is, you won’t know until you know. Good luck x
Comment
Seriously, get on with it. Or start saving the ten grand you need for IVF. It’s not rocket science: you’ll muddle through like the rest of us.
Comment
You clearly have too much time on your hands. Having a baby might save you from such pointless navel-gazing.
Chapter Seven
I’m still prickly from my most recent blog comment as I make my way to my second birthday shindig. I’m a Grumpy Gus, there’s no bones about it. With a little shake to my backbone – Count your blessings, my mum’s voice echoes in my head, because those who aren’t grateful enough soon lose them – I enter one of my favourite local places: a chi-chi cafe called Chandelier. There’s tea of all denominations, cakes by the wedgeful and a lovely set of ornate but also tasteful furnishings. Each time I’m there I eye another low, velvet armchair, wondering how big the diversion would need to be for me to drag that fella home.
Jules suggested a separate, more girly get-together for some of our mates who’ve become out-of-towners in recent years. She fudged something about the parking being better at this end of London rather than in the middle of town, where I had my first set of birthday celebrations. But I know the reason. The out-of-towners, though from a disparate breadth of friendship groups, are linked by one thing: their babies. And not everyone thinks babies and bars mix. Not even Jules, as cool as she is; she’s left her wee pudgy girl Emmeline at home with her mum for the night so we can hit the Bacardi, but I know some of our other babied friends would gasp in alarm if we suggested they choose spirits over sprogs.
As I step through the slim front door of Chandelier and start unbuttoning my coat in the comforting warmth of the tea shop, I spot Georgie. It’s not surprising that she’s early; she was a trend analyst before she had kids – it was her job to get to things before anyone else did. In fact, she’d looked so deeply into the grotty truth of modern culture that when she knew she was adding another person to city life, she ran screaming for the hills. Actually, the Chilterns. Jules and I knew Georgie from school and now and then, if I’m ever a bit late or slightly unkempt, I see that flash of Head Girl disapproval in her eyes.
‘Hello lady. Lovely to see you. Are you the first one here?’ I’m not sure why I ask that, but it’s nice to let her bask in her earliness.
‘Hey, happy birthday! Yes, just me so far. It never hurts to add an extra fifteen minutes to your journey, just in case.’ I don’t think I’ll tell her about my special yearbook from Pete. I might get a stern word about pursuing your dreams, achieving tasks. In Georgie’s line of work, you didn’t just have to achieve your future predications – every other person in the country did. She saw the return of the platform wedge and tipped Aperol Spritz to be the next cocktail most-sipped in London.
‘No winkles today?’ Georgie and her other half Steve have three-year-old Maria and little Will who just turned one last week.
‘As I’ve just come off milkmaid duties, I thought I’d escape on my own just this once.’ She half-smiles/half-grimaces. ‘Oh God, that makes me sound awful. But suddenly not having someone within a three-foot radius of my boobs is crazily liberating.’
‘Said the retired actress to the Bishop! Um, sorry.’
Georgie gives me a frown. But somehow any mention of my friend’s breasts in all their natural wonder and glory turns me into a Benny Hill scriptwriter. My embarrassment bubbles up in terrible, clunky puns that I instantly regret. No wonder I’m nervous about the idea of being a mum myself: I’d probably be kicked out of NCT classes for falling into nervous hysterics.
Better dive-bomb in for some br
ownie points. ‘So how are the wee ones?’
Her face instantly loses the frown and softens in delight, ‘Maria comes up with something new every day. We were talking after one of her daycare sessions. I asked her what she’d played and she said doctors.’
Georgie takes a long sip of her tea and I quietly wait for the analysis of this. My lovely friend is rather hot on the cultural messages her children pick up through their games, clothes and toys. I’m not sure if doctors will be a good or bad thing. Hello Kitty is not even spoken of.
‘Which is great,’ she goes on. ‘Do you know how many children automatically draw a man when they’re asked to draw what a doctor looks like? Gah. And then she went on to say that the other girls were all playing princesses but she thinks it’s boring, because all you do is sit and brush your hair.’ Georgie’s eyes twinkle with pure pride.
Maria is a sweet little thing. Pretty bossy and determined. ‘I do it!’ was her first sentence, as she tried to grab a spoonful of peas from her mum and ended up sticking them in her ear. It was exactly what Georgie had been waiting for her to do. I just hope Will doesn’t show any overtly masculine leanings as he grows up: Georgie made it super clear when she was pregnant the first time, and didn’t find out the sex of the baby, that anything gun-, football- or superhero-related wouldn’t be welcome in her nursery. ‘It’s not that a boy can’t play with these things if he chooses them at some point,’ she’d said through gritted teeth back then, her bump out in front of her, as clearly worn as her politics, ‘but I just wouldn’t want my son to feel limited to just these things. He should be free to play with dolls, if he wants; kitchen sets, cuddly toys, the dressing-up box. Everything should be open to kids, so they can choose.’
I honestly couldn’t agree more. The pink-blue divide in toy shops and children’s clothing departments is getting as clearly and aggressively staked out as those lines of trenches in maps of WW2 Europe. Knowing how carefully Georgie thinks about these things has probably put me on high alert when shopping for her little people, or any babies in general. I hunt down yellow or green or even rainbow-striped onesies like they’re The Jewel of the Nile. Just buying birthday presents or christening gifts has shown me how bloody knackering it is to have strong ideals in the face of princess outfits, camouflage pyjamas and slogan t-shirts from ages three months and up. And a weedy little voice sometimes pipes up as I’m at the till with my taupe babygro: ‘Would you have the patience to care so much? Would you spurn My First Manicure sets that a well-meaning relative might bring, and take the social flak in order to raise well-adjusted children?’ The answer is of course ‘Yes’, but it doesn’t mean I’m necessarily rushing into those trenches, ready to fling myself into the battle. I can just imagine my mum’s face if I politely shelved a baby-pink knitted outfit, complete with sparkly buttons, that she’d just spent a month crafting. I might feel better that I’d stood up for my politics, but I know she would be smarting that her creation was snubbed.
