For the next ten minutes we are all in hysterics. Natasha has Patrick snorting tea through his nose as she tells a story about a couple who wanted confetti cannons to be set off as they left her office. The idea was that they would be covered in pink or blue confetti in the reception of the hospital. Natasha has to explain this probably wasn’t the most sensible option considering the waiting room was likely to be filled with anxious pregnant women who might not enjoy the sound of confetti cannons exploding in their ears.
‘I actually had a father who emailed me recently wanting to tell his girlfriend the sex of their baby. She hadn’t wanted to find out, but he did, so he emailed saying he wanted to surprise her by flying her in a helicopter for her to look out the window to see hay bales spelling out: It’s a boy.’ Natasha gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. ‘I quickly explained to him this probably wasn’t the best idea. Not only had his girlfriend specially said she DIDN’T want to find out the gender, I also didn’t think it was a good idea flying an eight-and-a-half-months pregnant woman up in a small plane – what if she went into labour?’
When we leave Natasha’s office, I’m holding a small package wrapped up in festive paper with a note attached.
I couldn’t wait.
Since the day I found out I was pregnant, I had spun a collective daydream about our little girl: I pictured her walking through life with confidence and long, wavy hair (often tied up in a French plait with ribbons at the end). She’d be my willing partner in crime when her daddy suggested watching rugby on TV (we’d both jump on him and demand a cheesy chick flick instead). I’d take her to ballet classes when she was three and watch her twirl around in a lilac tutu and blush pink leotard. She would be the one who would demand stories about princesses at bedtime and would share my love of musicals (often found singing songs from Les Mis first thing in the morning in her bed).
As she grew older, I could talk to her about love, wipe away the tears when her heart was first broken and take her shopping for that first bra. We would be best friends and although her daddy could do no wrong, she would trust me implicitly and know I was a mummy who loved her with my whole entire being.
Enter, Christmas Day 2018. Patrick and I were in Ireland, spending Christmas with his family. The night before, I had unpacked all of our suitcases, carefully placing the neatly wrapped Christmas presents under the tree and laughing with my sister-in-law over whether a non-alcoholic mulled wine really was as tasty as the real thing (FYI, it’s not). I had gone to bed the night before, hand on my bump, talking animatedly to Patrick about what our lives would look like this time next year.
‘We’ll be able to put her in a gorgeous red dress with white tights and we can put a Christmas ribbon in her hair and—’
‘She might be a he,’ Patrick interrupted, raising his eyebrows at me but knowing he was already defeated. Despite his insistence that he didn’t care if we had a girl or boy, I think he found my assurance that we were having a girl quite baffling at times.
‘I just know she’s a she,’ I insisted for about the millionth time that month. I would never admit to him that I had also done just about every old wives’ tale in the book and they had all confirmed my instinct: the wedding ring had hung on a piece of string around my belly and had swung back and forth in a straight line, I was carrying my bump ‘high’, I had had terrible morning sickness, sweet cravings and spotty breakouts – all of which Google had confirmed to me meant I was a mother to a daughter.
Before switching off the light, I felt around under the bed and my hand brushed over the wrapped package that Natasha had given us a few weeks before. I honestly felt like I was three years old again – willing for Christmas morning to come as quickly as possible so that I could confirm I was going to have a daughter.
Every half-hour on Christmas Day, I had a text from my parents who were celebrating Christmas at my sister’s house in London, asking if we knew yet.
‘Not yet . . . just waiting for the right moment,’ I typed back.
The right moment came after Christmas lunch, when everyone was full to the brim with turkey and mince pies and various members of the family were heading off on a post-Christmas lunch walk, or slumping down on the sofas to watch a Christmas movie.
Patrick looked over at me, a small grin on his face. ‘Now?’ he whispered.
The surge of adrenaline rocked through my body and I nodded quickly, not knowing whether to burst with excitement or be sick with nerves. He took my hand and we walked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room.
‘Wait, wait, we have to record it!’ I raced out of the sitting room and up to the bedroom to grab my phone, returning quickly to set it up, carefully pointing at the sofa.
‘Do we have to?’ Patrick grimaced as I pressed ‘record’.
‘Of course, we do! We can remember this moment forever and show her when she’s bigger.’
The mood changed suddenly. There was a tension in the air as the reality of what we were about to reveal hit us. Quietly, Patrick turned to me again, beckoning for me to sit on the sofa next to him.
‘Let’s do this . . .’
In my excitement at planning the reveal, I had given Natasha swathes of blue and pink tissue paper and asked her to wrap the socks in alternating colours. It was essentially a game of adult pass the parcel – if you couldn’t play a game like that on Christmas Day, then when else could you do it?
Patrick handed the parcel to me and I tore away the first layer of blue tissue. I handed it back and the next layer of pink was discarded. We carried on like this for a few more layers, each stripping off the paper, getting closer and slower as we neared the final layer.
‘This is the final piece.’ He nodded down towards the parcel. ‘You do it. I know how important this is to you.’
So I closed my eyes and slowly began to peel away the last piece of paper. I felt the soft cashmere in my hands and cupped the socks between my fingers.
This was it! Once I opened my eyes, I would know for certain.
I pulled out a blue pair of cashmere socks and burst into tears. Patrick immediately ran over, switched off the phone that was recording our reaction and placed tight arms around me in a hug.
‘Tiff, it’s OK . . . A little boy is going to be amazing. We are having a little boy!’
I think it suddenly hit him and I could tell he was thrilled. But here I was, feeling the exact opposite emotion. Not knowing what to do, I ran from the room and threw myself down on the mattress in our bedroom. The tears wouldn’t stop coming. I remember Patrick coming in and trying to comfort me, but I pushed him away. One thought kept running through my head: How would I ever be able to be a good mummy to a little boy?
* * *
‘Gender disappointment’ was not a term I was familiar with, but one I quickly learnt. As the tears dried, I sat up in bed and started to google. Hundreds of forums on sites like Mumsnet and the BabyCenter popped up on my screen with varying degrees of sympathy and anger.
‘Can’t you just be happy that you’re having a baby, regardless of the sex? I’ve been infertile for . . .’
‘Why are you moaning about having a girl? Girls are amazing. You’ll love it once she is here.’
‘You shouldn’t be crying over the fact the baby isn’t the gender you wanted, you should be more concerned that you have a healthy little boy.’
Delving further into the abyss of baby forums, I eventually found women who were feeling the same way as me: helpless and sad. Add then the main emotion – guilt – for judging their little one before they were even born. I typed out my emotions into a short post and waited for the response. They came thick and fast, and thankfully, I seemed to have found a group of mums who understood what I was feeling.
‘It’s absolutely fine to feel the way you are. It’s easy to think that little boys will bond more with their daddy. But I PROMISE you, the bond a little boy has with his mummy is irreplaceable.’
Everything I read was true –
I was grieving for the dreams I had had about having a daughter, about how I thought we would share a special and tight bond. But now I knew we were having a boy, I found myself cringing nervously over my new vision of what life would be: video games, mud, chaos, sports. It seems stupid now, but all I could picture were the stereotypical boy characteristics. I didn’t know how to be a ‘boy mum’ and that really scared me.
A few days passed and my internet history was streams and streams of articles on gender disappointment. But it was on a walk in the woods were things slowly started to change. It had been a hard couple of days – mainly because 1) it was Christmas and I was spoiling it for everyone by bursting into tears every couple of seconds, and 2) because I felt an intense guilt for ruining our gender reveal for Patrick. When he thought I wasn’t looking, I could see him actually shine when he spoke to his mum about being a father to a little boy. I noticed he’d been looking up boys’ names on his iPad and his dad had already announced he would be the first one to buy him an Irish rugby shirt.
So, fuelled by another meltdown (me, not him), Patrick suggested we take a stroll down through the woods and have a chat. We had been doing this since the start of our relationship – in true British style whenever something seems to get too much, either a cup of tea or a walk seems to pretty much solve it. I pulled my Barbour jacket on begrudgingly – it was pouring with rain (something I realised happens a lot in Ireland) and I had a feeling this ‘chat’ might result in more tears (if there were any left!)
We walked in silence for the first 20 minutes, me brushing away raindrops from my forehead and Patrick strolling confidently ahead, breaking off the odd dead tree branch and kicking up leaves.
‘OK, so I have a plan . . . Let’s think about the positives of having a boy.’
‘There aren’t any,’ I said stubbornly, determined to remain in my depressed state. (As a side note, I know this makes me sound horribly selfish. I am very aware that having a healthy baby is all that matters, but sometimes pregnancy hormones just take control and you turn into a real nightmare!)
‘Number one . . .’ Patrick was resolutely ignoring me. ‘Apparently little boys have incredible bonds with their mummies. My mum was saying just yesterday that the bond she had with me when I was born was indescribable. And you always mention how close the two of us are.’
I nod in agreement, but the frown remains etched on my face.
‘And what about all those other things you can do with him as he gets older? I could be responsible for taking him to rugby matches, but you could take him to Ibiza!’
My eyes lit up – now that DID sound like fun!
‘And it doesn’t mean because he’s a boy, he won’t still love going to watch all those musicals you adore and what’s to say he can’t do rugby AND ballet? He might turn out to be a really thoughtful, emotional little man who loves the arts and cuddling his mummy. He might not even LIKE rugby.’ Patrick smiles sideways at me as he says this and I can feel my resolve weaken.
He was right. What’s to say that my little boy was going to end up like the stereotypical ‘little boy’ people project on us? What’s to say he wouldn’t just be the most fabulous, creative, intelligent, fun and happy little man ever to grace this world? Who says he can’t be England’s number one chef or dancer? Hell, if I was having a little girl, I’d want her to know she could be whoever she wanted to be – so why have I let a gender decide the characteristics of my little boy?
As we rounded back towards the house, I felt my mood lift and I put my hand on my pregnant belly. ‘Hello, little man,’ I whispered quietly, imagining my little boy snuggled up tightly in there, dreaming about who and what he would be when he entered the world. ‘I can’t wait to meet you.’ I looked up at Patrick and he pulled me into a hug.
Suddenly everything seemed all right with the world again.
How to prepare for your baby if you don’t find out the gender
• Get neutral newborn onesies and swaddles – Newborn babies look gorgeous in plain white baby grows, but if you want to add a bit of colour you can opt for light green or yellow onesies and swaddles. Get enough to last you a week or two and then you can buy more later in more colours if you need.
• Create a neutral palette that can go either way – You can still decorate your nursery without knowing the gender simply by decorating the majority of it in neutral greys or beiges until the baby comes. You can then create two Amazon wish lists which have options for added extras for both genders. Then, when your little one arrives, and you’re sitting in hospital, simply click ‘buy now’ and you’ll have all the little extras delivered to your door before you even leave the hospital.
• Have a baby shower after the baby is born – Instead of having a baby shower before the baby is born, have a party afterwards. That way, everyone will know the gender of your baby and can buy gifts based on the news if they want to. It also means you’re more likely to get gifts you actually want, too!
• You can buy a lot of baby kit without knowing the gender. Spend your time buying the following: pram, cot, car seat, baby gym, baby carrier and muslins.
How to deal with gender disappointment
1. Follow people on social media who have children of the same sex that you’re about to have. It can really help you to imagine life with your little one.
2. Go and have another scan and, if you are allowed to, film the ultrasound. Actually being able to see the baby and re-watch it makes you realise that you have a small human being inside you and that little person is amazing, no matter what the gender.
3. Go shopping for boy/girl clothes. If you wanted a little girl and have been obsessing over pretty girl dresses, then go and have a look at what boys’ clothes are available. Not all of them are dinosaurs and lime green!
4. Start designing the nursery. One of the biggest triggers for me was when I saw images of girls’ nurseries and I couldn’t imagine having a little boy in a boy’s nursery. But as soon as you start designing the nursery for your little man, everything becomes more real. You can begin to picture and reframe what your life is going to be like.
5. Name your baby. Sometimes actually having a name before the baby is born is a fabulous way of bonding. It can make you feel much more connected.
6. Read stories from other women who have gone through gender disappointment. Some women are so open about the gut-wrenching pain they are going through and it helps you feel less alone. Gender disappointment isn’t talked about a lot because there is a fear of judgement from others.
7. Talk to your baby. It might feel strange at first but from around 15 weeks, your baby can actually hear your voice. If you find it hard to ‘chat’ to them, then look up pregnancy meditations as they are a lovely thing to do in your quiet time and can also really help you bond with your little one.
Chapter 9
‘Does my vagina look OK?’
I blush, pull my shoulders back (‘Act professional,’ I mutter to myself) and walk over to where my client lies spreadeagled on her kitchen table.
‘It’s hard to tell from that angle.’ I glance over as quickly as I can in the right direction and then turn my back on the pretence of finishing packing my client Juliet’s hospital bag.
‘It looks amazing, darling. Frank is doing to die!’ Juliet’s best friend Juno pronounces the word ‘die’ as if it’s spelt ‘die–ya’ and I’ve noticed, in the last hour I’ve been here, that she tends to say everything with an explanation mark at the end.
She is probably the loudest woman I have ever met.
‘Do you really think so? I mean, it’s a fun little “before baby arrives” gift, isn’t it? Might as well have evidence that it didn’t used to look like a warzone pre-baby.’
Juno and Juliet laugh hysterically. ‘I still can’t believe you’re doing a plaster cast of your vagina!’ The two women break into a fit of giggles and I force myself to smile.
Why am I being so uptight? It’s not as though I haven’t seen a woman’
s vagina before.
I’d been dreading today for numerous reasons. The fact I’m eight months pregnant, feeling fat and frumpy and, quite frankly, have hormones zooming around my body at the rate of knots isn’t helping. When I woke up this morning, I told Patrick what my day entailed and he laughed solidly for 20 minutes, only stopping to text his best friend and explain my ‘hysterical job’. What followed were numerous ‘hilarious’ WhatsApp messages from various family members and friends about how I should now be called ‘The Vagina Whisperer’.
After the 20th message pinged into my inbox, I had a complete meltdown and threw a Non-Disclosure Agreement in Patrick’s face, telling him I could be sued for even telling him. (That’s not actually true as Juliet had never made me sign a Non-Disclosure, unlike so many of my other clients. Since deciding what her husband’s ‘gift’ was going to be, she had announced what she was doing to anyone who would listen, including the bemused-looking spotty teenager who served us coffee a week ago at Starbucks.)
Let’s just say, she had no shame!
Having stormed out of the house, I had jumped on the tube to Hampstead and tried to diagnose the reason for my bad mood. I mentally ticked off the things in my head that might have been the reason.
Patrick? It annoyed me that he didn’t put his empty tea mug in the dishwasher this morning but apart from that, he’s fine (if a bit of an idiot for teasing me about my job).
Work? All of my clients at the moment were some of the loveliest mummies I could hope to work with and besides some rather bizarre requests (today’s being top of the list), no one was really stressing me out that much.
Pregnancy? I stumbled over this one, mainly because I even felt bad for adding it to my list when we had tried so hard to get there in the first place. However, the more I let the word swill around in my brain, the more I knew it was the culprit of my foul temper.
When you are pregnant, people constantly say to you, ‘Oh, how wonderful! You must be so excited?’ or (my personal hate), ‘You’re absolutely glowing!’ There is something about pregnant women that makes people think we are all ethereal and angelic, whereas, the truth be told, I have piles the size of gooseberries and my boobs are starting to leak milk. I tug at the material of my T-shirt cruelly stretched out over my belly and shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Secrets of the Mummy Concierge Page 6
