6. Pooing during birth – Look, there’s no denying it might happen (pushing a baby out is the same sensation as having a poo!).
Mummy Concierge hack: If it does happen, the likelihood is that only the midwife will notice. The good thing about this? A midwife will have seen and dealt with this a million times (if not more) and she will subtly dispose of it without any drama. Most women don’t even realise it has happened.
7. Partner being put off after giving birth – Lots of women are really worried about their partner going ‘off’ them after witnessing birth. After all, how can they look at a vagina the same way again if a baby has squeezed out of it?
Mummy Concierge hack: If you’re worried about your partner’s reaction to being at the birth, the two of you need to discuss it. If you’re still concerned, ask them to stay at the ‘top end’. They can offer just as much support wherever they decide to stand or sit and you need to feel comfortable with this.
Chapter 12
An email pinged into my inbox from a client that immediately had me intrigued. A friend of mine, Anna, had sent the following:
Woo hoo! I’ve been accepted! The powers-that-be have deigned me both elite and stylish enough to attend the best-kept mummy secret in west London. Details below!
Below the email was a beautifully crafted invite welcoming Anna to ‘The Bumps Tribe’. (Yes, I’ve changed the name so as to keep their top-secret, only-in-the-know ‘members’ club’ as exclusive as it still is.) I raised my eyebrows and smiled inwardly as I read the email – this is just so typical of Anna. When she moved to Chelsea ten years ago, she vowed to experience everything west London had to offer and immediately signed up to every private members’ club and celebrity infused gym, making sure to frequent Tatler’s must-eat Chelsea restaurants at least once a week. Let’s just say she embraced the ‘Sloaney’ lifestyle and certainly wasn’t going to let a pregnancy bump get in the way of that.
Scanning the rest of the email, I digest the fact that not only is this seemingly an incredible elite club (rumour has it mummies-to-be are secretly ‘vetted’ before their membership is granted), but it is also actually an antenatal class for the rich and famous who live in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Intrigued, I log on to their website and digest what ‘The Bumps Tribe’ actually is.
Run by two ‘Yummy Mummies’ (their photos on the website confirm this), this antenatal class seemed very different to your typical NCT class that most parents sign up to. Whereas NCT focuses on birth – and encourage natural births and breastfeeding – this luxury class takes place over eight weeks. Each week, mothers are taught by top industry professionals – from midwives and obstetricians to nutritionists, physiotherapists and GPs. The more I read, the more intrigued I become, and I swiftly send off an email asking if I can be included in their upcoming class.
The ‘vetting’ process must have been one of those nasty rumours because just a week later, I received a reply, inviting me to attend the next bump course, which is to start in a few weeks’ time. I can’t wait. Not only is it a great opportunity for me to learn about what life with a baby has in store for me, but also a wonderful chance to see if this is a service I can recommend to my pregnant clients.
* * *
As I step out of the Underground at South Kensington station, I glance down at the map on my phone and stride purposefully towards the stucco period house where the first class is being held. Everything about South Kensington is highly polished, from the well-heeled, often famous residents to the fact that most clothes shops have items starting at £600. Thankfully, as I have lived in neighbouring Chelsea for many years, I am used to the glamour and glitz, but nothing can quite prepare me for the prestige that was this antenatal class.
The door is opened by the epitome of a yummy mummy – who as it turns out is also our hostess. She is wearing skinny jeans teamed with Prada loafers and a white T-shirt, which I’m sure I spotted in the window of Whistles earlier. Around her shoulders is a leopard print scarf, adding a cool yet relaxed look to her stylish outfit. I immediately wish I had dressed up more and made a bit more effort with my make-up. Clearly a dash of mascara and a hint of blusher isn’t going to cut it here.
I follow her into her home (yes, the class is actually held within her £2m house) and am offered a glass of sparkling homemade elderflower cordial before being shown where the downstairs loo is (‘I know how much pregnant women need to pee!’ she laughs). The downstairs loo is the size of my current living room. All over the walls are photos of the hostess’s family. Being slightly nosy, I flick from one photo to the next, noticing that everyone has a different well-known celebrity or socialite in it.
When I emerge, smelling of Bamford hand wash, I am ushered into the living room, where the rest of my ‘Bumps Tribe’ await. Smiling at each one nervously, I sit myself down on a free sofa (there are four sofas in this room) and introduce myself to one of the mothers next to me. We are all heavily pregnant and before too long the conversation becomes more relaxed as we chat about pregnancy pains and if we know what sex the baby is. The mothers in this room are all definitely from a certain social set. Nearly everyone has a neat designer handbag by their feet and engagement rings the size of planets. As I quietly eavesdrop on nearby conversations, I hear talks about second homes in St Tropez, the best Botox doctor in London and the latest exclusive members’ club that costs £5,000 just to join.
It would be so easy to sit here and judge, but I also notice something else about all of these women. Every single one of them is cradling their bump and has an air of nervousness about them. Even the woman opposite me, who is loudly bleating on about potential childcare when her baby is born, stops every now and again and takes a deep anxious breath, looking down at her stomach apprehensively.
That’s when it hits me – no matter who these women are, where they’re from or what kind of privileged upbringing they’ve had, we all have one solid thing in common: we are about to embark on a new life that we know NOTHING about. We are about to become mothers to a tiny child who will rely solely on us. And right here, right now, we just don’t know what to expect. Which makes this the perfect moment for our host, Iona, to step into the room and introduce herself properly. A hush descends over the group as she begins to tell us what to expect from our class.
‘We don’t want to freak you all out, but in this class we will discuss all the elements of giving birth and tell you what to expect in the ensuing weeks,’ she says, making sure she makes eye contact with each and every one of us. ‘There is so much pressure on mothers to be perfect, we want to give you realistic expectations of your new role and the inevitability of nature’s imperfections.’
My hands have become very clammy and I subtly try to wipe them on my jeans.
Goodness, this is all feeling very serious.
‘You’ll notice that we didn’t offer for you to bring your partners along to these classes,’ she continues, flicking a strand of her hair which has fallen across her face out of her eyes. ‘That’s because we are going to talk about everything – leaking nipples, vaginal tears, diet, fitness, sex. Nothing is out of bounds. And because of this, these classes are a partner-free zone. We want you to be able to open up and tell us the things that are really worrying you so we can put your mind at rest.’
She goes on to introduce the experts who will be talking to us today. A young-looking midwife, who introduces herself as Kelly, explains that she has delivered over 600 babies and is herself a mother-of-three. A local GP from a Chelsea practice nods her greeting at us and then explains she will talk about post- and pre-natal depression. We are then greeted by a women’s physio, who promptly starts the class by asking us all to squeeze our pelvic floor muscles in unison (and much to our embarrassment). The reason for this? ‘I bet at least ten of you in this class [side note, there are only ten women in total in the class] are worried, whether you admit it or not, about having a baby through your vagina and it feeling flabby and gaping the next time yo
u have sex with your husband. Pelvic floor exercises will make sure this doesn’t happen.’
We all laugh nervously, but I must admit, I make a note of the pelvic floor trainer she recommends in my notepad.
As the class progresses, I notice that conversation and advice is far removed from what I had expected an ‘average’ antenatal class to be. We talk about things like having your baby privately, night nurses, nannies, long-haul travel with newborns, etc. without anyone raising an eyebrow. It is without a doubt that this class is tailored to a certain type of person, a ‘high-end’ type of mother. Someone who wants to be able to breastfeed wearing Prada and is determined that life won’t change too much after their baby (due to the fact they will probably have LOTS of hired help in one of their many homes).
We leave the class three hours later, exhausted, slightly freaked out (the midwife showed us photos of a torn vagina), but mentally more prepared for what is to come. A couple of the mothers suggest a ‘skinny caffè latte in a café nearby’ but I decline, instead agreeing to be added to the Bumps Tribe WhatsApp group and joining them all for brunch the following week.
It’s only when I get home an hour later that I digest what I had just been through. And I admit, I was scared. Not due to the expensive highlights, the air that smelled of perfume or the surgically enhanced pouting lips that surrounded me these last couple of hours. I was scared of what was about to come. Of birth. Of being a mum. Of all of the things that had been mentioned to us in our class that ‘might not turn out the way we expect’.
Chapter 13
When I received the message from Olivia, I was worried. Coming from a normally fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type woman, oozing confidence and laughing at everything with an intense freedom, the text seemed uncharacteristically subdued and sad:
I don’t know if it’s normal to request this – but can you meet me? Currently sat in my car and can’t stop crying.
Pulling up on the country road, with Olivia’s car parked in front of me, I swiftly turned off the car ignition and grabbed my coat, jumping out of the front seat. Olivia spotted me in her rear-view mirror and leant over to open her passenger car door. It had started raining a few minutes before, so I held my coat up over my head and scrambled into the car. Once cocooned inside, with the heater blaring, I wiped the raindrops from my face to see a visibly upset Olivia. Her eyes were swollen and clots of mascara were running down her face. I had met Olivia numerous times before and usually she took great pride in her appearance – she was always expertly made up and wore beautiful clothes. Today, she was sitting in her car in a baggy sweater (I presumed it must be her husband’s) and black worn-looking leggings.
‘Oh, my goodness, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?’ I pulled her in to me for a hug, fearing what she was about to tell me.
Olivia and her husband Geoff had been trying for a baby for three years now. They really had been through it all. Having started trying the second they were married and hoping desperately for a ‘honeymoon baby’ which didn’t come, having a baby had become a full-time obsession. Eight months after trying naturally, they had visited their doctor, who referred them to a fertility specialist. The next three years were spent going back and forth to fertility appointments, numerous attempts at IUI, Olivia having her fallopian tubes flushed, injections, tablets, hormones and eventually three rounds of IVF, the final one resulting in a successful pregnancy.
‘It’s not the baby, the baby’s fine.’ Gulping in air between sobs, she wiped the tears away from her eyes, smudging her mascara even more. ‘It’s me and Geoff. I’m not sure we’re going to make it.’
I feel something thump in the pit of my stomach and take Olivia’s hand.
Please don’t tell me that all the stress of trying to get pregnant has now broken their relationship. I couldn’t bear it.
‘OK, let’s start from the beginning.’ I gather up my coat from the floor of the car and reach into the back to grab Olivia’s. ‘But first, we need some air. Come on, let’s talk and walk.’
* * *
Olivia lived in the Cotswolds, an area I had visited lots throughout my years, so I knew the public footpaths well. The rain had eased slightly and the sun was attempting to make an appearance behind some clouds, so I led her down one of the little country lanes that went into one of the big country estates in Oxfordshire. The walks around here were beautiful and even if I couldn’t solve Olivia’s problems there and then, a bit of fresh air was bound to do her some good.
Ten minutes later and Olivia has told me the reason she thinks it might be over for her and Geoff. ‘I just don’t want sex anymore.’ She shudders as she says this, covering her eyes with her hands, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what it is. When we first met, we had the best sex life ever – we’d be doing it anywhere and everywhere, and we both loved it. But now, I can’t even bear it when he touches me. I clam up and push him away.’ She looks up at me, tears filling her eyes again. ‘The thing is, I love him so much. I just don’t want to have sex – with him, or anyone. What’s wrong with me?’
After a little bit more delving into the relationship, I conclude that early that morning, Geoff and Olivia had had a huge argument. Geoff had woken early and leant over in bed to give Olivia a ‘cuddle’, which she promptly pushed away. He then got emotional – asking her why she no longer wanted to have sex with him and if she still loved him. The argument had increased as emotions rose and culminated with Olivia running out of the house and driving away.
‘I just needed to get away, to process my thoughts. What do you think is wrong with me, Tiffany? Do you think we need to divorce?’
* * *
I wish I could say Olivia was the first mum who has come to me with this question, but unfortunately, that’s not the case. When I first set up my business, I knew there would be a huge element of hand holding and reassuring attached to being a Mummy Concierge. Pregnant women are full of hormones and I was used to receiving regular anxiety-ridden text messages or phone calls, but something I was seeing so much more often was the serious emotional impact that trying for a baby and fertility treatments were having on couples.
As Olivia continued to outline to me how she was feeling, an uneasy feeling settled deep down in my stomach and flashbacks from a few years ago played out in front of my eyes. I remembered the day Patrick and I were due to attend a friend’s one-year-old’s birthday party. That morning, I had peed on an ovulation test, which had announced I was ovulating. I was furious. Why? Because a) we were due at the park in under three minutes so there was absolutely no way we could fit in a quick session in time and b) Patrick was leaving the party early to catch a flight to New York for the next five days for work.
Ultimately, it meant that our chance of conceiving that month was now impossible.
Patrick and I had argued – fiercely. I told him his work was more important than us having a baby and he told me, ‘We can always try next month,’ which made me even more angry and emotional. At the time, every month was a gift – a chance to conceive the baby we had for so long been hoping for – and to me, delaying it by a month felt like missing a potential golden opportunity.
I went to the children’s party – alone – and 15 minutes into it, a friend found me sobbing behind a bush. ‘It’s just so hard being around all of these babies when I don’t know if I will ever have one,’ I yelled, loudly enough for other people in the park to turn around. ‘No one knows what it’s like trying to have a baby when everyone else around you pops them out so easily. I just can’t bear it!’
‘The thing is, I’m pregnant already, so I don’t understand why my sex drive isn’t just back to normal. We have what we have always wanted yet sex still feels so regimented and alien to me.’ Olivia had sat down now and was idly plucking blades of grass between her fingers. She looked so sad and distraught, I desperately wanted to help.
‘Olivia, have you ever actually thought about how much you went through trying to get pregnant?’ I spoke softly, furro
wing my brow as I tend to do when I’m saying something serious. ‘You scheduled sex for four and a half years. Every time you ovulated it was like a beacon saying, “Whip your kit off and get down and dirty”.’ Olivia didn’t look up, but she smiled as I said this. ‘I mean, talk about pressure! No wonder sex is now something you don’t enjoy. When you were trying for a baby, it was like being in the army – every kiss and fondle dictated by a bloody ovulation kit.’ I plucked a piece of grass from the ground in front of me and tossed it away aggressively. ‘I remember that feeling so well. It’s AWFUL.’
‘But that was then.’ Olivia looked up at me solemnly. ‘I’m pregnant now and I still don’t want sex. Surely that must mean we – myself and Geoff – are broken?’
A solo tear slid down her face and I saw her body crumple.
‘Olivia, look at me. Lots, and I mean LOTS, of women feel like this. When sex is a means to an end, you can forget it can be fun! I think you’ve probably associated sex with trying to get pregnant – and all of those horrific emotions attached to that – so no wonder you’re struggling with getting back into it.’
‘But what can I do? How can I change it?’ The desperation in Olivia’s voice was heart-wrenching and in that moment I decided to do something to help. Just because my repertoire usually involved prepping for a baby, it didn’t mean I couldn’t also try to help when there were relationship problems too.
‘Right . . .’ I whipped out a pen and notepad from my handbag and sat cross-legged on the ground, a determined look on my face. ‘Tell me all the things you enjoy doing and all the things Geoff loves.’
Olivia laughed and looked at me questioningly, her right eyebrow raised slightly.
‘No, I don’t mean sex wise!’ I burst into fits of laughter and Olivia joined in, perhaps thrilled that I wasn’t about to quiz her on her favourite sexual positions. ‘I mean, what do you love doing together? What did you used to do before you were trying to have a baby?’
Secrets of the Mummy Concierge Page 9
