AM I REALLY NOT PREGNANT?
I keep forgetting I’m no longer pregnant. Yes, I know. But seriously, when I’m out for dinner and asked by the waiter if I fancy dessert, I still say I’d like to try everything on the menu. Then I suddenly check myself and order just two or three things instead. I’m getting there. A lot done, more to do, as they say. I really am trying but it’s just so hard to come to terms that I’m not eating for two anymore. I miss not eating six doughnuts at a sitting or sinfully smothering my croissants in butter. I hanker after the days I could easily polish off a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, or a sack of coal. Ah, no, I’m joking. I always drew the line at coal, although I have heard that some pregnant women love it!
My point to all of this is this; a year ago when I wasn’t pregnant and was a size eight, I took part in a fashion show for a charity event. It was great fun sashaying up and down the catwalk in my lovely dress. But fast forward a year and the annual fashion show is taking place again next Friday. That’s all well and good but I had to tell the organisers that I’m now a size twelve just in case they tried to squeeze me into my last year’s dress. Actually I’m probably more like a size fourteen this year which means that I’ve just one week to lose a dress size. Oh God help me, if any of you out there have the miracle solution, suggestions on a post card please.
And don’t say I should try sit-ups or anything because life’s too short for that. Even Mum wiped me off the tennis court last week and after just one set I nearly collapsed with exhaustion. Blast you Posh Spice for making it look easy. Ok, I’m having sleepless nights about this now. I had, very fleetingly, thought of pretending I was still pregnant, and asking the organisers if they had any nice maternity wear that I could model, but then I was afraid I’d be caught out. Especially since a photo of my new-born appeared on the front page of a national newspaper – a bit of a giveaway, that.
I hadn’t thought I was too bad really until I recently spotted a photo of mum-of-three, Julia Roberts, running on a beach in her bikini in one of the papers. It really put the pressure on. I mean, if she can do it, we should all be able to do it, right? Of course I won’t be modelling bikinis on Friday because we want everybody to enjoy their lunch, but the organisers won’t let me wear a boiler suit either. Dammit!
WHO’S THAT GIRL?
Who’s that girl? I thought the other day, glancing in the mirror and shuddering. That girl had dark roots, dry frizzy hair, was wearing an old T-Shirt with baby sick on the front of it. She also had unfamiliar circles under the eyes. I didn’t recognize her. But sadly it was me. Something drastic had to be done. So I took myself off to Toni & Guy looking for a miracle.
‘Make me look like this,’ I demanded, waving a dog-eared picture of Kate Moss. ‘I’m willing to pay.’
Actually I did nothing of the sort. I just explained that I’d like a bit of colour in my hair to make it look not quite as dull as it did. The hairdresser offered to do her best.
‘Would you like a few magazines with your coffee?’ she asked cheerfully. I said I would, looking forward to enjoying a couple of hours catching up on celebrity gossip. But after flicking through a magazine I came across an article about Siamese twins. One had survived but the other had died six weeks after being operated on. Tears formed in my eyes and I fought them off. But it was no use. I’d already been in a tearful mood that day. My sister had told me about a friend of hers with leukaemia whom she had visited a fortnight ago in hospital. The girl was a mother of three, her youngest seven months old. As her friend lay in her hospital bed my sister had chatted to her about everything, including the current economy. She said how worrying it was that house prices were falling and people were losing their jobs. Her sick friend had smiled and said, ‘myself and my husband also used to worry about stuff like that. Not anymore. Now all I want to do is live.’
She died a week later. But her words still ring loudly in my ears. ‘I want to live’ she had said. But that didn’t happen. Her wish hadn’t come true. And it suddenly made me realize that if my hair didn’t look great, it didn’t really matter. Or if I can’t afford a sun holiday this year, that doesn’t matter either. Baby sick down the front of my top just means my baby is alive and well and the sound of his cries in the middle of the night is now reassuring rather than frustrating. The more I thought about it the more the tears flowed and I could no longer stop them. I had never met this brave young mother but her death made me feel wretched. I felt so guilty for secretly moaning about minor mishaps going on in my life. And then I noticed the bright, friendly hairdresser looking at me in the mirror. She looked fairly alarmed. It probably didn’t look good for her to have a customer in tears.
‘It’s not the hair,’ I sniffed, dabbing my eyes with a tissue. ‘Honestly, the hair is lovely.’
WHY CAN’T MEN READ LABELS?
Why can’t men read labels? That’s what I was thinking to myself the other day when my baby’s daddy put him in a babygrow aged 2-3 years. I don’t know where in God’s name he even found it!
‘The baby is only two months old,’ I pointed out helpfully, even though even a blind man would have been able to figure out that the child looked ridiculous in the oversized garment.
Sometimes I think men play up the helplessness thing to avoid paternal duties. Parenting is never 50:50 anyway. Mums do most of it, and in my case it’s about 90:10.
The other day I was feeling like a prisoner so I rang the babysitter and asked her to come over urgently. It was lashing rain but when she came I took out my umbrella and walked and walked in no particular direction. I got soaking wet but that didn’t matter. The whole point was that I had my freedom for those few hours; something I felt was well worth paying for. Then I was happy to come back home and see my little man again. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and I definitely believe that applies to mothers and babies. Sometime I just wish somebody could take him for a couple of hours so that I could go to the cinema by myself. Then I’m ridden with guilt for having these feelings about my darling child. Surely, I think to myself, if I was a good mother, I wouldn’t be like this; I would want to be with my baby all the time. But exhaustion is so not a good emotion.
Last weekend I asked the daddy who lives down the country now, to take the baby for the night. When he agreed I packed baby’s suitcase with precision to make the daddy’s life easier. The Daddy then collected him and put his Moses basket and little suitcase in the car boot. Then I tearfully waved good-bye to my little man.
After feeling sad for about five minutes, I fell into a coma-like sleep. When I woke up I felt much better and spent the rest of the day listening to music and reading magazines, just like I did pre-baby. It was like being on holidays. The next day I asked the daddy how everything went.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Everything was under control.’
Ah, but the truth will always out and when I met the daddy’s older son, he had a different story. He told me there had been a fire.
‘A fire?’ said I, intrigued.
Yes, according to him there was a fire, and the baby did a wee on the couch when the daddy was putting out the fire.
Of course when I confronted the daddy, he played the story down. He said the saucepan just got a little burnt and even though the baby did a little wee on himself when the daddy was otherwise occupied in the kitchen, everything was under control. Okay, whatever.
TICKING CLOCK
‘I’d love a baby,’ an old friend said the other day. ‘I’m thirty-two, y’know. I think it’s time. I definitely want one for the experience, like.’
I had to laugh a bit. I mean, God, there was a time I would have said something as silly as that. But being a parent is an experience not to be taken lightly. An experience is say, going to Australia, or bungee jumping, or taking a scary ride at Bush Gardens . You can say, well that was a good experience, and then go on to experience something else. Like jumping into the Forty foot on Christmas Day.
A baby experience lasts a lifetime, however. Some people s
ay eighteen years but very few sons and daughters disappear at that age, never looking for anything from you again. No, when you become a parent you pretty much sign up for life. After your first night of being kept up all night, you can’t just think, well, that wasn’t a very good experience, I think I’ll hand the baby back and get a dog instead. I tried to explain all this to my broody friend.
‘Your life changes completely,’ I told her.
But she remained unconvinced. ‘How has your life changed?’ she asked. ‘You’re a writer. You can write from home so having a baby doesn’t change things really.’
Oh, how I chuckled! I explained to her that between nappy changes, night feeds, and washing clothes with baby sick all over them, there never even seemed time for a cup of tea, never mind being able to work leisurely on a new novel. ‘He may look small and cute,’ I told my deluded friend. ‘But there are times, usually at around 4.00am, when baby Gary wakes unexpectedly and I feel like crying with exhaustion.’
Of course, being a mother is strenuous work. You need no qualifications but you’re always learning on the job. The pay is quite awful and now that the early childcare supplement is to be abolished, it’s about to become a whole lot worse. The feedback is zero and there are no bonuses or incentive weekends away. The over-time is great if you don’t mind working for free, and it’s a solo rather than a team effort. People say ‘I’ll babysit any time, I love kids,’ but naturally they don’t mean a word of it. Can you imagine ringing one of your single friends and asking them to pop over on Saturday night to take baba for the night? They’d rather chew off their own hand!
Parents and siblings always have advice on how to rear your child, not all of it welcome, and there are endless books on how to get babies to sleep through the night, yet none of them quite worked for me. Childless women curiously ask things like ‘did you put on much weight if you don’t mind me asking?’ Well, I do mind, actually. It’s tiring enough being a Mum without trying to be a stick insect too!
THE BOOBY MAN
The man entered the waiting room in Holles Street National Maternity Hospital. He was the only man among seven women. We were all waiting to get our babies x-rayed and secretly eyeing up each other’s tots. We were probably all thinking that ours was the most gorgeous. The man must have been very nervous. Why else did he feel the need to keep talking?
He took a bottle from his bag.
‘This will have to do,’ he told his baby boy. ‘But it’s not the same as the boob, is it?’ he then proceeded to ask nobody in particular.
Nobody paid the man any attention so he said it again, only louder this time.
‘The bottle isn’t the same as the boob but what can I do?’ he laughed. ‘The boob is out in the car park minding the car.’
It was odd the way he felt the need to be heard. Only one woman in the room was breastfeeding; the rest were bottle feeding.
Eventually he nudged me. My baby wasn’t feeding at all but I had a soother in his mouth to keep him quiet. The man obviously thought that because I wasn’t feeding my baby I’d be glad to have a little conversation about his baby and the boob.
‘Nathan loves his boob so he does,’ he told me. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.
‘He’s a typical man, hahaha.’
Nobody else was laughing. I just began to wish somebody would shut him up.
‘I think my little fella takes after me,’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’ I said, and then quickly turned my attention back to my baby so I wouldn’t be engaged in any further conversation about the man’s son and the boob.
I was so glad when the doctor eventually called me.
I do feel sorry for men in these situations though. They may be able to run countries, fight wars and er, manage banks, but when it comes to coping with one tiny human being, they run into all kinds of trouble. Take my own father, for example. The one time he agreed to change my son, he managed to pull a fastener off the nappy so it couldn’t be used. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he then actually put the damaged nappy back in the packet instead of the bin!
Now I know his intentions were wonderful but sometimes it’s just easier to do everything myself. Even the baby’s own father stumbles a bit. The first night he agreed to take the baby he woke me up at 5.00am looking for a vest. So much for my night’s sleep! But I’m glad to say the men don’t always get away with pretending to be helpless. In TGI Fridays the other day, we asked the waitress if there was a baby changer in the restaurant.
‘Yes, there’s one in the Ladies,’ she said. And then she turned to Daddy and said, ‘there’s one in the Gents too.’
Hurrah!
HELP, I’M OUT OF NAPPIES!
There was a time I couldn’t sleep properly unless I’d a packet of cigarettes in the house. Such was my fear of running out, that I usually had a couple of duty free bumper packs handy. But one day, to my absolute horror, I ran out. I discovered this at around 4.00am, and in an almost frenzy, called up a taxi and asked him to drive up to the local petrol station to get me a pack.
Now of course I’m a sensible mum who doesn’t smoke. But instead I have a deep rooted fear of running out of certain other things, such as washing detergents, nappies and baby formula milk. If supplies run down I feel almost faint. Therefore my apartment now resembles a warehouse.
I used to have a fancy walk-in wardrobe to house my shoes, bags and accessories. It is currently home to other commodities such as kitchen towels (essential for dribbling babies), wipes, nappy bags etc. All my lovely clothes now lie in storage in the attic. It’s fine. I’m still too fat for them anyway. Actually, I’m still wearing my maternity jeans and even stretch to fasten them due to my caesarean scar. Oh God, I always swore I’d never wear my maternity clothes once I popped. In fact, I’d planned on lighting a fire and burning them just like I did with my school uniform all those years ago. Things don’t always go to plan, however, and I’m very glad to still have the elastic waist trousers handy, hideous and all as they may be.
Anyway, I recently heard about this competition which is being run by Pampers and Fairy who have combined together to offer 50 lucky people a years’ supply of Pampers and Fairy products. What you do is log onto a website called www.momentsofsoftness.com and you write about your own special moment with your baby. If you can’t think of one, a nice photo will do as a photo sometimes speaks a thousand words.
I think it’s a lovely idea to share your cherished moment of softness with other mums. But I also sometimes find it easier to think of some not so special moments. Like when we’re all dressed up to leave the house and baby gets sick all over himself and me. Or when he breaks wind at most inappropriate times. Both baby and I were on the Midday show on TV3 the other day. Baby Gary is the youngest guest ever to have appeared on the show and I had dressed him up like a little angel in a powder blue jacket. But just as the show was about to start and all was quiet in the studio, Gary broke wind. I turned around apologetically to Alan Cantwell who said immediately ‘it wasn’t me’. Then we both burst out laughing. Only a baby could behave like that in a TV studio and get away with it. If anybody else displayed such bad manners, one would not be amused.
NO MONEY, MUMMY!
What an awful time to bring a baby into the world,’ Mum said when I was pregnant. ‘In the middle of a recession!’
We were probably watching Sky News at the time listening to more job losses being announced. But while it’s easy to be sucked into the doom and gloom of our present surroundings it’s actually not such a bad time to be a new mummy. Babies are costly but not half as much as being single with a social life. I was a singleton for many years and now have a stack of faded receipts for designer clothes, cocktails in expensive bars, last minute flights and fancy hotel bills to remind me of the good old times. Indeed, not so long ago, I wouldn’t think twice about spending €150 on a night out without even being fed.
Now that same money can pay for a hell of a lot of milk and Pampers. I
don’t miss the old lifestyle because seeing my own baby smile is endlessly more fun than waking up on a Saturday morning with a hangover trying to remember the name of some fellow who took my number in the pub and wondering when or if he was going to phone. Being single was costly too. It meant getting my hair blow dried a couple of times a week and making sure I didn’t wear the same thing twice in case people recognized it. How silly was that?
I barely recognize the old me. I used to feel sorry for myself if I didn’t get at least seven hours sleep. Hmm, what I would give for a lie-on now. The new hour change simply means that I will be woken by my son at 4.30am instead of the usual 5.30am. Great.
The time poor person I have now become shoves her head down the sink to quickly wash her hair between nappy changes and feeds, never mind being afforded the luxury of popping out to some trendy nail bar. Any outfit is fine by me as long as it’s comfortable and doesn’t have baby sick all over it. And I can’t even remember the last time I wore heels as its pretty tricky carrying a baby around in stilettos.
Becoming a first time mum probably saves money. For a start you’re less likely to buy alcohol because the thought of combining a hangover with a hungrily vocal baby is enough to bring on a panic attack. You walk more instead of driving or taking taxis because it’s good exercise and it’s free. I myself gave up cigarettes as soon as my pregnancy was confirmed. Thankfully I haven't renewed that twenty year habit and my wallet is extremely grateful. The funny thing is, I’m sure if my old sociable self had looked into a crystal ball, she would have no doubt balked at what lay ahead. But being a mum, even a sleep deprived, worn out one, is happiness without a price tag.
Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother Page 17