A Family By Design

by Olivia Rytwinski

  “No, it’s not possible, I’ve got a coil . . .” But, even as I spoke, I knew I sounded naive.

  Of course, Max was completely cock-a-hoop about ‘our pregnancy’.

  He jumped up off the sofa and dashed over, almost losing his footing on the varnished floorboards. “Are you kidding me?”

  I cried, and he placed his arms around me.

  “Aren’t you happy, my love? Is it too soon?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I’m in shock. Stupid, but I hadn’t even considered it. She thinks I’m about fourteen weeks.”

  As I laid a hand over my abdomen, I pictured a tiny but fully formed baby, swimming around inside me, turning little somersaults every now and then.

  After a few days I came to terms with what was happening, and I soon embraced the idea of motherhood wholly and completely, and without holding any doubts or worries about what the future held for us. I was both baffled and amazed at how I hadn’t realised I was pregnant. I hadn’t even registered my absent periods. Initially, I was concerned that my coil would damage or interfere with the baby’s growth, but one detailed scan later confirmed that mysteriously there was no coil. The doctor concluded that although it was unusual, my coil had fallen out at some point during the past four months. Casting my mind back, it came as no great surprise when I realised that losing my coil coincided with the time I had seen the children up at the rocky outcrop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Man from Mars

  Despite the morning sickness, which as per the textbook lasted three to four months, I felt surprisingly well throughout my pregnancy, and I was able to work right up to my due date. As my colleagues wished me luck on my last day, amidst predictable jokes about cabbages and leaking boobs, I realised that I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to how much our carefree lives were about to change.

  My ever sunny mother painted such an idyllic picture of motherhood, often telling me what laidback babies my sister and I had been, that when I went into labour and arrived at the hospital in excruciating pain, I firmly believed that the birth was going to be the hardest part. If the baby and I could get through the labour relatively unscathed, then the rest would be plain sailing.

  The birth turned out to be anything but textbook, with a labour that lasted two days and culminated with a baby in foetal distress, a trolley loaded assortment of shiny, but medieval looking contraptions and twenty-two stitches in my nether region.

  Once we were safely settled onto the maternity ward, I thanked God that the tricky bit was over and that our baby had been given a clean bill of health. I felt exhausted but euphoric with my angelic baby, Louis Maxwell O’Donnell, all 8lb 1oz of him, lying pink and content in my arms.

  Louis slept for a full twenty-four hours, after which our world imploded, with both Louis and I crying continually. The midwife said it was just my hormones, but on top of cracked and bleeding nipples, and having no sleep whatsoever, I soon plunged headfirst into the depths of despair.

  After our first night at home as a ‘family’ I rang home, and blubbing pitifully, I pleaded for Mum to come and rescue us. True to form, she got straight in the car and arrived a few hours later complete with a huge tube of nipple cream, one fresh savoy cabbage and a truckload of love and sympathy. Max admitted to feeling as overwhelmed as me and we welcomed Mum with flummoxed faces and chilled champagne.

  Mum loved every minute of caring for Louis, even when he kept us up half the night. And, I learned so much about patience and perseverance, especially when it came to breastfeeding. Although I was well-equipped, I couldn’t understand why Louis wanted to feed all night, even after feeding non-stop all day. Mum gently encouraged me to stick with it and after one extremely long and painful month, Louis began to settle, and the intervals between feeding grew. In the end, we kept Mum hostage for six weeks, after which we finally allowed her to return home to her own life and husband.

  To celebrate Louis’ first sixth months, we went for lunch in our favourite pub, The Pig & Whistle. Louis was conveniently sleeping like an angel in his portable car seat. We were chatting about the logistics of my returning to work, and how we were going to share the ferrying of Louis to and from nursery. Before Louis was born I confidently told work I’d be returning full-time, but as D-day approached I couldn’t imagine leaving Louis with strangers all day, let alone being able to cope with getting up for work and driving here, there and everywhere across the Highlands.

  Max sensed I was struggling with the whole idea too.

  “You know you don’t have to return to work. I’d love to support you if that’s what you want. And you know we can afford for you to give up work for a while.”

  Louis snuffled in his sleep and Max rocked him gently back and forth with his foot.

  As I watched them my throat tightened, and I couldn’t speak.

  “Don’t decide yet. Have a think over the next few days.” He rested a hand on my knee and smiled adoringly down at Louis.

  I looked at Max and felt a sudden, deep rush of affection for him - always so supportive, thoughtful and selfless. Then I looked down at Louis sleeping peacefully, head lolling slightly to one side and a sweet lopsided smile coming and going with a bit of wind, and I wondered why I was worrying myself stupid about work when I didn’t have to.

  My eyes welled with tears, and as they spilled over and ran down my cheeks, I reached for Max’s hand.

  “I don’t want to leave Louis, and I don’t want to go back to work. At least not yet.”

  “Then don’t, my love. Do what’s right for you, what’s right for Louis,” he said, and stroked my hand.

  With my decision made, I broke the news to work and became a stay at home mum. I exclusively breastfed my babies during their first year, made them organic baby food, and joined every mother and baby group within a twenty-mile radius. I even learned how to knit so that I could make them wee Scottish jerseys, albeit more of a fisherman rib, rather than fair isle knit variety. Max found the knitting highly amusing, especially when Louis poked his podgy little fingers through the holes that appeared here and there.

  Sex definitely took a back seat when the babies came along, but we made up for its infrequency by grabbing opportunities as they arose, somehow making it all the more illicit and thrilling.

  When Louis was just a few months old I went out shopping for new clothes in Ullapool, but wasn’t able to try anything on as Louis was unsettled, demanded to be fed and was generally grizzly.

  “Go on then, show me what you bought,” said Max, lolling back in a dining chair, his size twelves propped up on the table.

  “How about some catwalk action?” I said, and ran back into the living room where I’d dumped the bags.

  “Yes please!”

  I threw my jeans and T-shirt onto the sofa and buttoned up a purple checked shirt and pulled on a pair of burnt orange leggings. As I sauntered back into the kitchen, I demonstrated my most seductive walk.

  Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s a colour combo I don’t often see. Thankfully.” he muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing, my love. I was just swallowing.”

  “Anyway, I wasn’t planning on wearing these two together - it’s what came out of the bags first.”

  “What are the funny, flappy things . . . over your boobs?” He got up to take a closer look.

  “Oh yes, well it’s actually a breastfeeding smock. To make it easier to feed Louis.”

  “Really? Not seen one of those before.” He sounded curious. “How does it work exactly?” He undid one of the buttons and lifted the flap.

  “Christ almighty!” He jumped back. “Brings a whole new meaning to the concept of peephole bras.” He slipped his hand in and squeezed my naked breast.

  I laughed. “I didn’t realise it would have more than one use. Guess it is a wee bit kinky.”

  Max undid the button over my other breast and proceeded to check the flap worked on that one too.

  “Just verify
ing it’s fit for purpose,” he said, and then pushing me up against the worktop, he lowered his mouth over my nipple.

  “Mmmm.” He moaned. “Who needs racy lingerie when you’ve got one of these? You should wear it even when you’ve stopped breastfeeding.” He grinned lustily up at me before swapping sides.

  “Stop talking Max and kiss me will you?”

  And so it was that we snatched moments like these, at least until Louis was old enough to walk and make unannounced appearances. Sometimes sex was funny, and at other times it was downright desperate, but we could only occasionally indulge in the long and leisurely sex sessions we’d enjoyed before babies.

  Without my salary I didn’t notice that we had any less cash available, and if anything, we seemed to be more flush, with money pouring in from clients left, right and centre. One evening, not long after Lyssa was born, we were discussing taking a summer holiday, and I suggested we buy a tent so that we could go on some cheap family breaks.

  “I’m not sure how we’ll keep them entertained when it pours down,” said Max, with a puckering of the brows. “It’s hard enough when we’re cooped up indoors with Louis trampolining on the beds and climbing the banisters. Plus, you know how many changes of clothes they get through. How do you think we’ll manage all the washing and drying?” he added with a grimace.

  Trying to recall the last time I’d seen Max load the washing machine, I suddenly pictured myself squatting at the edge of a stream scrubbing one soiled baby-grow after another.

  “We’d be better off visiting your granny and gramps in Bergen,” he continued. “Their house is huge, and Louis can learn a bit of Norwegian - nurture his cultural roots. Can you imagine how excited your grandparents would be to see us all?”

  This tipped it for me, and I jumped at the idea, not bothering to question where the money would come from to pay for such a trip.

  Max was a wonderful dad, by day that is, not so great at night or at the first pale streak of dawn, when both Louis and Lyssa frequently felt the urge to play. During the daytime, whenever he wasn’t working, Max would carry them round endlessly when they were teething, play games on the floor with them, change nappies without being asked and love them unconditionally even during their most hideous tantrums. However, he never seemed to hear them cry at night or if they wandered into our bedroom while we were sleeping. It always ended up being my job to sit with them, comfort them when they were teething, change dirty nappies or dispense fever medicine. I would often accuse him of pretending to sleep so he didn’t have to get out of bed, but he swore otherwise, and with a whimsical smile would say he was an unusually heavy sleeper. Even if I kicked him when one of the kids started to cry he’d just groan and roll over. We had some massive stand-up rows during the early years of parenthood. I was often completely exhausted, and Max just seemed to take it all in his stride, sleeping soundly at night and even lying in at weekends.

  One particular Sunday morning I’d been up with Louis since before five, playing trains on the living room floor, and by nine o’clock Max still hadn’t emerged from our bedroom. I went in to see if he was awake and he yawned, stretched leisurely, then tried to grab me as I passed.

  “Come back to bed Kat, I want you.” There was a stress-free sleepiness to his voice.

  “Get off me! Louis’ up,” I snapped. “Can you get up and play with him so I can at least have a shower?”

  “Sure, in a bit. Can you bring me a cup of tea then next time you’re making one? I’m parched,” he said, smiling lazily then shutting his eyes again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Can -”

  “Yes, I know exactly what you said,” I barked, and stormed into the en-suite. I let the cold tap run for a minute and poured a large glass of cold water, fresh from the hillside. Then I marched back into the bedroom, ripped back the duvet and poured the water over his naked body, putting a complete damper on his morning glory.

  “There you go. Still parched?” I snarled, and left him gasping and spluttering away to himself.

  After a while, I gave up feeling exasperated with him and found life easier doing the night shifts myself, even though it was often night after night. I soon concluded that Max’s lack of night-time involvement was one of the reasons I was unable to cope with a return to work, as some days I felt so sleep deprived I wouldn’t have felt safe driving anywhere, let alone driving our young children around first thing in the morning. Despite this, I felt myself fortunate that our finances allowed me a choice of not working and I marvelled at some of my new mummy friends who combined careers with looking after their young children.

  Within two years, the business was doing so well that Max had taken out a lease on an office, employed two trainee junior architects and even brought in a fully qualified architect, Kurt Trussler, whom he quickly made a partner in the business. Kurt was the same age as Max, and they’d been on the same postgraduate course at Strathclyde. I thought it was strange that Max hadn’t introduced him to me while we were at Uni, but he explained that Kurt had travelled into Glasgow every day from his parent’s home and so consequently rarely hung out after his lectures. I didn’t automatically take to Kurt as I found him egotistical and arrogant. Everything said, he was by all accounts immensely successful at finding new clients, and his designs and the way he worked fit well with the environmental values of the business.

  As Kurt was new to the area he would often come to ours for dinner, but almost every time he would bring a different woman, most of whom were completely gaga about him. One girlfriend, Bethany, who worked as a paediatric doctor, was particularly lovely. One Saturday night as we sat eating and talking around the table, I’d found her intelligent and witty, just the sort of person who would make a great friend.

  “He’s not even that good looking.” I complained to Max after they’d retired to the guest room. “He’ll have dumped her in a few weeks. Honestly, he’s such a terrible Lothario. He gets what he wants, probably plenty of blowjobs and doggy style shags, and then he spits them out. It’s bordering on sociopathic behaviour actually.” I switched on the bedside light. “Every time he introduces me to his latest girlfriend and I see him fawning all over her as though she’s the love of his life, I feel like warning her and wishing her good luck.”

  “Hey, come on now. He’s a great guy, and a good friend. He’s super clever, and a brilliant architect. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with a good blowjob, you’re quite the expert.”

  “Do you think so? Thanks,” I said.

  “Anyway, what about Rosie, I couldn’t keep track of her conquests at Uni?” Max put his hands on my hips and kissed me on the lips.

  “Yeah, but look at her now, a completely reformed character, engaged and totally serious about Will? And as far as I’m aware she hasn’t slept with anyone else since she met him.”

  “Wow! You mean she’s been faithful?” he said, and grinned.

  “I just think by the time you reach your late twenties you should start taking relationships more seriously, quit using and messing people around.” I felt irritated and twisted out of his grasp.

  “Yes, but that’s you Kat, and not everyone is as mature and sensible as you are. Anyway, you should know by now that men mature later than women, apart from yours truly of course. That’s why so many men go for younger women, they simply relate to them better.”

  “Don’t you mean younger woman, singular? Not a different younger woman every other bloody week. The truth is some men never make it to full maturity.” I flung my knickers at the wash basket and overshot by several feet.

  “Oh shut up and come here will yer?” He grabbed my waist and pulled me to him. “I hope you’re not turning into a man hater my lovely. Where would that leave me?” He pulled a ridiculously sad face.

  “In deep trouble.” I giggled and nipped his neck. Then sidling up against him, I said, “I’ll leave it to you to save me from my misanthropy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Concord Collars
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br />   During these early years of parenthood Max rarely mentioned his father, who remained in prison. From what I could glean from him and then Iona, during one of the rare occasions I saw her, parole had been declined a number of times, though I never was able to find out why. During one or two opportune moments I tried talking to Max about the length of his father’s sentence. I even suggested we take Louis and Lyssa to visit him, but Max was so adamant that his father didn’t deserve to see his grandchildren that I didn’t feel I could push him further. I felt that as a family they were becoming more and more estranged, and ultimately I wanted our children to know both sets of grandparents, even if one of them were a convicted thief.

  Periodically, we met up with Iona, but Max told me it upset her to talk about his dad, and we should avoid the subject as much as possible. I wasn’t entirely convinced, as Iona mentioned Brian a few times herself without any suggestion from me. Eventually, I determined that it was, in fact, Max who found it upsetting to talk about his dad.

  Then one day as we were driving home from visiting friends, Max announced that his father was out of prison and his parents were travelling over to visit us the following weekend.

  “Are you OK with him coming?” I asked.

  “Can’t say I’m over the moon, but I don’t exactly have a choice. He is Louis and Lyssa’s grandfather, and he’s a right to see them.”

  My words exactly, I thought, but I bit my tongue.

  “They’re only staying two nights as Mam has to get back to work.” This was said with an edge that made it clear he didn’t approve of her still having to work full-time. “When I spoke to Mam, she said he was out and about looking for work, but because of his history, he wasn’t getting interviews. I suggested he’d have to prove himself honest again before anyone would be likely to give him a fresh chance.”