Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012

by Nick Spalding

  ‘Say sorry!’ Jamie snaps, and for added emphasis bangs his hand on the table. Sadly his fist hits the fork still on his plate, neatly catapulting a healthy amount of bolognaise at my head.

  Within the space of a minute I’ve been called a slut and had food thrown at me.

  This usually doesn’t happen to people outside terrible American soap operas.

  Jamie looks mortified. ‘I’m so sorry honey!’

  I look down at the lovely cream blouse I’d elected to wear, knowing it will be going in the bin later.

  ‘I love this blouse,’ I tell the table. ‘It was on offer in Jane Norman.’

  Then the tears - held back thus far by my indignance - begin their onslaught on my eyeballs. Try as I might to avoid crying in front of my adopted family, I just can’t help it.

  …and it’s snotty.

  That’s always the worst, isn’t it? Water leaking from your eyes is bad enough, but add mucus dripping from your nose to the equation and you’re presenting an image to the world a hag fish would find unattractive.

  I feel a little light-headed. Bolognaise sauce drips off my ear.

  Jamie grabs a napkin and starts dabbing at my face with it. I look up at him. ‘Your mum thinks I’m a slag, Jamie. Why does she think I’m a slag?’

  ‘I never said you were a slag, Laura,’ Jane remarks haughtily.

  ‘Indeed,’ Michael agrees.

  ‘You pretty much did mum,’ Sarah argues.

  Chris remains silent and looks at his watch.

  ‘I’m sorry if that’s how it came across,’ Jane says. ‘I’m just very surprised. Jamie has always been dead against having children, so I thought – ’

  ‘You thought my wife would go and kick her heels up in front of the first passing provider of fresh semen?’ Jamie finishes.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  I hold out a conciliatory hand. There’s a blob of sauce on it. ‘It’s okay Jane,’ I say in a slightly sing-song voice. I think the stress of the evening has been a bit too much for me. I’m not sure I’m completely in control of my faculties. ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘Thank you Laura,’ she says with a nod of her head.

  ‘After all,’ I smile sweetly, ‘it’s not your fault you’re a bitch, is it?’

  I’ve never dipped my whole head into a jar of freezing liquid nitrogen Mum, but I imagine the experience is much like our dining room at that moment.

  Jane looks like someone’s stuffed a lemon up her arse. Sarah is gob-smacked. Chris is concentrating very hard on the table cloth and Michael is looking at my tits.

  Jamie, sensing that the only way out of this horrifying situation is to act very calmly, clearly and with authority says ‘I think maybe this is a good time to end the meal.’ He stands me up. ‘I’ll go help Laura clean herself off.’ He gives his mother an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sure it’s the pregnancy hormones, mum. You probably remember, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice. ‘I don’t recall insulting anyone like that though!’

  Trying to retain some dignity I wave off Jamie’s arm and stand straight. My hair is matted with sauce and there’s a strand of spaghetti waggling off the end of my nose, but I still intend to exit the room with the final word.

  ‘Thank you for coming everyone,’ I tell them. ‘I’m sorry if things got a bit testy there at the end, but I hope that you’re happy for us. We’re going to be parents and we’re very pleased about it.’ I look directly at Jane. ‘Unless of course the baby is Fernando’s, the Mexican delivery boy I screwed last month in the chair you’re sat in Jane.’

  I’ve never visited the crushing, ice cold depths of the ocean floor, Mum… I’m sure you know the rest of that by now.

  Jamie’s family departed pronto. Jane was out the door slightly faster than a cat with its tail on fire. Michael got in one last sneaky stare at my chest before following his irate wife out into the night.

  Sarah kissed both of us and congratulated us on the pregnancy. Chris looked at me with what I thought was a new found sense of respect, before asking where we bought our table cloth. He left with the name John Lewis on his lips.

  After they’ve gone Jamie closes the front door very slowly.

  I gulp. This could go badly. I’ve just insulted the woman who brought him into the world.

  ‘That,’ he says, ‘was absolutely brilliant!’ He gives me a huge hug.

  ‘Really? Your mum is going to hate me.’

  ‘Meh, she wasn’t keen on you to start with. Don’t take it to heart though, she’s never liked any of my women.’ His eyes gleam with merriment. ‘None of the others ever told her she was a bitch though. Priceless!’

  He kisses me through the sheen of bolognaise sauce I still haven’t managed to clean off.

  ‘I am delighted to be married to you,’ he says. ‘And even more delighted that you’re having my baby.’

  I don’t know if I’d call that a win Mum, but if a man says he loves you even when you’ve just mortally insulted his mother, and you look like an Italian restaurant has thrown up over your head, I guess you must be doing something right.

  Love you, miss you, and wish Jane could take a leaf out of your book!

  Your still slightly light-headed daughter, Laura.

  xxx

  Jamie’s Blog

  Wednesday 10 July

  Yawn.

  Out of bed again…

  I can’t sleep because of Laura’s thrashing, so thought I’d update the blog.

  I’ll get onto the reasons why she’s thrashing around in bed like a landed turbot shortly, but first:

  I’ve never been to the hospital so much in my bloody life.

  I’m thinking of paying for a permanent parking space. I’m sure it’ll end up being cheaper in the long run than having to pay the extortionate parking fees.

  It barely seems like five minutes have passed since the last time we drove away, before I’m once again sat with the driver’s side window open, bashing the stupid ticket machine and swearing sulphurously when it doesn’t spit out the ticket quick enough.

  I hate hospitals.

  They’re full of sick people.

  Corridors and corridors of people suffering either from things I can catch, or things I don’t want to look at.

  Every time I enter one I have to constantly suppress the mild panic attack that’s threatening to claw its way up my throat and embarrass me in public.

  Imagine my delight therefore, at having to more or less live in the maternity wing thanks to my wife’s pregnancy.

  I’ve seen some of the nurses so many times now I’m seriously considering adding them on Facebook.

  We’re also getting very familiar with our doctor, a short, timid looking man called Abbotson.

  He has a facial tic.

  He winks.

  A lot.

  It’s very disconcerting.

  I can’t tell whether he’s being serious about the pregnancy or not when he speaks to us. ‘You have to keep up your vitamin intake, Mrs Newman,’ he’ll say. ‘A healthy immune system is vital to a baby’s development.’ Wink. ‘It’s advisable to take multi-vitamins right up until you give birth.’ Wink wink.

  Do you mean that, squire? Or are you mucking about? You sound quite serious, but the winking is making me think this is one big practical joke at our expense. Do we need the bloody vitamins or not?

  Other than the tic, Dr Abbotson is a congenial sort of bloke.

  The same cannot be said for Marigold Ubantu, our midwife.

  Marigold is originally from Namibia and has forgotten more about delivering babies than the rest of the human population will ever know. She’s terrifying. Marigold came to the UK over twenty years ago from a country about to tear itself apart through civil war.

  One of the first things she said to us was: ‘I have helped deliver babies with gunfire going on over my head. Don’t you worry about it at all. Marigold will see you right.’


  I think this was meant to sooth our nerves, but Marigold is over six feet tall, has forearms like hams and survived half her life in a country where sudden death was an ever present threat. She’s impressive and scary in equal measure.

  Frankly, I don’t envy Laura one little bit. She’s the one who gets man-handled by Marigold on a regular basis.

  ‘She’s very gentle when she needs to be, don’t get me wrong,’ Laura told me after one visit. ‘But if you do anything to annoy her - like say you haven’t been keeping to your pregnancy diet - she turns into this mighty Zulu warrior and gives you the flintiest, eyeball-straining look of displeasure I’ve ever seen. It makes me wee myself a bit every time.’

  ‘You want to change midwife?’ I asked her.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she replied. ‘This woman has successfully helped give birth to children in a bloody war zone. Even if she does shout at me, she’s perfect!’

  It’s not just Laura who gets it in the neck.

  The other day Marigold wanted a one-to-one with my wife on how she felt the pregnancy was going. I objected, not least because there’s very little to do in a hospital other than kick the chocolate machine repeatedly until a Twix falls out, but also on the grounds that I was the father and had a right to be there.

  ‘You go away now, you stupid man!’ Marigold hollered at me. ‘She’s the important one here, not you and your dangly penis. It did its job months ago, now let me do mine.’ And with that, the door was closed on me for an hour, with no hope of re-entry.

  On this particular day though, Marigold is in a very good mood.

  ‘We can tell the sex of the baby today Newmans,’ she beams. ‘We’ll see whether you’re having a sweet little girl, or one of those nasty, smelly little boys.’ Marigold throws her head back and laughs to the heavens. It’s like being around a force of nature imprisoned in a human body. ‘You want to know what the sex is?’

  This is something Laura and I had discussed at length. While there is a certain thrill to remaining in the dark until such time as the child is squeezed from the womb, it comes with an inability to plan ahead properly.

  Other couples may have the time and money to shop for both a baby boy and girl, but Mrs Newman and I are on a tight budget right now, with her working as part-time manager of the local Thorntons choccy shop, and me languishing in the bowels of the newspaper’s marketing division.

  Also, we’re both testy buggers when kept in the dark, so decide it’s best to know the gender of our unborn child as soon as possible, to avoid stress, arguments and an ever so slight feeling of disappointment if it ends up being the sex we don’t want.

  ‘Yes, we’d like to know,’ Laura says.

  ‘Aha!’ Marigold grins. ‘Good for you! I hate these wishy-washy bastards who can’t decide, or want to wait until the baby comes out. The sooner you know, the sooner you can start worrying about what colour to paint everything. Am I right?’ I get the feeling that if I disagree she’ll smack me on the head until I’m permanently cross-eyed, so I nod vigorously.

  ‘Right, let’s go see Narinda.’ Marigold strides out and we follow along like the good little expectant parents we are.

  Narinda is as pleased to see us.

  I’m not sure if she’s happy to see Marigold or not.

  Everyone has the same stunned expression on their face when the Namibian woman appears, so it’s quite impossible to say how they’re feeling about the situation.

  In short order, Narinda has the ultra-sound going and finds the kid where it’s supposed to be, swimming around in utero and blissfully unaware of the insane world it’s going to be thrust into in a few months.

  ‘Okay then,’ says Narinda. ‘I can tell you the baby’s gender now. Are you sure you want to know?’

  ‘Yes,’ Laura and I say together.

  Narinda smiles and shakes her head. ‘Absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because once I tell you, there’s no going back!’

  I get the impression Narinda is one for the big birth moments. It’s obvious she thinks it’s better to find out if your kid’s an innie or an outie when it escapes from between its mothers legs.

  ‘Oh, for the sake of the good Lord woman!’ booms Marigold. ‘Tell these poor buggers whether they have a boy or a girl!’ she says, giving Narinda the eyeball.

  Narinda looks ever so slightly terrified and looks back to me and Laura.

  My heart skips a beat.

  ‘You’re having a girl,’ she tells us.

  A girl.

  Visions flash through my head: Pink ribbons, Barbie dolls, ponies, hair clips, teenage boyfriends with acne, the shotgun I’m going to have to buy to keep said teenage boyfriends on the external side of my daughter’s underwear, make-up boxes, sleep-overs, a fridge full of ice cream, posters of boy bands, the arguments about skirt length, perfume bottles on every bathroom surface… and worst of all, living with two women on their period.

  Gah.

  A mine field of experience unravels in front of me. Eighteen years of putting up with not one, but two completely insane creatures who I’ll never understand - that will take over my house with soft, frilly things that smell of jasmine and ylang ylang.

  All of this sounds dreadful, but for some reason I’m smiling like an absolute goon.

  ‘A girl,’ Laura says, her eyes filling with tears for what’s probably the fifth time that day. ‘I’m having a little girl.’

  ‘Yes, you are!’ Marigold bellows. ‘Good for you! Girls are much nicer and don’t start wars that get your village burned to the ground.’

  There’s a moment’s silence while we digest this.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s a good reason to have a girl, alright.’

  Marigold doesn’t throttle me, so I guess I didn’t say anything that offensive…

  The rest of the day’s appointment is the usual question and answer session, with Marigold getting through all the important health matters related to this stage of a pregnancy.

  I’ve zoned out to tell the truth. The big news of the day has come and gone and it’s all I can think about.

  …more accurately, all I can think about is names.

  Now we know it’s a girl, we can get down to the tricky business of slapping an identifier on her.

  ‘What about Kayla?’ I suggest to Laura in the car on the way home.

  ‘Kayla? That sounds like it’s skirting dangerously close to Kylie, Newman.’

  ‘Is it? Doesn’t sound like it to me.’

  ‘I’m not calling my child Kayla.’

  ‘Ariadne?’

  ‘Are you fucking mental?’

  ‘What about Jacinda? Jacinda’s a nice name.’ Jacinda is in fact a bloody horrible name, but I’m having fun winding Laura up now.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I lie. ‘I think it’s a lovely name.’

  ‘It sounds like someone who has sex with her horse.’

  ‘Maybe something a bit more original, then. How about naming her after somewhere nice?’ I fake a look of intense concentration. ‘I know! Syria. That’s got a good ring to it.’

  There’s every chance Laura will see through my ruse with that one. Even I shouldn’t be dumb enough to suggest naming a baby after a country that’s been bathing in the blood of its own people for the past few years.

  ‘Syria?! You’re seriously suggesting we name our baby Sy - ’ Laura looks like she’s just sucked a lemon. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’

  I smirk the smirkiest smirk that’s ever been smirked. ‘Of course not, darling.’

  ‘You, Jamie Newman,’ she says, pointing a finger at me in no uncertain terms, ‘are a baboon’s warty scrotum.’

  I can tell when Laura is irate with me, her insults get very creative.

  ‘Perhaps we should think about the name another time,’ I suggest.

  ‘Agreed,’ she replies acidly.

  I give it just the right amount of silence before saying: ‘Buli
mia’s a nice name as well, you know,’ in a cheery voice.

  It’s a miracle I make it home in one piece.

  Yawn.

  I guess at some point I should try to crash out on the couch.

  Whether I’ll be able to sleep or not is debatable, though. I can’t get girl’s names and images of tattooed teenage boys with their arms around my equally teenage daughter out of my head.

  Going back to bed is certainly out of the question. Sleeping next to Laura is almost impossible at the moment. The baby has reached that stage in her development where she’s able to move around properly, and has started making her presence felt in no uncertain terms.

  …her.

  I just described my baby as a her.

  What an exquisitely strange and wonderful feeling. Typing that three letter word has cemented my unborn daughter’s existence once and for all in my head. She’s no longer a collection of cells, or a foetus to be referred to as ‘it’. She’s a person now. A ‘her’.

  My baby Bulimia is a real person!

  …ahem.

  The first time the baby kicked Laura was while we were watching The Walking Dead.

  It seems my daughter is as big a fan of zombies as I am.

  It was in a particularly tense moment of the episode, so you can imagine my reaction when Laura shouts ‘Fuck me!’ and grabs the swell of her belly.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I wail, sending the contents of my wine glass on a crash course with the already semen stained couch. ‘What?! What’s the matter?!’

  ‘The baby!’ Laura squeals. ‘I felt it kick!’ Her eyes go wide. ‘There it goes again!’ Her face contorts. ‘Oww! You little sod, give it a rest!’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ I crow.

  I’d read that some babies start kicking from pretty early in the pregnancy, and we’re a few months into ours by now, so I was starting to get worried that Laura might be carrying a right lazy bastard. This wasn’t a good sign for my far reaching plans for the front garden.