From Here to Maternity

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘They might as well be married now,’ said Babs. ‘They’re so dull. I thought they’d take me to all these cool bars and clubs, but all they do is sit in cooking dinner and watching movies or talking about wedding arrangements. Boring!’

  ‘Why don’t you go out and make friends?’ asked James. ‘I’m sure the English boys would find you most entertaining.’

  ‘Well, I can hardly go out on my own and sit in bars like a slapper.’

  ‘God, no,’ said Sean. ‘Someone might mistake you for the type of girl who sleeps with other people’s older, rugby-playing boyfriends.’

  James and Sean laughed at this, while I tried not to, out of loyalty to Lucy. To cut a long story short, last year, shortly after Donal and Lucy got engaged and had that huge argument about young Annie and Lucy had arrived on my doorstep, devastated because it was all off, Donal, who was equally upset, had gone out and got blind drunk. Unfortunately he bumped into Babs in a nightclub and one thing had led to another. I innocently called over to Donal’s the next morning to pick up some work suits for Lucy only to find my little sister strutting about naked, except for Donal’s rugby shirt. On hearing me shouting, Donal had woken up from his alcohol-induced coma and got the fright of his life when he realized what he’d done. Although I was furious with him, not to mention Babs, I had decided against telling Lucy as it was clear he regretted it and didn’t, in fact, remember it. Besides, I knew he was genuinely in love with Lucy, and shortly afterwards they had sorted out their differences and got back together.

  ‘In case you’ve all forgotten, he was the one with the fiancée, not me. So if you’re going to give anyone a hard time, slag him,’ retorted Babs.

  ‘Believe me, I have,’ said James.

  When we arrived home, Mum and Dad were waiting for us with a lovely big fire burning and food and drink laid out. Dad loved Christmas, and every year the house looked more like Santa’s grotto. Yuri was dazzled by all the lights and decorations. He sat on the floor cooing and the Christmas-tree lights flashed – much to my mother’s disgust: she thought flashing lights were very tacky.

  ‘Well, how are you both?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Great,’ said Sean.

  ‘Cool,’ said Babs.

  ‘How did the meeting go, Barbara? Did you sign your contract?’

  ‘She stupidly signed her life away for two hundred quid a week even though I told her not to agree to anything until I had looked it over.’

  ‘It’s only for the first three months. After that I’ll get a raise. But until then I’m going to need you to help me out, Dad.’

  Dad shook his head. ‘You’ve bled me dry for twenty-four years and you’re on your own now. It’ll do you good to learn to budget.’

  ‘Daaaad! There is no way I can survive on two hundred quid a week. It’ll barely cover my tube pass. Do you want me to live in a hovel with no running water or electricity in some dodgy area in London and get mugged coming home at night after a long day’s work?’

  ‘I pity the poor fool who tries to mug you,’ said Dad, grinning. ‘Besides, the last I heard you were living in the lap of luxury with your brother.’

  ‘Who has had enough of her, thanks very much,’ said Sean. ‘She’s out on her ear in January.’

  ‘Ah, Sean, would you not put her up for the first three months until she finds her feet?’ pleaded Mum. ‘That way you could keep an eye on her. I don’t want her getting mixed up with a racy television crowd.’

  ‘It’s not just me. There’s Shadee to consider, too.’

  ‘Well,’ sniffed Mum, ‘maybe Shady could go home to her parents for a few months before the big day, like a good Catholic girl would.’

  ‘First of all, it’s Shadee – Sh-a-dee. Second, you’re going to have to get used to the fact that she is not Catholic, nor ever will be. Third, you seem to have conveniently forgotten that Emma lived with James for two years before they got married.’

  I decided to jump in before Mum started having a go at me for being a loose woman pre-marriage. ‘Speaking of weddings, any developments with your plans?’ I asked Sean, as Mum bristled beside me.

  ‘Yes, it’s all booked. April the twenty-second at Abigail House near Brighton. It’s a lovely old country manor overlooking the sea.’

  ‘I thought Shady wanted to get married in Cornwall,’ said Mum.

  ‘We thought the drive would be a bit long for all the guests travelling from Ireland so we compromised and chose Brighton because it’s only half an hour on the train from Gatwick. It’s a lovely place, Mum, you’ll like it.’

  ‘Is the church close by?’ asked Mum.

  ‘What church?’ said Sean, evenly.

  ‘The church you’re getting married in,’ said Mum, digging her heels in.

  ‘There isn’t going to be any Catholic church. Shadee is Muslim.’

  ‘She said she didn’t practise her faith so I presumed, seeing as you do, it’d be a church wedding.’

  ‘Mum, this may come as a surprise to you but I haven’t been to mass in about fifteen years. It’s fair to say that neither of us practises our religion, so we’re just going to have a blessing.’

  Mum looked at him blankly.

  ‘We’ve found a Unitarian minister who’s going to marry us in an open ceremony. We’ll have a few general readings and exchange our vows. It should be all over in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Unitarian, did you say?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that some kind of cult?’

  ‘No. Unlike the Catholic Church, which spends most of its time damning other people for their beliefs and life choices, the Unitarian Church welcomes people of any faith, nationality, race and sexual orientation. It promotes freedom in religion, spiritual growth and social justice,’ said Sean, sounding a bit like a brainwashed cult member.

  Mum stared at Dad.

  ‘I see. Well, that sounds great, but you’ve not actually joined this church, have you?’ asked Dad. ‘They haven’t asked you to give them any money, have they?’

  Sean groaned. ‘It’s not a bloody cult and, no, I haven’t converted. It’s just a good solution to our very different religious upbringing and it’s supposed to keep everyone happy.’

  ‘Shady’s lot might be happy but I can tell you now that I’m not a bit of it.’

  ‘You should see her in the apartment,’ said Babs, stirring it up. ‘She wears a big black sheet with two holes for her eyes and she’s always kneeling on her prayer mat, chanting. The only book she reads is the Koran and she thinks Western women are sluts.’

  ‘Well, she might have a point there,’ said Sean, glaring at Babs.

  ‘Does she really?’ Mum asked, eyes almost popping out of her head.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mum,’ I said. ‘Of course she doesn’t. Babs is just winding you up.’

  Mum didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Brighton’s a great place to get married,’ said James, jumping in to prevent a family punch-up. ‘I was at a wedding there a few years ago, marvellous location.’

  ‘Young Maureen Doherty’s lost another stone on the Weight Watchers – or is it Unislim? Anyway, like a supermodel she is,’ said Mum, in one last-ditch attempt to remind Sean that the lovely Maureen down the road – formerly fifteen stone – was now a svelte stunner.

  ‘That heifer,’ laughed Babs. ‘She’ll need to lose another three stone and have a face-lift before anyone would look at her.’

  ‘It’s not all about appearance, Barbara,’ huffed Mum. ‘Maureen’s a lovely girl. Well-mannered, quiet, and she was always mad about Sean.’

  ‘Quiet! She’s practically mute,’ said my charitable youngest sibling. ‘She’s barely said two words in her whole life – mind you, she was probably too busy shoving cream buns down her gob to work on her social skills.’

  My shoulders shook, then Dad and Sean joined in. Babs, egged on, continued, ‘And the only reason she’s in love with Sean is because he’s the only guy who ever spoke to her. All the others were sprintin
g in the opposite direction, afraid of getting crushed to death by the Michelin woman – but Mother Teresa here used to say hi to her because he felt sorry for her. Really, Mum, if you’re trying to tempt Sean away from Shadee, I can tell you it’s too late. All they do is stare into each other’s eyes and hold hands on the couch. It’d make you sick. You’ll need to come up with someone a bit more attractive than old Thunder Thighs from down the road to split those two up.’

  Even James, who had never met Maureen – pre- or post-Weight Watchers – was laughing now.

  Yuri chose this moment to crawl over to the Christmas tree and try to pull it down. I managed to swoop him out of the way before it fell and ruined all Dad’s work. He bawled as I lifted him to the safer side of the room.

  ‘Is that it?’ Babs asked me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is that all he does – eat, shit and cry? Doesn’t he do stuff, like walk and talk, yet?’

  ‘He’s not even one. What did you expect? A performing seal?’

  Babs shrugged.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, in case anyone’s interested, Yuri got his test results and he’s fine. He’s anaemic and needs lots of iron over the next few months to build him up, but nothing serious. When you think of the list of conditions he might have had – Aids, foetal-alcohol syndrome, rickets – we’re relieved.’

  ‘Of course we were going to ask,’ said Mum, ‘I just got distracted with the others coming home. Didn’t I tell you my gorgeous grandson was as healthy as the next fellow? Come here to me, pet,’ she said, and took him from me for a cuddle. ‘You’re the only sane one in this room. I hope you don’t give your poor mother as much trouble as these three have given me. Skitting at poor old Maureen and she starving herself on those milkshake dinners, staggering around the neighbourhood doing that power-walking with big weights attached to her ankles. Sure the poor girl can hardly lift her legs…’

  Chapter 10

  Lucy, Jess and I met up for a pre-New Year drink. We hadn’t been out together since Lucy’s wedding, so we were looking through her photo album.

  ‘God, Lucy, you were just stunning,’ I said, staring at a photo of her looking particularly radiant.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Jess.

  ‘Loved every second,’ beamed Lucy.

  ‘And how’s married life so far?’

  ‘It was all going swimmingly until Annie came home for the school holidays.’

  ‘She’s not being rude to you again, is she?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but let’s face it, guys, she’s never going to love me. She’s polite and, in fairness to her, she’s making a big effort, but she wants to have Donal to herself. She resents me being around all the time. And she’s terrified we’re going to have a baby. She keeps staring at my stomach and asking me if I feel sick or tired. I actually feel a bit sorry for her. She obviously thinks that if we do have a child, she’ll be completely sidelined.’

  ‘It must be hard on her, being an orphan,’ I said, thinking of Yuri.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s lucky she has Donal and Lucy to look after her,’ Jess said. ‘Speaking of pregnancies, how’s yours going? How have you been feeling?’

  ‘Fine. Well, absolutely wrecked, to be honest, and still a bit sick – although strangely I feel worse in the evening than the morning. I don’t know if the tiredness is Yuri not sleeping or the pregnancy. It’s all a bit mind-blowing. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.’

  ‘How many hours is he sleeping?’ asked Jess.

  ‘It varies. Sometimes he might go six hours in a row, other nights he’s up every two.’

  ‘Have you tried the Contented Baby routine?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ groaned Lucy. ‘Spare me the bloody contented-baby-book chat.’

  ‘Sorry, Lucy, but I’m desperate for tips. I need sleep. I haven’t done the routine in that book, Jess, because it seems a bit draconian,’ I confessed.

  Jess raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, if you want Yuri to sleep through the night, it’s the only way. My entire baby group swears by it.’

  The truth was that I had read Gina Ford’s book and her plan had seemed – to put it mildly – Fascist. It went something like this: by seven a.m. the baby was supposed to be awake with his nappy changed and ready to be fed. But what if Yuri was asleep at seven – was I supposed to wake him up? Was she insane? Every second of extra sleep was vitally important to my sanity.

  Then the book said that the baby’s breakfast was to consist of a full bottle of milk, plus cereal and fruit. At eight a.m. he was to be encouraged to wriggle about on his play mat for twenty minutes, after which you washed and dressed him. But it took me ages to feed Yuri – he spat most of it out so breakfast lasted about an hour by which stage we were both covered with food and exhausted. I usually took him back to bed with me for an hour… besides which I didn’t have a play mat. Wasn’t a bed with lots of toys in it almost the same thing?

  Then at precisely nine a.m. – not a minute sooner or later – we were supposed to settle the baby in his sleeping-bag in a darkened room with the door shut for thirty-five minutes. Well, I liked the sound of that, but if I put Yuri back in his sleeping bag and shut the curtains he’d go mental. Sure he’d only been up a short while. Maybe I was reading the instructions wrong. Maybe they were just a guideline. But Jess had said that you had to follow them exactly and Gina seemed to be pretty precise about how to manage your time.

  At nine thirty-five you were to enter the room, open the curtains and undo his sleeping-bag. I wonder why she was so hung up on thirty-five minutes. Why not half an hour – or even forty minutes? Thirty-five is an odd number. Maybe it was an American thing.

  By ten a.m. the baby was to be fully awake – did that mean you were supposed to spend the twenty-five minutes between the nine thirty-five and ten getting him to wake up because he was so sleepy? I was confused now. Then it was recommended to have the baby down again on the play mat for more kicking, or taken out for a walk. What about calling into a friend’s house? Was that OK? It wasn’t mentioned, so maybe that would mess up the routine. Did you get to go and meet people at any point? I read on.

  At eleven forty-five you fed him again, then at twelve twenty you closed the curtains and shut the door again while he napped. At two thirty you were to re-open the curtains and feed him. At four fifteen you changed his nappy. How can anyone be so precise about changing a nappy? What if he had a big dump at three fifty-two? Did you have to wait the twenty-three minutes before you were allowed change the nappy? Seriously, this was like army camp.

  We were told to feed the baby at five, give him a bath at six – whether ducks were allowed in the bath with him, I’m not sure. At six thirty the baby was to get a bottle and then at seven you put him down, curtains and door closed while he slept for a blissful twelve hours. Yeah, right, in whose fantasy world?

  While I would welcome twelve hours’ sleep a night, the timetable was so rigid that it left my head spinning. The day seemed to be taken up entirely with feeds, nappy changes, kicks in the air and the opening and closing of curtains and doors. I wondered if Gina had been GI Gina in a former life, or maybe she was a SAS agent. ‘Maybe I’ll try a milder version,’ I said.

  ‘No, Emma. If you’re going to do it, do it by the book. It works. Gina Ford is a genius. There’s a reason why it’s a bestseller. Yuri would be happier if he was in a proper routine.’

  ‘He is happy,’ I said defensively.

  ‘I know, but he’d be more settled if you created a properly structured day. It seems a bit haphazard.’

  ‘Well, I’m still trying to figure out what he likes. Half of what I feed him – Gina Ford recommended or not – he pukes up.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ said Lucy, laughing.

  ‘He spent the first ten months of his life in a children’s home routine,’ I continued, ‘and suddenly he was reefed out and taken to a strange place, full of strange people, talking a strange language. He’s just taking a while to adjust. He doesn�
��t nap on demand. It’s not so easy with adopted children. You can’t force them – it has to be gradual.’

  ‘But Gina Ford has dealt with all kinds of cases, Emma, and she still advocates a strict routine for babies.’

  ‘Can we please stop talking about Gina bloody Ford and her routine? It’s really boring,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I promise this is the last baby question,’ I said. ‘Is Cow & Gate the best baby food you can buy?’ I asked Jess.

  ‘Definitely. I swear by it. Most of the other mothers cook their own organic dinners and freeze them, but I’m lazy,’ she said, a bit guiltily.

  ‘Where and when are you supposed to find the time?’ I asked, shocked that anyone would feel bad about not cooking meals. There wasn’t a second in the day when I wasn’t burping, playing, feeding, changing, washing or trying to stimulate Yuri. ‘I’ve only ever really cooked fruit. By the way, did I tell you he got two new teeth last week. They’re so cute.’

  ‘Emma,’ said Lucy, accusingly, ‘you said you’d never turn into one of those mothers who talk about their kids all the time.’

  ‘Sorry, but honestly, Lucy, if you saw him smile now you’d – OK, I’ll shut up,’ I said, suppressing my urge to describe in detail my son’s two new teeth.

  ‘Are they at the front or the back?’ asked Jess.

  ‘Kind of on the side.’

  ‘I remember when Roy got his – it’s such fun to see them all popping through – apart from the rivers of dribble that come with them,’ she added.

  ‘Somebody shoot me now. Come on, guys, give me a break. It’s odd man out here,’ groaned Lucy.

  ‘You could join the club,’ said Jess, grinning.

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t pressure me just because you’ve got kids and now Emma’s got one too,’ said Lucy, grumpily. ‘The social pressure’s bad enough. People in work and my mother keep telling me to hurry up and get on with it – after all, I’m thirty-six, no spring chicken, biological clock about to shut down… God, it was bad enough being considered a freak because I wasn’t married and was heading towards my mid-thirties, but now that I’ve got that one sorted, I’m supposed to have kids ASAP. When do I get to enjoy being a newly-wed? I’ve waited a long time for this – I want to savour it for a while before I clutter it up with kids. Besides which – brace yourself, Jess – I’m not sure I want them. Which, apparently, makes me even more of a freak than a non-married mid-thirties career-girl.’