by Suzy K Quinn
She wanted some ‘pretty maternity bras’, among other things.
All the bra packets showed beautiful blonde models with lovely vein-free breasts.
‘You’re better off with cheap, stretchy sports bras,’ I told Laura. ‘Post pregnancy, your boobs turn into big, milk-filled udders. You won’t want to draw attention to them.’
I made sure she stocked up on post-pregnancy essentials: Lanolin nipple cream, ibuprofen, big pants, a few oversized sweatshirts and some dummies.
‘I don’t want to give my baby a dummy,’ said Laura.
‘When your baby cries, all your morality goes out the window,’ I explained. ‘You’ll stuff anything in its mouth to shut it up.’
Laura went a bit white when she saw how many painkillers I’d thrown in the trolley for early labour.
‘The hypno-birthing book says I can just breathe the baby out,’ she said.
I smiled inwardly and kindly at her naivety.
Was quite fun, maternity shopping.
The calm before the storm.
I remember when Nick and I did the pre-Daisy Mothercare trip.
Nick put me in a pram and pushed me around the shop.
Then he put on a maternity bra, stuck out his lips and did a Mick Jagger impression.
They threw us out after that.
We did have fun.
Before nature came crashing down on our heads.
Friday 22nd September
Dad inspected Hillcrest House this morning, and declared it ‘fit for a king.’
‘Do you need help moving your things in?’ Dad asked.
‘We’re not moving in yet,’ I told him. ‘There’s no roof or kitchen. I have to show the Cafcass officer that Daisy lives in a nice, modern home.’
‘You’ll make Daisy spoiled if you’re not careful,’ said Dad. ‘A bit of tarpaulin will see you right while Alf puts your roof on. And we had none of this fitted kitchen nonsense in my day. Your Grandma Duffy did all her cooking in one cauldron over a coal fire. And we counted ourselves lucky if we had a newspaper to eat our dinner off.’
Bit worried about the kitchen, because there’s so little money left.
Am scouring DIY forums for budget tips. The general advice is to fit your own Ikea kitchen, although there’s an equal amount of posts from people saying they’d never fit an Ikea kitchen ever again.
Saturday 23rd September
Althea says she’ll help fit the kitchen.
I’m pleased about this, because there’s no limit to Althea’s ambition. She believes she can build anything, given enough MDF and spray paint, and all mistakes can be fixed with Gorilla Glue.
Sunday 24th September
Laura says she doesn’t want a baby shower, but Mum and I have decided to do her one anyway.
We’ve ordered a huge cake shaped like a nappy.
Could have chosen a chocolate filling, but that seemed borderline disgusting. Decided on coconut sponge in the end.
Have planned lots of funny games to prepare Laura for motherhood. Brandi has even ordered one of those ‘authentic’ baby dolls they use for sex education classes. The ones that cry until you rock them for ten minutes.
Mum is doing a funny quiz about what to do when the baby throws up, wheezes, grunts, etc.
So, should be fun.
Monday 25th September
Have spent HOURS trying to figure out Ikea’s kitchen planner app.
Althea and I huddled over her laptop this morning, while Daisy and Wolfgang pulled at our legs and cried for attention.
Eventually, Althea had the genius idea of hiding toys around her house for them both to find. But we ended that game when Wolfgang found Althea’s blowtorch.
Althea got angry with the kitchen app before I did.
But I wanted to punch the laptop too.
We’re driving to Ikea this weekend so a real person can help us.
Tuesday 26th September
Laura’s baby shower didn’t go well.
Brandi NEVER should have ordered that realistic, crying baby doll.
And then there was Mum’s quiz:
‘What should you do when you need the toilet, but your baby wants to be constantly held?’
‘What should you do when your baby cries for two hours straight, and nothing will soothe it?’
‘What should you do when your baby keeps throwing up milk and you’re worried it will die of dehydration?’
Soon Laura was mumbling, ‘I’m not sure I can do this. I may have changed my mind.’
I made Laura camomile tea, while Mum bashed the crying baby about to shut it up. Unfortunately, the baby had some sort of abuse sensor, and the crying turned to heart-felt screeching.
Dad had the bright idea of driving it around in Laura’s new baby car seat.
He returned half an hour later, chuckling, ‘Just like a real baby! A few laps in the car and she nodded right off.’
Laura had calmed down by then and was apologising.
‘All that crying sent me over the edge,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve got things in perspective now. I mean, a real baby can’t cry for that long.’
We were too kind to correct her.
Wednesday 27th September
Good news.
Alf has nearly finished the roof.
He’s got a few friends helping him now – one with chronic arthritis and another with very bad cataracts.
They divide up the jobs sensibly, so the cataract friend never has to climb a ladder.
Alf says the roof will be finished tomorrow.
Then he just needs to do the staircase, windows, plastering and structural works.
Alf’s original solution to the broken patio doors was to brick them over, but I persuaded him that glazed doors aren’t draughty these days and there’s just about enough in the budget for them.
I think Alf is a bit perplexed by my ‘modern’ ideas – especially the open plan living area, heated by radiators instead of coal fires.
Thursday 28th September
The house is really coming along.
I have a ROOF, which is probably the best news I’ve had all year.
When I was with Nick, I never thought I’d own my own home – let alone a three-bedroom detached house.
Yet here I am.
Okay – so I don’t have a kitchen yet, or a bathroom and there is graffiti upstairs.
But we’re getting there.
Friday 29th September
Headed up to Hillcrest House with a broom and various cleaning products, while Dad babysat Daisy.
Swept up rubble, scrubbed graffiti and washed everything I could.
Then Alf turned up, and told me the wall I’d just spent an hour scrubbing clean of ‘Chelsea is a Slag’ would be plastered today. So I’ve just wasted a lot of time and two spray bottles of Mr Muscle.
Saturday 30th September
Arranged to meet Nick on the waterfront today for his visitation.
He was pushing Horatio back and forth over the decked promenade when we arrived, and his face lit up when he saw us.
Daisy shouted, ‘Baddy. Baddy.’
Had a fairly mature chat about the impending court hearing, and Nick said, ‘I just want us all to be together.’
Then he started crying.
I let him blub on my shoulder, while Daisy ran up and down the promenade shouting, ‘Baddy cry! Baddy cry!’
‘It’s not going to happen, Nick,’ I said. ‘Look – why don’t you just drop the court case? Save us all the stress. I’m killing myself trying to get this house ready in time. You know I respect you as Daisy’s father. I’d never stop you seeing her.’
Nick sniffed, ‘I know, I know. But it’s too late to turn back now.’
Sunday 1st October
Ikea trip with Althea.
Wolfgang had to go in the front seat, because he’s a violent chair kicker. Somehow, he managed to change the sat nav to ‘avoid all motorways’, so our one-hour drive took three.
By th
e time we’d reached Ikea, Wolfgang had ripped the glove box to pieces.
Daisy was snivelling, ‘Hate car, Mummy. Shut up car.’
Althea and I both felt we deserved a slice of Swedish Daim bar cake and a plate of meatballs (Althea is currently taking yet another ‘chill out’ from vegetarianism), so we set Daisy and Wolfgang loose in the restaurant’s futuristic kiddie play circle.
Wolfgang actually broke one of the unbreakable spinning Perspex things.
Althea tried to take it off him, whilst ‘nurturing his inquisitive spirit’.
‘Well done, Wolfgang,’ she said. ‘Now give Mummy the magic wheel.’
Wolfgang bared his single, large tooth and scampered into the Ikea showroom maze, whirling the Perspex disc around his head like a battle-axe.
By the time we found him, he’d ripped off a kitchen cupboard door, put his fist through a wall canvas and smashed a display jar of pasta.
Two yellow-t-shirted Ikea assistants circled Wolfgang, like RSPCA officers around a hissing swan.
One offered a lollypop. The other held a geometric-patterned cushion like a shield.
Althea was furious when she saw Wolfgang had destroyed the wall canvas.
‘Wolfgang!’ she shouted. ‘That’s art. You don’t destroy art! Somewhere, a fairy has just fallen down dead.’
She grabbed him, howling, by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into a trolley, saying, ‘I’ve had enough now, Wolfy. You’re going to baby prison.’
Then she took him to the complimentary soft-play area.
Felt very sorry for the soft-play people. You could tell they didn’t want to let Wolfgang in, but there was no queue so they had to.
God knows what damage Wolfgang did in there, but frankly I was happy to have him out of the way.
Daisy was sad when Wolfgang got banged up.
‘Where Wiffy?’ she kept asking.
I explained that Wolfgang had been naughty and was doing time.
Managed to order the kitchen without too much fuss.
It’s due to be delivered in a few weeks.
The Ikea lady assured us that the kitchen really is simple enough for anyone to fit.
‘If a builder can do it, you can too, right?’ she enthused.
Althea got angry then. She hates job stereotyping and educational prejudice.
‘Are you saying builders are thick?’ she barked.
The lady mumbled something about builders not needing GCSEs, which sent Althea into a long rant about education, judgement and subjectivity.
Maybe Althea had a point. But she didn’t need to make someone cry so early in the morning.
Monday 2nd October
Alf has got the boiler working at Hillcrest House, by hitting various pipes with a hammer.
He fancied warming his pilchards in hot water, so he thought he may as well ‘have a bash’.
A corgi-registered plumber friend checked everything over, and amazingly the boiler passed as gas safe. Even the radiators work.
We’ve now nicknamed the boiler ‘Old Beryl’, after Alf’s late wife.
The hot water takes a while to get going, but I’m not going to complain.
I think the plumber was more surprised than anyone – especially since he found an old bird’s nest in the flue.
Dad was very impressed that the boiler still works.
‘You see, Shirley?’ he told Mum. ‘We should have held onto our old system. Things were built to last, pre-Margaret Thatcher.’
Mum insisted on a new boiler in the late eighties, because she was ‘sick of playing sodding Russian roulette’ every time she needed a hot bath. She also wanted an extra cupboard for her towels.
They’ve replaced the boiler five times since then.
So I suppose Dad has a point.
Tuesday 3rd October
Daisy’s birthday.
Two years old! I can’t believe it.
Where did the time go?
Bought Daisy a Tiny Bike, which she went whizzing around on, and some new shoes, which she ignored in favour of her neon trainers.
Wednesday 4th October
Bit of an incident in the pub last night.
Yorkie set fire to his moustache doing a flaming Sambuca shot.
Fortunately, Dad is St John’s Ambulance trained.
He talked in an authoritative, calm voice, then wrapped Yorkie in one of the three fire blankets he keeps in strategic places around the pub.
Novelty flammable spirits are now banned from the Oakley Arms.
This goes on a long list of banned items, including Cards Against Humanity and Pokémon Go.
Thursday 5th October
Realise I need furniture for the house.
Lots of furniture.
Our Canary Wharf flat was furnished by Helen, primarily in white leather, so at the grand age of thirty-one I don’t even possess my own bed.
The trouble is, I didn’t budget for furniture. I saw it as a minor cost, but in fact it runs into thousands.
Althea offered to make some bespoke pieces, but her furniture is always impractical. Her last sofa was made from reclaimed cheese graters.
Laura suggested I bring a van up to Bloomsbury and drive around the streets looking for things people have thrown out.
‘I’m always seeing amazing furniture left on the curb up here,’ Laura told me. ‘Everyone is so rich, they think Marks & Spencer is where you get cheap stuff.’
Yorkie has offered his van, and John Boy says he can drive it, so the two of us are heading to London tomorrow.
Let’s see what we can find.
Friday 6th October
Went to London in Yorkie’s van.
Meant to leave first thing, but John Boy and I had to give the van a good scrub first, and clear out all the Tennent’s Super cans.
I should never have trusted John Boy’s assertion that he could drive a van, but that’s a side issue.
For future reference, a metal foot and an accelerator pedal equal two near collisions, a squashed traffic cone and several outraged pedestrians.
Anyway.
Laura was totally right.
We found some great furniture in Bloomsbury, including a double bed, wardrobe and loads of lounge stuff.
Our first find was a beautiful cream sofa suite left out on the pavement by a three-storey townhouse. There was nothing wrong with it, except for a tiny stain on one sofa arm.
‘They can’t be throwing that out, can they?’ said John Boy.
We knocked on the door to check.
A raven-haired, Botoxed housewife greeted us, with full assurances that the suite was ours for the taking.
‘Oh yes, have it, have it!’ she insisted, before adding apologetically, ‘It’s only from M&S.’
A few roads later, we found a solid wood coffee table and some chairs and tables. And then a solid-wood dresser in someone’s front garden.
The dresser was especially beautiful – an antique, we thought, and lovingly crafted. It was a bit sticky, but after the state of Yorkie’s van, John Boy and I didn’t mind getting our hands dirty.
When we got it back to Great Oakley, John Boy said, ‘Something smells of paint.’
He was right.
There was definitely a painty smell coming from the van.
We realised it was the dresser, which was not dirty after all, but tacky with a fresh coat of varnish.
‘Why would you varnish something, then throw it out?’ I asked.
‘Maybe they varnished it, then put it out to dry,’ John Boy suggested.
We looked at each other.
‘Shit,’ said John Boy. ‘Better put it back.’
We drove around Bloomsbury with Daisy howling in the front seat, but neither of us could remember which house we’d taken the dresser from.
I knocked on a few doors, but just got odd looks.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked John Boy.
‘You’ll just have to keep it,’ he said.
The dresser is cur
rently in my living room, displaying three mismatched wine glasses and a Kilner jar of multi-coloured pasta.
Saturday 7th October
The house is … well it’s beginning to look like a house.
Fire damaged parts have been repaired and plastered over. The staircase is in.
The double-glazed sliding doors are going in today, which means we’ll have a lovely view from the kitchen over the fields, without having to wear our coats.
Technically we could live there now. Although I doubt Johnny Jiggens would call it a ‘suitable family home’ just yet.
But we’ve come a long way.
Heating. Water. Roof.
It’s all going on!
Sunday 8th October
Laura is already getting ‘twinges’.
She’s really excited, because she has absolutely no idea what’s in store for her.
Sex education classes should definitely include a few scenes from One Born Every Minute.
Laura and Zach are going for a moonlit walk around Bloomsbury to try and ‘get things moving’.
I remember doing the same thing when I was pregnant.
Silly.
I should have enjoyed my freedom while it lasted.
Monday 9th October
Laura’s twinges have slowed down.
She’s feeling a bit disappointed.
Zach has gone to buy organic pineapple slices, which are supposed to hurry things along.
Asked Laura what the rush was.
Expected her to say, ‘So fucking sick of strangers rubbing my belly’ or ‘Desperate to sit still for half an hour without needing a wee’.
But she said, ‘I just can’t wait to meet my baby.’
Tuesday 10th October
Laura’s private birthing consultation today.
She wanted me to come along because, as someone who’s given birth, Laura sees me as an expert.
If only she knew.
There is hardly anything about labour I can actually remember – and the few bits I can, I wish I could forget.